The Dark Lord's Handbook Read online

  Chancellor Penbury considered the choice of dishes laid out on the table. The first was sirloin of Paguar, a rare cat that lived on only one small jungle island, Pag, in the Great Outer Sea and preyed exclusively on a small deer that was also indigenous to the island. It was served on a crisp potato patty with a crescent of puréed cauliflower and a sweet red currant and Port gravy. The meat’s aroma hinted of musky distant lands.

  The platter in the centre sported a rough haunch of Mountain Yak served with an unceremonious dollop of celeriac mash and gravy thick enough to paint a wall. It was as inelegant as the first dish was sophisticated but sometimes junk food really hit the spot.

  The last dish was a bowl of soup that bubbled and had something swimming in it. An eye stalk occasionally popped out of the pale brown broth and twitched around before plopping back down.

  “And this is?” enquired the Chancellor, indicating the soup with the most subtle twitch of a digit.

  “Erubian Swamp Broth with a live spriggle served with a side of soda bread,” said a gangling chef standing behind the dish. He was gripping his hands in front of himself and had beads of sweat running down his prodigiously long nose that threatened to drip into the soup.

  The Chancellor arched an eyebrow. He’d never had spriggle in a broth; it was normally served in a cage of pork ribs. Spriggle was not only tremendously rare but fantastically dangerous. Only three gastronomes in the last three hundred years had managed to eat one and live to describe its taste. The Chancellor was one of those three, and although there was an exquisite piquant flavour to the spriggle, he hadn’t taken the requisite pain suppressants nor indeed did he have any of the seven poison antidotes to hand.

  “I’ll go with the Yak,” said the Chancellor. Though the Pag was tempting, his stomach was feeling a little fragile and he fancied the stodge. “And I’ll have the Pimpaho Red to accompany it.”

  “A wonderful choice, sir,” said the wine waiter.

  The unwanted dishes were removed and the Yak dish placed in front of the Chancellor. The spriggle chef seemed relieved as he took his dish away. Despite the spriggle’s well known tendency to kill, it was always the chef who got the blame when someone died.

  The Yak was good, the gravy every bit as rich and cloying as it had promised, and the celeriac mash was passable. The Chancellor settled into a measured pace. It was a big portion and would take some effort to polish off. The Pimpaho helped wash it down, as he knew it would. Each grape that was used to make the wine was squeezed between the thumb and forefinger of a virgin, which imbued the resultant wine with innocence and freshness; it was a wine whose spirit had not yet been crushed. And it brought out the full flavour of the Yak.

  The Chancellor was mopping up when his personal private secretary, Chidwick, slid into the room. He was as thin a man as the Chancellor was bulky, and he had a dark viscosity about his looks.

  The Chancellor could see that Chidwick was somewhat agitated, but whatever was disturbing him was still not strong enough to disturb his master while he was eating.

  Not fancying the last of the mash, the Chancellor dabbed his lips with his napkin and pushed his chair back. A servant swept in and magicked his plate away.

  “Yes, Chidwick?”

  “Some disturbing news, Chancellor,” said Chidwick.

  The Chancellor raised an eyebrow. He was the richest man alive by far. He was head of the largest merchant cartel that spanned dozens of fiefdoms and kingdoms. There was a three year waiting list for royalty to be invited to dine at his table. For centuries his family had effectively ruled across two continents; perhaps not in name, but certainly in fact. He found it hard to imagine anything that may have been disturbing, except perhaps the failure of the Roseberry harvest, the rarest and most sweet of all fruits that he alone in the world ate.

  “Oh, really?”

  Chidwick was the Chancellor’s aide for many reasons. Aside from his efficiency, ruthlessness, superior intelligence and unswerving loyalty, he was also one of the few men that was not afraid of the Chancellor. But now, he didn’t seem to be able to look the Chancellor in the eye. Rather than be angry, the Chancellor felt something jump inside him, and it wasn’t wind. Perhaps Chidwick did have something interesting to say.

  “Spit it out, man,” said the Chancellor.

  Chidwick’s chest heaved and he at last brought his eyes up to meet his master’s. “We have a serious beer problem,” he blurted.

  Now it made sense. Beer was close to Penbury’s heart, and indeed he considered himself a foremost authority on all matters pertaining to beer. Beer and its production was also a vital grease to the economy. In a world where beer was safer to drink than the water, it was a matter of importance that beer was both plentiful and cheap so that the average working man could turn up to work half cut. Better a slightly drunk worker than a dead one.

  “Explain,” said Penbury as Chidwick hovered.

  Chidwick laid out what had come to his attention. There was a new force in brewing it seemed; one that had managed to corner the vast majority of the Western Reaches beer production. It was obvious to the Chancellor that this person, whoever he was, was both skilful and yet stupid. They obviously did not understand that such activity would not go unnoticed.

  “Very good, Chidwick. Excellent work. You were right to bring this to me. I want you to go and pay this brewer a visit. Wrap up his operation and bring him here. Do you know where he is based?”

  “Bindelburg, sir.”

  “The Brothers of Divine Brewing?” asked Penbury. They had been purveyors of the finest beers for centuries once all the time they had spent in praying had been freed up through drunkenness. “Curious. Nevertheless. Go Chidwick. Settle this matter quickly. We can’t have anyone messing around with beer.”

  Chapter 8 First Lesson – Preparations

  Suffer no fools. Rather make fools suffer.

  The Dark Lord’s Handbook

  With all matters for the day taken care of, Morden settled himself with a mug of tea, a plate of squashed fly biscuits and the Dark Lord’s Handbook. He hadn’t had a chance to read any of it so far as once back at the school he was quickly snowed under with his empire of organised crime, the majority of which revolved around extortion and selling beer. All thought of being a Dark Lord had gone when faced with the reality of running a business.

  But now that he found himself with an hour clear he thought he at least ought to read the Handbook, seeing as he was in it after all.

  He dunked a biscuit and took a swig of tea. Now where did a Dark Lord start on his path to becoming a tyrant? He turned the cover to a blank page. Just as he thought that maybe there had been a mistake and that he was not going to be a Dark Lord at all, spidery writing started to skitter across the page.

  A Dark Lord Rising

  I hope you are settled, Morden?

  There it goes again, thought Morden. How does it know when I am reading?

  I just do. Now settle down and listen. You have a lot of natural talent, young Morden, but becoming a Dark Lord is no easy matter. There is a lot to learn, and many things to do before you can call the world your own.

  Fair enough, thought Morden. After all, it had taken him several years to put his empire in the school together. Some people seemed to think that it was all criminal genius but in fact he had worked hard to get to where he was today. He had no problem with that at all. He hated slackers and led by example when it came to putting the hours in.

  Good. It’s not going to be all rape and pillage but a lot of hard work. So let’s get started at the beginning shall we?

  A Dark Lord does not just appear, He Rises. This is the first and perhaps most crucial step a Dark Lord must take. But beware! Rising is not a simple thing. Many things can go wrong. You are not a Dark Lord quite yet and you will not have assumed your full power, and therefore you are fallible (never admit this in company though).

  Rise? thought Morden. That makes no sense. He wasn’t a yeast based product. What on earth wa
s it going on about?

  Patience Morden. Let me explain.

  Think of Rising as a game where you get to choose your position and lay out all your pieces before you engage your opponent in the game itself. To Lay Waste a world and have Dominion over it takes some effort. Power and resources must be gathered. This is what you will be doing while you are Rising.

  It is inescapable fact that a Dark Lord who gathers his powers and forces will not go unnoticed. Traditionally this leads to expressions such as: there is a darkness come to the world; a power is rising in the east; and, there is evil abroad in the land. All of these are roundabout ways of recognising that a Dark Lord is Rising.

  Fortunately, those who will oppose you once you have Risen will do nothing while you are actually Rising. Rather than nip the problem in the bud they will dither and dally, rush around in a headless panic, and observe from afar but not actually do anything to stop you. This is good. Use the time well.

  While your opponent may not be willing to take the initiative and stop your Rising, he will be making his own preparations. Heroes need to be found, relics discovered, prophecies read etc. It’s all time consuming. You must use this time to be ready first and this is the real pressure you are under.

  I’m not sure I like the idea of Heroes, thought Morden. They sound dangerous.

  Indeed they are, but we will come to those in a later lesson. For now, let’s stay on track with Rising. Now, where were we?

  A good Rising should be followed by a sudden Coming Forth (see next chapter). If you have Risen well and disrupted your opponents preparations you should be able to Come Forth and manage some Laying Waste (see chapter after Coming Forth) before the Forces of Good are properly marshalled.

  And how might I disrupt these Heroic preparations? thought Morden.

  There are many ways in which you may disrupt heroic preparation. The trickier part is knowing who your opponent will be but once known there are several acceptable methods. Dark riders of various kinds are a favourite but they tend to be more bark than bite. Monsters abroad, theft of holy relics, and kidnapping are all worth a try.

  I understand.

  Good. Now, when Rising the first decision to be made is where to Rise. As with any real estate concern, it’s location, location, location. Traditionally a Dark Lord will seek to Rise in either the north or the east. For some reason, the so called Forces for Good prefer the west, so south may well be an option as well. This will be where you have your fortress.

  A fortress. I like the sound of that. Like it a lot. Now that was something I definitely want.

  So you want a fortress? Well, the first thing is to look at the geography and consider important features such as impenetrable mountain ranges, nasty indigenous flora and fauna (poison swamps, dragons, immense spiders and man eating plants are all favourable) and the weather. If you are coming into the Dark Lord business later in life perhaps the colder north may not be the best choice as it will play havoc with the rheumatism. But seeing as you are so young, you can worry about that later.

  The east is generally a safe bet and has the advantage of having the rising sun behind you for those dawn battles. Nothing seems to upset a Dark Lord’s army more than sun in the eyes.

  Wherever you choose, you are going to need property, lots of it. There is plenty of land that isn’t owned by anyone but with a little work is more than adequate for your purposes. You are looking for an area that preferably inspires dread and fear; mountains that are volcanically active tend to have this effect.

  Do research and find out if there is anywhere that a previous Dark Lord has Risen. The Forces of Good tend not to be very efficient in follow through and often leave much of a Dark Lord’s domain in a salvageable state from which another Dark Lord may Rise. This is an ideal case as it saves on construction.

  Mental note to self, thought Morden. Ask Grimtooth about Zoon’s fortress.

  Once you have your location you are going to have to Marshal your Power. You’ll need an army. This may at first seem a daunting prospect but it is easier than it sounds. All you have to do is put out that you are offering a share of the entire world’s wealth. Throw in sweeteners, such as the opportunity to Lay Ruin and general Mayhem, and pretty soon the greediest most black hearted scum of the world will be at the front door wanting in. The quality may not be all that, but you’ll not be lacking in quantity.

  So you have your Dark Fortress, it’s all decked out and there’s a growing army. All that remains for you to do is take on your Mantle of Power and you’re set. No matter how tempting it may be to Come Forth before you have your Power do not do it. Many a promising Dark Lord has Come Forth without first having gathered his full Power. This is a big mistake. Remember, the Forces of Good are almost obliged to do nothing while you are still Rising. After all, what wrong have you done? There’s no law against establishing a fortress and gathering an army. But as soon as you Come Forth all bets are off. If whatever you need to assume your full Power is not in your hands at this point then it’s fair game and in the worst case scenario the Forces of Good will discover it and destroy it. And then it’s Game Over.

  The Mantle of Power sounded exciting. Morden wondered what his might be. He hoped it was some kind of staff. Staffs were good. One with a skull on the top that shot death beams would be ideal. He could hardly wait.

  Your enthusiasm is good, young Morden, but let me offer a cautionary tale.

  There was a promising Dark Lord who had risen well. Despite all this he made a number of crucial mistakes after good preparation, not least of which was investing all his power in a ring, and then losing it (fool!). Such a shame. He had real promise.

  So if you are going to put all your power into a staff with skulls and death beams, make sure it doesn’t get stolen, and check the wood for termites.

  Chapter 9 A Bad Start

  Image is everything.

  The Dark Lord’s Handbook

  Morden set the Dark Lord’s Handbook down, rested his hands over the skulls that adorned the armrests of his throne, and pondered the words he had read. It was obvious that if he were to become a Dark Lord there was much work ahead. Though the Handbook had shown him in broad strokes the things he must do to successfully Rise, he instinctively knew that the devil would be in the detail. He understood what must be done, but it was not clear to him exactly what the first step should be.

  Maybe it was because he was comfortable with life as it was. His throne room in the Bindelburg School for Young Masters and Prospective Brewers was quiet. His minions were abroad in the town, leaving him to mull over these weighty matters. He wished Grimtooth were here so that he might question him further. Though the Handbook was a bottomless well of information about Dark Lords, it was still a book. He couldn’t talk to it (at least not out loud) and it didn’t have the comforting presence that Grimtooth somehow had, despite his terrifying orcish demeanour. Grimtooth had been gone weeks and no word had come. Was he supposed to stay in Bindelburg or was he meant to head east towards Zoon the Reviled’s ruined empire, which seemed a best bet for his own Rising? He was not sure. Something kept him in Bindelburg. Like those delicious hours on a sweaty late summer’s afternoon, when the air was thick and there was the smell of electricity in the air, and the clouds were dark with stormy promise, he could feel that something was going to happen. Something was going to give. He could almost taste it.

  The door shattering off its hinges in an explosion of wood and splinters was not quite what he had been imagining and for a second he froze. He had been so deep in thought he had heard no one approaching. The sentry boards in the floor of the corridor should have warned him.

  In the doorway stood a lumpy bulk of a man with a steel hat and a bill hook. He had to squeeze himself through the splintered door frame to get into the room. A knot of smaller men followed quickly behind and formed a ring around Morden.

  There seemed little point in doing much more than recomposing himself and giving the assembled soldiers the full benef
it of his brooding glare. As he swept them with what he hoped was pure malevolence, some shuffled their feet, others looked away, and only the hulking brute who had bust the door open met his stare…and winked. The toothy grin that followed made Morden’s heart leap. He was an orc, but his teeth had been filed flat. It explained his hugely muscled frame. Having learnt what a smiling orc meant from Grimtooth, Morden couldn’t help but raise a hand to his neck and gulp.

  Behind the orc there was movement, and Morden sensed that someone else had come into the room behind the soldiers.

  A soldier next to the brute stepped aside and a thin man, with pale skin and dark looks, stepped into the gap. He regarded Morden with what looked like a mixture of bemused interest and contempt. From the body language of all the soldiers, bar the orc, it was clear to Morden that any trepidation they may have felt concerning himself was nothing as compared to this man.

  The man had a dagger in his left hand – a thin blade that looked of the highest craftsmanship. After a minute of studying Morden, he examined the nails of his right hand and started to clean them with the tip of the dagger.

  “Do you know who I am?” asked the man, keeping his attention on getting the grit out from under his nails.

  Morden straightened. It was show time. He slowly pushed himself up out of his throne and stood towering over the assemblage, in part due to his natural height, and in part due to the plinth he’d had made for his throne. “You are the man who will regret he ever laid eyes on me. I am a Dark Lord.”

  He cast his gaze around the soldiers and exerted his considerable will. He was a Dark Lord. Who were these scum to come in here?

  Some of the soldiers visibly buckled; others took a step back.

  The thin man darted his eyes in Morden’s direction, a faintly bored expression on his face.

  “You don’t say.” The man stopped his manicure and slid the dagger into its scabbard. He met Morden’s glare and arched an eyebrow. “I am Chidwick, personal private secretary to Chancellor Penbury. And you, lad, are in a lot of trouble.”