The Dark Lord's Handbook Read online

Movement from the direction of the inn caught Morden’s eye. Torches were bobbing towards them. The chase had started.

  Chapter 11 Second Lesson – Heroes

  Heroes

  As inevitable as death, when a Dark Lord rises and comes forth so heroes will oppose him. Armies will clash and great battles will be fought, but all this is naught as compared to the actions of the hero. They are the sideshow to his main event.

  You must know your enemy, Morden. Study closely.

  The obvious stratagem to deal with these irksome characters is to simply kill them. Problem solved. And many a Dark Lord has tried; tried very hard indeed, but to no avail. These heroes are made of stern stuff and have the most incredible luck. Their ability to escape inescapable death should not be underestimated. From the mysterious and sudden appearance of eagles to unlooked for armies appearing at dawn, heroes may seem down but are never out.

  That is not to say that a Dark Lord should not throw hindrances in a hero’s way. It behoves you to make every effort to put their life in peril so that at the very least they can expend their energy in saving their own skin rather than actively opposing you. Just be sure to send minions who are expendable. It is upsetting to send your hand reared Cyclops to kill the hero and later hear of his demise at the hands of the hero who got lucky with a stray arrow.

  A more considered approach is to study the character of the hero who opposes you to find the weakness that you can exploit. This may not kill them but rather have them so tied up in dilemma that they are rendered impotent.

  Heroes may have many virtuous qualities but equally they tend to have many less virtuous ones as well. Both can be of use.

  The virtuous hero cannot pass by those in peril. His moral code demands that he be a saviour. The hero is so swelled by the self-centred, self-important notion that he alone can save the world that he will shoulder all the world’s ills on his lone shoulders. This is to your advantage. Load those shoulders with as many worries as you can conjure. Try to make them personal. The hero attracts lovers like dung attracts beetles. Even if by some miracle the hero is seemingly chaste there are always ‘close’ companions or family members that can be kidnapped and held ransom. The hero will, of course, never buckle to a ransom but will try to rescue them. History shows they often succeed, but it takes time, and in the pursuit of rescuing the ones they love they will let the rest of the world be consumed.

  Then there are heroes who have the outward appearance of virtuous intent but in fact have egos almost equal to your own. (Yes, you are an egomaniac, Morden, otherwise why would you want to be a Dark Lord?) They are heroic for the rewards that being a hero brings. They live for the adoration of the masses. Many a maiden has swooned under their blazing charisma only to be used and cast aside for the next conquest. (There are certain so called heroic characteristics that are shared with a Dark Lord and should be admired.)

  They will humble kings with their righteousness. They will lead armies to calamity through pride and blind faith in themselves or a divine higher agency. In many respects they are no different from yourself, and you should point this out to them as often as you can manage. Catalogue their so called qualities and liken them to your own. If you are lucky and they see that they are in fact no better than yourself then they may become so overwhelmed with remorse that they become useless.

  What is more likely is that they will get angry and claim that in fact they are nothing like you and will never be like you. An ironic laugh at this juncture is in order. (You should seek to master a range of laughter for different occasions.) Ask them to join you at your side so that together you can bring peace to the world; it will infuriate them further. When they say ‘Never!’ point out all those that have died as a consequence of their selfishness. (If you have any kind of magical talent, or are able to commune with the dead, then shades of these fallen companions are a nice detail to throw in.)

  Though heroes may be likened to putty – to be shaped to your designs and will – as ever there are hazards in dealing with them. Heroes tend to burn brightly but it is not generally incandescent intelligence. It’s more likely their perfect set of pearly teeth, burnished armour and wicked sword that impresses. Being one of superior intelligence there will doubtless arise the temptation to explain in excruciating detail exactly how clever your plan for world domination is and how they are powerless to stop you. This is tempting fate, and fate is easily tempted. The result is not pleasant and frequently results in the loss of limbs and the ability to breathe. The art of monologue is one that all Dark Lords should master but don’t get carried away.

  Likewise, to use a concrete example, should you be known as Morden the Merciless then be without mercy; do not leave a hero to his fate, which appears to be certain death. Remember, when it comes to heroes, nothing is certain, least of all death. Kill them. At least try hard to and with them in sight. Don’t assume that because they have plummeted to certain death they are dead.

  If you entrust a minion with killing a hero and when they return you ask them, ‘Are they dead?’, and the minion answers, ‘Yes’, but on closer examination it turns out he was left in a pool of ravenous piranhas with a large stone tied around their ankles, he without doubt escaped. It’s how it is. Kill the minion and make it clear to those present that recognisable body parts are the only acceptable proof.

  There is one more approach a Dark Lord can take when it comes to heroes and that is to try and stop them appearing in the first place. Heroes are generally only needed when there is a Dark Lord and they are often late in appearing. This means a Dark Lord may well have the world under his dominion before a hero rises to challenge him. (There is an interesting literary explanation for this that is included in Appendix B.)

  Assuming the hero will be male, killing all men is not feasible. Likewise, reading the prophecies and deciding to kill all first born sons under a certain age has met with little success. It’s not specific enough. If there is a prophecy, though it is likely that it is nothing more than hopeful self-fulfilling generalisations, there may be clues. Historical precedent may also be used. A surprising number of heroes come from humble backgrounds. Often they are orphans whose parentage has been hidden. They are raised as a family’s own but sooner or later the six foot giant with flaming red hair is told by his dwarf parents that he is not their actual offspring. It comes as quite a shock.

  Common professions are sheep herder or woodcutter, but the one that outstrips all others is blacksmith. Morden, if you are up against an orphan raised in the heat of a smithy by a grizzled veteran who took pity on the whelp then trouble is at hand.

  Fortunately, the uncertain parentage of an orphan is a crucial emotional scar that must be opened and used to undermine them. When he is standing before you in the final confrontation, if you happen to be his father, this is the time to reveal the fact. Even if you are not, it is worth suggesting you are anyway. It will mess with his head. It could be start of a beautiful relationship; one that should end in his unfortunate demise.

  And before you set this book aside and get some well earned rest after a hard day fleeing Penbury’s men, there is one more thing to remember about heroes.

  Even though they think they have won, they have not. A Dark Lord is never beaten. One day, you will rise again.

  So sleep well, young Morden, and dream of conquests to come.

  Chapter 12 A Hero in Love

  Most Heroes are merely misguided romantics.

  Watch out for the ones with hearts as dark as your own.

  The Dark Lord’s Handbook.

  It was a day that belonged in poetry, and Edwin was trying his hardest to make it so. He lay under the dragging limbs of a willow at the edge of the lake, quill in hand, parchment spread and brow furrowed.

  The sky was…was…was as blue as, well, it was blue. And the sun reflected off the still water as though it were off a mirror. Off something shiny, like a mirror, but not a mirror.

  This poetry was hard. Harder than the villagers of
Wellow appreciated. But this wasn’t for them. It was for her. Fair Griselda. How could he compare her? Unto a pretty bloom of some kind; a rose perhaps? (Too thorny.) A lily then? (Too pale.) A petunia?

  Whichever, she was flower-like in aspect and filled his nose with her sweet perfume when she passed the smithy. Except those times when she had just cleaned the privy and then she was not so sweet. But nothing could detract from her perfect frame, her silken hair, her ripe…

  Edwin shook himself. Now was not the time to be having those thoughts. He had poetry to write. He only had an hour and he would be expected back at the smithy. It was a busy time of year. The harvest was in and the farmers had soil to turn before the frosts made the ground too hard. He sometimes wished he hadn’t invented the plough that was taking the region by storm and had brought custom from far a-field.

  It had been a fateful book shopping trip to Bindelburg that had started it. He had happened across Brandock, a swordsmith. They had struck up professional conversation and Edwin had been invited along the next day to see Brandock at work. Inspired by the lamination technique, he had bought half a dozen ingots and gone home to make swords. From those he made ploughshares and the rest was history, or so he liked to think.

  He glanced over to the stick he had stuck in the soft earth. The shadow from it had moved on from the line he had marked when it was placed. He estimated his hour must almost be up. He sighed and set the quill down and looked out over the lake. The muse had abandoned him. Instead, he would drink in the calm serenity of his surrounds and lose himself in the clouds that reflected so perfectly off the lake’s mercurial surface.

  Autumn was enjoying a reprise before winter took full hold and there were ripples here and there as trout took small insects from the water’s surface. It was perhaps because of this Edwin did not notice one such ripple become more wavelike. Once he noticed, however, it made him sit up. There was something big down there, made obvious by the water that was spreading like a bow wave as whatever it was came closer to the shore where he lay.

  It was odd. Odd enough for him to get up to see if he could catch sight of what might cause such a disturbance. As he did so the lake’s surface was broken by an explosion of water and a brilliant sword thrust itself into the air. It cleared the water sufficiently for Edwin to see the hilt was grasped by a hand, possibly female, covered in weed. The sword was a few yards out, and not within reach unless he fancied wetting his hose. It was all quite surreal and he was left wondering what he should do.

  The sword shone, water dripping down its length, bright and terrible in the sunlight. It was a thing of beauty and Edwin reached for his quill and parchment. If only he could capture in words the razor edge and reflected sunlight that spawned a thousand rainbows he would have something to show Griselda.

  The sword began to shake. The hand that held it seemed to waver, as though beckoning. The position of the sun and the fact that the water had been stirred into a murky blackness made it hard to see anything beneath the wrist. Could there be someone down there?

  Bubbles broke the water’s surface and the hand was definitely trembling. More bubbles came to the surface and then the hand arched back before sweeping forward and releasing the blade. The sword rose into the air, the weight of the hilt sending it into an end over end spin. Edwin was transfixed as it spun in slow motion towards him. At the last second, he had the good sense to step to one side and the sword buried itself in the earth where he had been standing a split second before.

  From the lake there was an eruption and a great bulk rose, covered in weed; a behemoth that surely had been dwelling in the lake’s depths for centuries. It spluttered and shook, sending muddy water and weed in every direction. Edwin could see more clearly now that it was no behemoth from the depths but in fact a woman of not inconsiderable bulk. She stood up to her knees in the water and placed her hands firmly on cliff-like hips.

  “Well don’t stand there gawping,” she bellowed. “Help me out of here!”

  Without hesitation, Edwin sprang into the lake and helped the woman out. A thousand questions rose in his mind but they could wait until she was on dry land. Once there he took off his shirt and handed it to her so she might dry herself off.

  As she did, he could see she was checking him out. He was quite used to this. It was hot in the smithy and he often worked shirtless, even with the hazard of sparks. In the past few years, it had drawn some attention from the village girls. All but Griselda. Perhaps a physique that looked like it was hewn from granite was not her thing. Maybe she didn’t like a washboard stomach and a hairless chest (what hair there was tended to be singed off). He was not deterred though. He’d been told he was attractive to women often enough to believe them, though he didn’t see it himself. He thought six feet and five inches was far too tall. His jaw was too square for his liking, and the grey paleness of his blue eyes was watery. He cared not for his looks and if good looks were not Griselda’s thing then perhaps his poetry and charm could win her.

  Nevertheless, whoever this woman from the lake was, she was definitely giving him the eye.

  “Very nice,” she said at last, tossing the shirt aside. She regarded him quite openly, like he was a plough horse. Water dripped from the hem of her embroidered gown. Edwin took the quality of the cloth and workmanship as a sign she was a well moneyed lake dweller. “You’ll do,” she continued. “I dare say, you’re going to break a few hearts along the way but you’ve definitely got the…well, you’ve got it.”

  Edwin wasn’t sure how he should reply, and believing that when there was nothing definite to say then it be best left unsaid, he did just that.

  “Bit quiet though. Do you know who I am?”

  “A Lady from the lake?” With only the facts to go on it was the best he could surmise.

  “And so sweet,” said the Lady smiling. “No. Well, yes. In a manner of speaking but not exactly the Lady from the Lake, but a lady from a lake is close enough. I am the Countess of Umbria.”

  She pushed a hand forward with a ring on it and Edwin dropped to his knee to kiss it.

  “At your service,” he said, rising to his feet and bowing in the manner he had read described in fiction, and that was with a flourish that unfortunately caught the countess in the stomach and would have put her on her bottom if she had been less substantial and able to keep her feet.

  “Steady there,” she said, taking a step back. “No need for all that.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  The Countess continued to look at him strangely and Edwin was at a loss. He would be late back to work but there were genuine extenuating circumstances, especially if he escorted the Countess back to the village. But this was secondary to why she had tried to kill him by tossing the sword at him from a lake. What had he ever done to her?

  “You look confused,” said the Countess.

  “I am, yes,” answered Edwin.

  “Could you fetch me that?” asked the Countess, waving a hand at the sword that stood embedded in the lakeside mud.

  Edwin turned to do so, as though he had no choice. The aristocratic tone of the Countess’s voice was hard to resist. And yet, as his hand reached out to take the sword by the hilt something deep down seemed to be shouting ‘Noooo.’

  Perhaps it was the voice of a poet that was never to be heard for when Edwin’s hand pulled the sword from its muddy sheath everything changed.

  There was a wide plain on a baking hot day, the dust stirred from it by the thousands of horse and foot that wheeled towards a wall of darkness rolling in from the east. Dragons rose above the darkness that swept toward the gleaming host. Edwin could see at the point of the vanguard of this brilliant host was a man, sword raised, urging his men on.

  “To Glory!” Edwin mouthed the words as though he spoke them.

  The hero was at the tip of a lance of steel that thundered toward the wall of dark creatures. There was a collision that shook the ground. He could smell blood. The cries of those being hacked and hewn fille
d his head, and his own voice sang in ecstasy as the sword cleaved its way through the ranks of orcs and ogres and other foul creatures that writhed around him.

  “Are you feeling well?”

  The Countess’s voice seemed distant. He turned to face her, lifting the sword so that it stood straight and proud in front of him.

  “I am well, madam,” said Edwin. “I thank you for returning my sword.”

  The Countess arched an eyebrow. “Your sword?”

  “Indeed.” Edwin took a few practice swings. He had never been trained in any martial affairs but the sword felt like it was part of him.

  “I can’t tell you how relieved I am to hear that,” said the Countess. “You must be a hero!”

  The sword urged him on. He started to move his feet and twist and turn and lunge as though he were beset by attackers.

  “Jolly impressive,” said the Countess. “Black Orchid will be pleased.”

  He spun, the sword carving a vicious arc.

  The Countess’s head left its body with a mild look of surprise and plopped into the lake, where it bobbed for a second before sinking. The torso sprayed a fountain of blood before toppling slowly backwards.

  Blood ran down the length of the blade and Edwin could feel hot stickiness on his face and chest. And it felt good. It was unfortunate about the Countess but it had been an accident, and accidents do happen. He cleaned the blade with his wet shirt and then rolled the Countess’s body back into the lake from whence it had come. He then washed himself off and, apart from the red stain on the grass, there was no sign that anything had happened.

  Edwin picked up his parchment and quill and threw them in the lake. He wouldn’t be needing those any more. Poetry? What had he been thinking? There was only one way to win a woman and Griselda was about to be won.

  Chapter 13 Birth Right