The Dark Lord's Handbook: Conquest Read online

  Edwin drained his mug. “If you’ll excuse me, it’s been a long day and I am tired.”

  “Don’t you want to hear the rest?” asked Tibault. “Jurgen’s got a way of telling the story of the Dark Lord that none can match. He was an odd child, wasn’t he, Jurgen?”

  “He was at that,” said Jurgen. “And I always said he was no good.”

  “You did,” said Gregor. “All the time. To any who would listen. ‘Strange lad,’ you’d say. ‘He’ll come to no good, mark my words.’ You didn’t talk of much else.”

  “And I was right,” said Jurgen. “You have to admit that. I was right.”

  Edwin stood to leave them to it. All he wanted what the relief sleep would bring. He hoped he had drunk enough beer to keep the dreams at bay. Tomorrow he would be home and able to start anew. He wanted nothing more than to leave this Dark Lord affair behind him.

  “Hard to believe that Dark Lord Morden came from such a sweet woman,” said Tibault. “Or more nice a man in Harold.”

  “If you think Harold was his father, then you’re more stupid than we thought,” said Gregor. “It was that other fellow. The one with the black skin.”

  This much Edwin knew to be true. He’d heard it from the dragon’s mouth. It meant the woman who had been casting a flirting eye at him, Jesobel, must be the Dark Lord’s mother. Such evil could not be born of innocence. She was married but clearly wanton. And here she was, coming down the stair from having prepared a bed she wanted to share with him. He laughed out loud. He could hear his own insanity in its maniacal tone. He had been flirted with by his implacable foe’s mother. And now she winked at him.

  Looking down at the table he took the only weapon to hand, the butter knife. Clasping it, he strode to the foot of the stair.

  “I’ll be up later,” said Jesobel in a whisper when she was close.

  With his left hand he held her shoulder and pulled her close. With his right, he plunged the butter knife into the belly that had given birth to the evil that had ruined his life and taken his sister.

  Chapter 8 Dark Lord Tribulations

  It takes a heroic act of will for a Dark Lord to suffer those around him.

  The Dark Lord’s Handbook

  These days, Morden was often lonely. As a Dark Lord, he felt he defined loneliness. Surrounded by dim-witted minions, he was doomed to spend his existence in intellectual solitude. It was one of the reasons he had such bad moods. The Handbook told him in a world of fools and idiots, he had little choice but to exert his will and dominion over all others, and suffer their company and ineptitude. Morden had the notion the Handbook had never met Griselda. She was no fool, nor idiot. On the contrary, she suffered fools even less than Morden, and numbered him amongst them. He wondered what had happened to the time when they had taken pleasure in each other’s company. Even though the wedding had been held under awkward circumstances, his taking of her as his Dark Queen in Deathcropolis had been the beginning of a glorious six months. He had been dark and moody, and she had swooned around him. He had enjoyed delights that these days were nothing more than a fond memory. Perhaps it was this lack of intimacy, as well as his intellectual isolation, that made him feel lonely while still in a marriage. All she gave him these days was a tongue lashing, and not the good kind.

  He wasn’t the only one who felt her wrath on a daily basis. Approaching the kitchens, he could hear her screaming above the crashing of rocks as they hit the walls. Some poor orc had probably burnt her toast or forgotten to add sugar to the black swill that passed as coffee in the fortress. Morden was glad he no longer had to endure orcish cooking, which stretched as far as the application of intense heat to dubiously sourced meat and little else. Griselda, however, was a different matter.

  Ahead of him a door slammed open and Griselda strode out in full tirade. “And if you ever serve me that crap again I’ll stick that ladle up your arse!” she shouted over her shoulder.

  There were times Morden wished she would temper her language. She should be aloof and moody, dark and terrible, of few words but ones which, when spoken, would cut to the bone. When he had suggested her language did not befit her station she had told him to ‘fuck off’ and that had been the end of it. As in many things, she considered her word final. His only relief was that she was still entirely absorbed by her artistic pursuits and not in the slightest bit interested in his work, which was fortunate as he thought she would represent stiff competition if she ever decided she wanted to rule the world.

  While some things had changed, one that had not was her beauty. Physically, he had gone downhill fast and had to play mind tricks with her to hide his decay, whereas she remained a delight to lay eyes upon. Especially when she was animated, as she was now. Her anger brought her alive in a way that never happened when she was reading him her latest poem. It was a vital part of her, more so than the verse she wrote.

  “Griselda,” said Morden. He used just enough of his power to raise his greeting over the commotion of Griselda’s rant and the battering from outside.

  “What the hell do you want?” she said, turning on him. There was another crunch of rock as another missile from the volcano hit and she twitched her head in response. “And what the hell is going on out there?”

  “It’s Firerock. It’s erupting. I came to see that you were safe. You are all right, aren’t you?”

  Griselda bristled and opened her mouth to say something and then seemed to think better of it. She frowned. “You did?”

  “You should see it. The fortress is taking a battering. There’s a massive cloud of ash and a river of lava on the mountain. It’s pretty spectacular.”

  As if to lend credence to what he was saying, another rock hit and debris fell from the ceiling. Griselda looked up and cocked her head, a faint look of worry briefly replacing the anger.

  “What have you done now?” she asked, rounding on him. “If my bedroom has so much as a cushion out of place …”

  “Done? Nothing. It’s a volcano. It erupted.”

  “Volcanoes don’t just erupt.”

  “Actually, they do.”

  “What did you do? One of your master plans? Don’t tell me, you tried to forge some kind of super weapon. Was it that mad orc, Huang? He’s going to get us all killed.”

  “You’ve got it all wrong. It’s a volcano. It erupted. There’s nothing else to it.”

  Griselda eyed him with suspicion. She seemed to be unable to admit that everything bad that happened wasn’t necessarily his fault. “So apart from an erupting volcano, everything is fine?”

  Morden was about to confirm this when it struck him that a huge boulder had taken the top off the Tower of Doom, and their chambers with it, which meant everything was not fine.

  “What?” she demanded.

  “What are things, really? Stuff can be replaced.” Over the years, as a Dark Lord, possessions had lessened in importance. In Bindelburg he had wanted trappings, and he was not short of those, but now he was far more interested in conquest and power. His few material needs had been reduced to a massive fortress, a suitably huge and imposing throne to sit and brood on, and a black robe, all of which he had. He didn’t need much. Unlike Griselda. “You’re safe, and that’s all that matters.”

  It was a desperate attempt at deflection, showing he cared about her—and he could tell, from the look she gave him, it was transparently so.

  “My stuff cannot be replaced,” she said, bristling. “My stuff is unique. My stuff is years of work. It’s my soul laid bare. It’s who I am. It cannot just ‘be replaced’ like a pair of shoes, which, by the way, are also irreplaceable. You may be able to wear any old boots but you know how I feel about my feet. So no. It’s not fine, you inconsiderate bastard.”

  Morden had to bite back his pedantry in regards to the shoe thing and her self-contradiction. His days of being meekly abused, however, were long gone. “You’re right. The world is a poorer place for the loss of your poetry. The Lost Works of Griselda will forever be a bl
ack hole in the literary world. Your ‘soul’ will pass unremarked.”

  “At least I have a soul, you deathless lich bastard.”

  “And that’s a bad thing for a Dark Lord because … ?”

  “That’s all you care about it, isn’t it? Dark Lord this, Dark Lord that. When I rule the world. What about me? There was a time when you cared, or was that a lie? Remember when you used to hold me and whisper in my ear about laying the world at my feet? Well, I never wanted that. All I want is to be heard. By you. You were the first man ever to show me any respect and it not be just about sex.”

  Morden had never pretended he understood women. Being only in his early twenties, they were a mystery to him. It was clear that Griselda was equally clueless when it came to him. In those early days, it had been all about the sex. The fact he didn’t force himself upon her didn’t mean he wasn’t a Dark Lord with an insatiable desire for sexual pleasure. The only thing that had held him back, and later put a halt to it altogether, was his degenerative condition. Illusion could do only so much. To engage in sexual congress now, while desirable, would be problematic given the state of his undead body. It didn’t mean he felt any less randy. Griselda still managed to stimulate his mind even if his body was unresponsive. Her naked form still sent thrills of pleasure through him on the odd occasion he managed to catch sight of it, which was increasingly infrequent. As for her, she had always been more turned on by whispered stanzas and rhyming couplets than the purely physical. He had become widely read in those early months, learning by heart sonnets that would drive her wild, in order to get laid, not because he enjoyed them, or held a common interest.

  “And you were right,” he lied in an attempt to end the argument. He had much to do and engaging in a blazing row with Griselda was a waste of his time. “You have a beautiful mind. That you have a beautiful body is but a bonus. But it’s not easy being a Dark Lord. There’s so much to do, and I can’t trust anyone else to get it right. Apart from Stonearm, and he’s off in Deathcropolis getting the fleet ready. I’m sorry your work got destroyed, but I remember most of it. We can get it written down again.”

  “You remember? Really?”

  How could he not? Her incessant reading to him had burned it into his mind. The particularly bad doggerel was like a ditty that would go round and round in his head and drive him mad. ‘Once cruel words spoken, her heart forever broken.’ How could he forget that? Awful. “Every word, Griselda.”

  And in a flash, Griselda launched herself at him and wrapped her arms around him. She squeezed him so hard, his spine cracked.

  “Oh, Morden. I’m so sorry. I know you care. Really, I do. I know it can’t be easy planning the conquest of the world. It’s just that I sometimes feel I’m lost in all that’s going on, and when you go out to conquer everything, you’ll leave me behind.”

  “I’m sorry too. It’s not easy being a Dark Lord.” He patted her back and squeezed her. He judged ten seconds was long enough a hug to calm her, and then let her go. “I’d better go and see how bad it is. You stay here. It’s as safe a place as any. I’ll be back when things have calmed down.”

  Griselda stepped back and sniffed. She wiped her face with her sleeve and smiled. Morden felt a tug at his heart. There were times he wondered why he bothered with her, and then that smile would remind him. He was lucky to have her as a Dark Queen.

  “I’ll go and see my father,” said Griselda. “He’ll have spare materials. A volcano exploding is pretty dramatic.”

  “Yes it is. See you later.” Kristoff’s room was far enough down the tower to be relatively safe. Even if it wasn’t, he didn’t have the energy to argue further.

  Morden turned and walked off. He knew she was watching him go, expecting him to turn around and wave, but there was only so much he would do. As a Dark Lord, he had to draw a line somewhere. He rounded a corner and saw an orc guard racing towards him. The orc skidded to a halt.

  “Lord Morden, Guard Captain Ironfist asks you attend the testing grounds.”

  Now he could get back to being a Dark Lord. Huang’s project was an important piece of the puzzle of how he was going to crush his enemies and bring the world under his dominion. It would be disappointing if there were a setback. He was itching to issue forth with his army and get things underway.

  “Very well. Lead on.”

  *****

  There wasn’t a day that passed when Morden did not read the Handbook, even if it was only to go over previous advice and lessons. There were certain chapters he had read dozens of times. One section in particular was the one on issuing forth, as that was the next stage in his march towards conquest of the world. The thing that was causing a problem was the point about having completed the previous part of the process, which was gathering his power. The Handbook was very clear that he should not be pre-emptive in issuing forth without having made sure his power was properly gathered. To do so would invite disaster. But what was his power? That was the crux of it. He was unsure. He had no magic devices or artefacts. He had no well of ultimate power to drink from, nor had he been able to summon an ancient being to imbue him with fantastical power. He had the Handbook, his robe, and his will. He’d lost his ability to change into his dragon form. He was stuck.

  He’d gone over everything that had happened to him a thousand times. Maybe it was becoming mostly dead, a lich of sorts, that was his power. He was not more dead, like Zoon had been, never having actually passed on and come back, but he was not human. He had a decaying body that felt no pain. He had no need for food, drink, or sleep. He could exude a wave of compulsion and fear that crippled those around him and had an aura that killed living things who were not under his dominion, which was fortunate for his minions and Griselda. He was an incredibly powerful individual. Was that enough? Doubt plagued him. It was not a trait he thought he should suffer from as a Dark Lord, and his concerns were something he kept to himself. He kept his outer demeanour powerful and strong. He could show no weakness or doubt to anyone, not even Griselda in their more tender moments. He had to be strong every minute of every day. He had to convince the world he was infallible.

  The trouble was, he didn’t feel like it sometimes, especially when it came to military matters. Warfare was not a strong point. He thought his strengths lay more in controlling and manipulation. He understood the nature of power and the will that was needed to wield it. He had no idea how to lead a huge army of orcs and men to meet the forces of good on the field of battle. It was true, he had some able orcish commanders, but they took orders from him. He was the Commander in Chief. He had to have the plan for them to execute. They trained and armed the men, and he directed them. He was no general, though, and he was sure that if he met Count Vladovitch on the field of battle, he would be defeated in short order. Numbers would only get him so far. He completely lacked the tactical knowledge of how to fight the battles. The Handbook wasn’t much help. It said all he needed was a massively overpowering army and to crush all who opposed it. It was short on detail when it came to the composition of an army and how it should be deployed according to terrain, weather, the army being faced, or how to manoeuvre units effectively. In the Handbook, it was merely a matter of armies clashing. Given the accounts he had of how Count Vladovitch operated, that was not enough.

  Either he had to become a world class general or he needed something that made such tactical nuance unnecessary. Zoon had had the Black Dragon Flight. All Morden had was the sole survivor of that flight, his father, and the only thing he could rely on from him was advice on how best to pleasure the ladies.

  He had brooded long and hard on the problem. In the end, he was left with one conclusion. He was who he was because he had been shot in the side by a harpoon while in dragon form and he had nearly died—he was still not totally certain he hadn’t died a bit. The more he had thought about it, the more impressed he was with those orcs and their harpoon. They had brought him down with something designed to catch whales. That was quite a feat. There had bee
n a bang, a puff of smoke, and the harpoon had been launched like a ballista. He’d asked questions and found out all about black powder. He had tracked down the artisan who had been responsible for the harpoon gun and brought him to his fortress. Huang was the old, eccentric, eastern orc who had taken black powder, which had been used for fireworks and little else, due to the frequency with which it blew body parts off those who messed around with it, and applied it to catching whales at sea. Morden thought it was an impressive leap of imagination. He had asked the orc, with a hint of Dark Lord persuasiveness, to apply his methods to making a weapon that could be used on the battlefield or in a siege. Many, many explosions and horrific accidents later, Huang had apparently succeeded and was ready to demonstrate his achievement only to have the damned volcano explode.

  Now he was assured Griselda was safe, the well-being of his mad inventor orc was his next priority. He hurried through the maze of corridors that wormed their way between the various parts of the fortress to the inner courtyard gate, from which he could get to the test grounds. The grounds had been removed a safe distance from the main buildings due to several spectacular explosions, and consequent loss of life, when Huang had started his work.

  Morden emerged into the courtyard and a rain of ash. The world had been turned grey. There was no sign of any of his minions. Presumably they had the sense to shelter in the barracks. The lumps on the ground, scattered around the courtyard covered in ash, turned out to be the unlucky ones who had been hit by larger rocks. Morden hesitated and looked skyward. The bombardment had lessened to the point where there was only the occasional missile hissing down. If he paid attention, he should be all right. The gate on the far side of the yard had been hit and hung shattered on its hinges. It wasn’t looking good but Morden thought he had better make sure. Huang and his weapon were the edge he needed in the coming war of conquest.