The Dark Lord's Handbook Read online

  Morden hadn’t had cause to fear much in his life. When he was young his parents had given up on gruesome bedtime stories when it became apparent all they did was encourage Morden to ask a slew of questions. How exactly did an ogre get the marrow from a bone, for instance? In recent times, Grimtooth had managed to send a chill down Morden’s spine merely by baring his teeth, but then he imagined there were few men that could stand a five hundred year old orc’s grimace.

  Apart from that, there was only one name he had heard and learnt to fear: Penbury. In itself, an innocuous enough name, but behind it was a man who was rightly feared by every man who ever went into business. And Morden was very much in business. Chancellor Penbury was nominally in charge of the financial matters for King Olaf VIII but in reality was the head of a business empire that spanned continents. It wasn’t the huge empire Penbury had that inspired fear as much as his innovative business practices. Where old school merchants may have leaned on competitors with well placed slander or the use of hired muscle, it was Penbury who had pioneered hostile takeovers and asset stripping. His latest coup had been the acquisition and subsequent dismantling of his closest rivals, Clack and Stingbee, international purveyors of snuff and other tobacco products. Seemingly a niche business, it was in fact also rumoured to be the international conduit for God’s Dust, or Headfucker as it was known on the street when sold in its impure form (the most powerful narcotic known to man).

  “Trouble?” said Morden, trying hard to stop his voice breaking. “Surely my business is far too small to concern Chancellor Penbury.”

  “Indeed,” said Chidwick. “But you’ve been messing with beer. And we can’t have that.” Chidwick waved a languid arm towards Morden. “Take him and any personal effects you find. Burn the rest.”

  Morden’s hand went instinctively to the pendant that hung round his throat. The orc’s grin widened, mistaking the gesture. Morden felt panic rise, tightening his chest. The massive orc spread his arms and advanced on him like he was a rooster about to bolt. But there was nowhere to go. He was trapped.

  “I don’t suppose we could come to some kind of understanding, could we?” he managed.

  Chidwick turned. His eyes narrowed and he stepped back to Morden. His hand went to Morden’s pendant. “Let it go,” ordered Chidwick and Morden let the chain hang. Chidwick raised the pendant and examined it. Was that a glint of recognition that Morden saw in Chidwick’s eyes? Chidwick let it drop and spun around. “Burn it all. Quickly.”

  Chidwick’s men produced oil cans and sloshed the liquid around liberally. Some surreptitiously pocketed various knick knacks before they became doused. The air became thick with fumes and Morden found it increasingly hard to breathe, made harder when the orc wrapped his knotted arms around him and lifted him clean off his feet. The orc slung him over his shoulder to carry him out of the room. There seemed little point in struggling. Morden watched the soldiers efficiently strip and douse his empire.

  “Anyone got a light?” asked one soldier.

  “Didn’t you bring one, Gunther?”

  “Not me. I quit two weeks ago. The missus made me.”

  “I’ve got one. Just a sec.”

  The last thing Morden saw of his throne room was a lick of flame that quickly spread and engulfed his throne. It looked like a plaything now, burning fiercely. The soldiers beat a hasty retreat as the flames caught and they were all soon outside. Morden could see Chidwick talking to Brother Limpole, who was shaking his head somewhat dispiritedly. Brother Limpole had been one of Morden’s closest friends among the Brothers; a borderline alcoholic, he had always been happy to take back-handers and look the other way. Morden would miss him.

  While Chidwick settled whatever business he had with the Brothers – Morden’s sharp eye caught sight of a purse, and what he suspected was a bottle of Krinth spirit, pass from Chidwick to Limpole – the soldiers loaded a cart with swag. Then Morden was rather unceremoniously thrown on top. He landed badly, his knee banging against a barrel of yeast. A yelp of pain escaped his lips. They hadn’t bound him – he guessed there was little point as there was nowhere to run – so he pushed and tugged the pile of bits and bobs in attempt to make a comfortable seat.

  “Sorry.”

  Morden looked up to see the orc standing watching him. The soldiers had formed up behind the cart and were paying him little interest; the scrabble of the town’s fire militia and the burning brewery were far more interesting.

  “Sorry?” enquired Morden of the orc. “Are you talking to me?”

  “I’m sorry if I hurt you when I threw you on the cart,” said the orc, “but I’ve got a job to do.”

  For an orc built like a terrace of houses it was an odd comment. “You’re an orc, aren’t you?” said Morden.

  This seemed to startle the orc. He looked back over his shoulder and then leaned forward somewhat conspiratorially.

  “Shhh,” hissed the orc. “Don’t say anything or you might blow my cover.”

  It was Morden’s turn to be startled. An undercover orc?

  “You are kidding?” Morden hadn’t heard something so ridiculous since – well, since he had found out he was a Dark Lord in being.

  “Keep it down,” whispered the orc, bringing a fat finger to his over large mouth.

  “But…”

  “But what?”

  “Well, look at you.”

  “What about me?”

  “How many men have tree trunk legs and look like they’ve been hit square in the face with a plank?”

  “I tell them I’m a big boned giant.”

  “What about the green skin? You think they believe you?”

  “I broke the legs of the last man to call me an orc, so yes, I think they believe me.”

  “So they don’t call you an orc any more?”

  “No.”

  “Well, that’s a great cover.”

  The orc’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t get all sarcastic on me now. I don’t like sarcastic. I may be an orc, but don’t confuse that with being stupid.”

  “I wouldn’t dream…”

  “Right then. Best be quiet for now.”

  The orc straightened himself and cuffed Morden round the ear. It was like being swatted by an oak branch.

  “Ow!” screamed Morden.

  “Trouble, Private Stonearm?” Chidwick had materialised next to the orc.

  “Just showing the prisoner who’s boss, boss,” said the orc, stiffening to attention.

  “Very good. Carry on.” Chidwick stalked around the side of the cart and climbed up next to the driver.

  “Did you have to hit me so hard?” growled Morden in a low whisper.

  Stonearm considered the question for a few seconds. “Yes. I reckon I did.”

  With a gee-up from the driver, the cart jerked forward and began to judder along the cobbled road. Everything in the back, including Morden, rattled around. Stonearm kept an easy pace a few yards from the back of the cart and the dozen or so men marched in rank behind him. It struck Morden that it must have made an odd procession to any passer-by, but those he saw seemed to studiously ignore Chidwick on his cart.

  With his ears still ringing from the slap he’d received, Morden decided there was little he could do right now so tried to make himself as comfortable as he could and began to sulk.

  He’d lost everything. Looking back to the monastery, he could see a thick plume of smoke rising from where his little empire had been centred. In the grand scheme it hadn’t been much but it was his. It had taken years to get to where he had and now it was all gone. He had nothing to his name.

  Well almost nothing. Tucked under his black robe was the comforting bulk of the Handbook. Until now, he’d been happy with the notion of being a Dark Lord but had been lacking in motivation. He had needed a spark to set his fire and now Chancellor Penbury had both figuratively and literally set that spark. He was a Dark Lord with a purpose. Penbury would pay and if that meant that the world coughed up at the same time, then so be it
.

  Chapter 10 An Orcish Escape

  Your minions willingly give their lives for you. Don’t disappoint them.

  The Dark Lord’s Handbook

  The cart rattled and rumbled its way for what seemed like forever, but in fact was until sundown. Bindelburg had been left well behind and they had travelled south towards the coast. From the little that Morden knew of Penbury, he did know that he preferred the warmer climates and that he spent much of his time in Firena, the second city of the Kingdom of Byzan that Olaf VIII ruled over. It enjoyed sunshine all year and was known for its exquisite fruit, according to the text books Morden had read.

  When they had left town, Morden had realised that he had not been out of Bindelburg for two years. Rather than go home to visit his parents, they had come to see him and shop. He had, therefore, no reason to leave the city. He liked the variety of sights, smells and people. Countryside was dull. And it played havoc with his sinuses. Although, with winter settled in for the duration, his sinuses were one concern he didn’t have to worry about. Instead he was freezing. His robe was wool, but the cold seeped in and took root in his bones. He tried to take his mind off it by concentrating on his surroundings but all that consisted of was stark tree lines, ragged copses, wonkily ploughed fields and crows.

  Ah, the crows. In Bindelburg he had almost forgotten them. Their cawing had been washed over by the noise of the city. But out here there was no escaping the bloody things. It wasn’t long before others noticed and were cursing them as well. Caw. Caw. Caw. They wouldn’t shut up. One soldier tried his luck with a crossbow but all that did was turn up the volume, as though they were mocking his effort.

  Fortunately, by the time Chidwick had called a halt at a wayside inn, the crows had gone; perhaps they needed a rest from all that racket.

  By its looks, The Fat Goose promised both warmth and good food, but Morden’s hopes were dashed when he was bound and thrown in a barn with a guard set on the door. An hour later he was untied briefly to eat slops off a plate before being rebound. The ropes chaffed his wrists and ankles, and the straw tickled his nose into fits of sneezing. It had been cold during the day but now that the little warmth the sun had offered was gone, it was freezing.

  Morden was confused with what was going on. Chidwick treated him like a sack and showed little interest other than to ensure he was secure and not about to run off. Surely Chidwick hadn’t been interested in Morden’s business interests. What he said about the beer must have been a diversion. If not, did that mean he knew about Morden’s destiny? But the Handbook had said that while Morden was Rising the Forces of Good would be impotent until he was ready. On the other hand, it felt quite a presumption that he was indeed Rising – trussed like a turkey in a barn he didn’t feel remotely Dark Lordly.

  The line of flawless logic that followed sent an unfamiliar shiver through Morden. Was that fear? If Chidwick knew he was a Dark Lord in Rising and was not with the Forces of Good then that could only mean that Morden had a rival. Was there another Dark Lord Rising? Or indeed, a Dark Lord already in place and working his evil from the shadows? It did make some kind of sense. Was Penbury a Dark Lord? The world had not seen a Dark Lord for over five hundred years. That was not to say one had not Risen but perhaps was taking a non-traditional approach to world domination through Laying Waste and Pillaging etc. It was worth considering and as such presented Morden with quite a worry.

  Morden needed an ally but the only candidate, Stonearm, was being equally enigmatic. He’d marched all day not ten feet behind Morden and made no attempt to communicate or reassure. Morden had tried to engage the orc in conversation a few times, but had been silenced by a grin. If the orc didn’t want to talk then Morden figured he best keep quiet. Still, he did wonder what all this fanciful talk of being undercover was about. Undercover for whom and for what purpose? It was hardly a masterpiece of covert insertion, placing a seven foot orc built like a buttress into a guard of men on a grab mission.

  Morden fell into fitful bouts of sleep; tiredness kept closing his eyes and the cold kept opening them. A noise at the barn door brought him fully awake. Someone was giving orders and it sounded like his guards were grumbling. The barn doors were pushed open but instead of Chidwick, as Morden had expected, Stonearm tramped into the barn. Two guards were standing at the door holding torches, obviously not stupid enough to come into a barn full of dry hay with fire in their hands.

  Stonearm reached him and hauled him to his feet. “The boss wants to see you,” he said in what seemed an unnecessarily loud manner; followed quickly by a whispered, “I’m getting us out of here.”

  If Morden hadn’t been so cold and tired, and bound at the ankles and wrists, and had the slightest confidence in a seven foot orc’s ability to muster any kind of plan, he may have been excited.

  “Do you think that’s a good idea?” hissed Morden under his breath.

  Stonearm’s answer was to push him forward. Morden teetered like a marionette, the rope biting into his ankles.

  “Less of your lip,” said Stonearm, again with theatrical loudness.

  Great, thought Morden, an orc who does pantomime.

  Morden almost fell as he passed between the two guards at the door, as much from the shock of the cold air as the second shove in the back from Stonearm. He had thought the barn was cold but in truth it had been warm compared to the bitterness outside. The air stung his lungs as he breathed.

  From behind him there was a crack which reminded him of a coconut shy at the last summer fair that had been set up in Brindelberg’s town square. There followed a thump, like a sack falling off a cart, a strangled exclamation of surprise, another crack, and finally another sack-like thump.

  “Will you untie me now?” said Morden, not bothering to turn round. He didn’t need to see the two guards in a heap to know that Stonearm had lived up to his moniker.

  “That can wait,” said Stonearm from behind him.

  Morden was about to protest but faltered when he was hauled off his feet and the wind knocked from him as he was slung over the orc’s shoulder.

  The two torches had fallen clear of the barn and gave Morden a flickering sight of Stonearm’s work. One guard was in a pile and dead still. The other looked like he had more life in him; his head moved and he groaned. He set a hand on the hard packed earth and tried to push himself up, groaning once more.

  The groan was loud enough for Stonearm to hear. The orc spun round, all the while grasping Morden over his shoulder. Morden couldn’t see forward but could see the orc’s legs pump into action. Stonearm covered the short distance to the guard in a stride or two; one leg came back slightly higher as the other planted itself, and swung forward in a vicious arc. There was a sickening thud and the groaning stopped.

  Good feet for a big orc, thought Morden.

  “Here! What’s going on down there?”

  Morden twisted his neck to look up to the inn. At an upper story window a man was leaning out with a night candle held aloft. He was wearing a white night vest that shone in the moonlight, and a bent over nightcap.

  “Nothing to see,” said Stonearm gruffly.

  “What’s up with them two?” enquired the man.

  “They was asleep on duty,” said Stonearm.

  “What’s that you got on your shoulder?”

  “Nothing.”

  “That ain’t nothing. I’m not blind you know.”

  “Nothing to see. Go about your business. There’s a good man,” said Stonearm, adopting an official tone.

  “Don’t you think we ought to be leaving?” whispered Morden.

  “You stay there. I’m coming down,” said the man at the window.

  “I think you could be right,” said Stonearm.

  “You could throw those torches in the barn first though,” said Morden.

  “But that would set the barn on fire.”

  Morden sighed.

  “Clever,” said Stonearm. “A diversion. I get it.”

  From his back
ward facing vantage point, for the second time that day, Morden watched a building go up in flames as he was hauled away from it. He wasn’t sure which was more uncomfortable, the cart and its rickety wheels, or the knotted muscles that arranged themselves over Stonearm’s frame.

  There was quite a commotion behind them as the orc settled into a surprisingly quick gait. The fire had taken a hold and Morden could see people scurrying around. Morden wondered which one was Chidwick and how long he would take to get a pursuit going.

  They had made a mile in what seemed a bare few minutes before the orc turned sharply and jumped the low hedge that ran along the roadside. The cow that had been lying down on the other side must have been more than surprised by the sudden arrival of a huge orc carrying a not insubstantial Morden on his shoulder. There was a distressed moo and Stonearm went crashing to the ground. Fortunately the orc let go of Morden to break his fall and Morden was thrown free. Being crushed between Stonearm and a cow would be one of the more inglorious deaths for a Dark Lord, thought Morden as he landed face first in what felt like soft mud but was in fact, if the smell was anything to go by, cow slurry. He was dimly aware of Stonearm’s huge bulk likewise face down in the cow patties.

  Morden would have said something, along the lines of looking before leaping or some such, but didn’t want a mouth full of cow crap. Anyway, it could have been worse. At least they had escaped. He wasn’t entirely sure what from, but was certain it was worse than being cold and covered in cow shit.

  Morden pushed himself up out of the muck and stood as best he could with his ankles still tied. With a groan, Stonearm likewise rose from the mud and crap like a leviathan from the deep. The cow had struggled free and began to complain loudly. Stonearm’s fist lashed out and the cow’s protest was brought to an abrupt end as it toppled over.