The Dark Lord's Handbook: Conquest Read online

  Economically, things will be much better. Any who would seek wealth and economic power are in direct competition to the Dark Lord and will suffer the consequences. A Dark Lord demands only complete obedience, and if that is forthcoming, then comes reward. A Dark Lord is extravagantly generous to those who serve him. With the world under his sway, his generosity goes far. None would be denied food. A starving man is of no use. Any who obey will be rewarded. The only thing required is to bend a knee and accept the Dark Lord as master. It’s a simple thing. Any who say they bend a knee to no man are liars. Everyone bends a knee to someone or something, whether they recognise it or not. Only a Dark Lord is honest enough to demand explicit obedience.

  A Dark Lord should understand and communicate this message. Submission is a simple thing and is the path that causes the least amount of pain and suffering for all. If, however, submission is not forthcoming in a timely manner, then there is a clear alternative: war. And in this instance, the Dark Lord must also be as clear as possible. If it comes to war there will be only one outcome, and arriving at that outcome will not be pleasant. This war will not be by rules of conduct. This will be total war. There are no forbidden ways to kill the enemy. The notion that particular means of death are more acceptable than others is a reflection of the decadence and deeply flawed ideology the Dark Lord seeks to sweep aside. A Dark Lord is not bound by constraint or convention. If there is to be war, then it is to be as terrible an affair as possible. It is not so the horror will prevent future wars—that would be naive—but to make it clear that war is the last resort.

  It is therefore a good idea for a Dark Lord to prepare for war, but to also make an effort to avoid it if possible. To this end, envoys may be sent out prior to coming forth as ambassadors to the so-called ‘free world’ with a clear message: a Dark Lord is coming. Either welcome him and bow to his rule or oppose him and face the consequences. It’s probably a good idea to dress this message up a bit with incentives to comply and use more diplomatic language, but that’s the essence of it. The envoys themselves should be impressive. They are the Dark Lord’s representatives abroad. The envoy should leave the impression: ‘You think I’m bad? Wait until you see my master. He’s a whole lot worse.’

  The envoy should also be expendable. It’s not unknown for them to be poorly received and incarcerated, or sent back in a box minus limbs. While expendable, they should be competent, as far as competence in minions allows, as they will sow fear and confusion to delay and hamper your opposition. A good envoy can spot opportunities to play sides against each other, leaving it a simple matter for the Dark Lord to sweep in and pick up the pieces. Scheming, lying, double-crossing, and all-round underhand shenanigans are the order of the day. The envoy who presents himself with the message surrender or die often gets nowhere. Threats need to be more subtle than that, and need to be tempered with seductive rewards. ‘Bow before me and you will be wealthy beyond your dreams, and enjoy pleasures of the flesh that would stretch even your imagination,’ is an inducement many a cowardly ruler would succumb to when offered.

  But if all that fails, then it will be war. Be ready.

  Chapter 10 Fortress

  The secret ways into your domain should be well signposted.

  The Dark Lord’s Handbook

  Some hours after the eruption, the trio stood on a hilltop and looked down the valley to the east and Morden’s fortress. It had been hours of hell. Hal had thought after the filth of the swamp, they would find water and get clean. They had indeed managed to wash off the swamp mud, but only in time for the ash rain to start. The mud had been replaced by heavy grey snow from the volcano. It made breathing difficult. The closer they got to the mountains, the thicker it had fallen. In the foothills, many of the trees had lost branches, some even collapsing under the weight of the ash. With ash thick on the ground, it had been hard going.

  Hal hadn’t been sure what to expect when it came to Morden’s fortress. Something black with a sense of foreboding. He wasn’t disappointed. It was as big, as black, and as foreboding as he could have possibly imagined. Setting eyes on it sucked the will to live from him. It was depressing in every facet, from the heavily crenellated walls, to the implausibly massive bulwarks, to the towers that rose in ranks behind the outer wall. Inner walls formed a series of rings beyond the first, each higher up the sides of the mountain, though it was less a fortress and more a city. That it belonged to a Dark Lord was self-evident.

  Surprisingly, the fortress looked largely undamaged. The most obvious hurt it had suffered was the top of the largest tower, which had lost its peak. Hal had thought perhaps the wall may have been breached by the eruption and they could have crept in that way, but seeing the scale of the fortress, that was a ridiculous notion. The fortress had been rained down upon for a day and, though battered in places, was intact. The volcano’s bombardment had been no worse than the attentions of siege machines, which the fortress had been designed to withstand. There would be no easy way in. So it was fortunate they had Ferg and his map of the secret ways into Morden’s fortress.

  It needs a name, thought Hal. Though the tiers of walls and spires reminded him of a towered cake, Morden’s Castle Cake was hardly fitting. ‘Fortress of Depression’ sprang to mind, as it was by far the most depressing thing he had ever laid eyes on— more depressing even than his first, and failed, attempt at a Genoise sponge, which had collapsed in spectacular fashion when he had taken it from the oven. Not a great name, but it would do for now.

  “No wonder you ran off, Ferg,” Zara said.

  “Depressing, isn’t it?” said Ferg.

  “The Fortress of Depression,” said Hal, thinking he could try out the name he had given it.

  His two companions turned to look at him in unison. Neither looked impressed.

  “That’s the best you could come up with?” asked Zara. “Really?”

  “Well, it is depressing,” suggested Hal.

  Zara shrugged. “It’s a better name than I have.”

  “Ferg?” asked Hal. “What do the orcs call it? Something poetic? Fortress of Sorrows. Maybe something more intimidating? The Fortress of Ultimate Fear.”

  “Now you’re being silly,” said Zara. “It’s a fortress. Giving it a name isn’t going to make it any more pleasant, and staring at it isn’t making it get any closer, either.”

  “I can’t see ‘the Shit-Heap’ catching on,” said Ferg. “Which is what I call it.”

  “You don’t like Morden, do you?” said Hal.

  “Oh, I like what he’s trying to do. Orcs are fed up to their back teeth with being oppressed. Us eastern orcs may have had it easy compared to those in the west you abused, but I like the idea that Morden is going to kick your asses and set things straight. The thing I don’t like are dragons who eat my girl. That’s not right. We’re strong enough now we don’t need a Dark Lord, and we don’t need dragons snacking on us. Orc payback. That’s what I like.”

  “Revenge,” said Zara. “I like that.”

  Ferg glanced over at Zara. Hal could see suspicion in the orc’s expression. It wasn’t often Zara and the orc were in accord. Normally, they’d only join forces to win an argument with him—like when to stop for the day, or whose turn it was to dig the privy hole.

  “Lead on, Ferg,” said Hal. “Show us how we’re going to get into ‘the Shit-Heap’ without getting ourselves killed.”

  The orc started off down the slope and Hal fell in behind. The ash was thick enough on the ground that walking single file made it easier. Soon the fortress was out of sight under the ash-laden canopy of trees that covered the slopes. A strange quiet surrounded them. It was like they were walking through a dream land. There was no sound. No birds. No rustle from the undergrowth. It was as though they were the only living things in the woods.

  The scale of the fortress played a trick on Hal’s mind, as it took much longer to get close to the walls than he thought it would, taking until dusk to reach the edge of the woods that bordered an open
stretch of ground to the walls. He couldn’t see them but Hal presumed there would be a close watch all along the wall. The wall itself stretched away in both directions to anchor itself against the sharp incline of the first mountains. Going round was not an option. A short distance to the south was the gate. It was so big Hal wondered how it could possibly open or close. The road from it went over a span that crossed the deep, but dry, moat running the full length of the wall.

  It looked impregnable. Now it was time to hope the orc was true to his word and knew the secret ways into the fortress.

  “Now, aren’t you glad you didn’t kill me?” Ferg asked. “You have to admit, it’s impressive. Took a lot of building, did that. Good orcs gave their lives to put those stones down.”

  “On the contrary,” said Zara with a calmness that had Hal worrying for the orc. “I wish I had killed you and we’d gone home. There’s no way we can get inside there unseen, and even if we do, what then? We’ll be picked up and thrown in the dungeons to rot, or, if we’re lucky, they’ll kill us straight away. Dragon slayer or not, we’re screwed.”

  “Yup, a lot of orcs in there,” said Ferg, seemingly ignoring Zara’s outburst. “And a lot of orcs means …?”

  The orc looked at Hal and raised his eyebrows as though that would get an answer. Hal had never understood how someone pulling a face at him ever made it more likely he’d know something he didn’t.

  “… a lot of orcs means a lot of … shit,” said the orc, when it was clear Zara was too busy glowering and Hal wasn’t playing the game. “And that has to go somewhere. Now, you could dig a hole, but that would have to be a very big hole, and it would fill up and so? So …? So you channel it away. Out of the fortress.” The orc stopped to make a sweeping gesture with his arm. “Out of the fortress. And where something is coming out …?”

  “We can get in,” said Hal. “Bit obvious though, isn’t it? Can’t be that easy.”

  “Stupid orc,” said Zara.

  Ferg was grinning now and immediately Hal got worried. “I’ll remember that,” said Ferg. “Obvious, yes. You might say, encouraged. A Dark Lord isn’t going to be able to stop heroes trying to break in, and so he has to get cunning. And that’s where orcs like me come in. It’s our job to make sure these secret ways are not so secret. It’s a honey pot kind of deal. Except instead of honey, it’s shit, and that’s funny because if you fall for it, that’s what you end up in. And, boy, did you fall for it.”

  “You’re unbelievable,” said Zara, reaching for her sword. “You miserable, double-crossing, soon-to-be-dead orc shit-head.”

  Ferg’s grin got wider and now Hal was sure the orc was having fun with Zara.

  “Wait,” said Hal, reaching out to hold her arm. “Let him finish. He wouldn’t be telling us this now if there wasn’t more. We haven’t sprung the trap yet.”

  “Smart lad,” said Ferg. “And not-so-smart Dark Lord. It’s a plan with a real weakness.”

  Zara stopped struggling against Hal, though in truth it was more for show than real intent. She wasn’t stupid and Hal knew she’d be thinking things through.

  “And that weakness is that you can’t trust an orc,” said Zara.

  Ferg’s smile was as broad as Hal had ever seen it. “Ta-da! She has a brain after all.”

  “Let me go, Hal. I’m going to punch that smart-arse orc where it hurts.”

  Ferg took a step back, feigning alarm, and perhaps in case Hal did let Zara go.

  “It wouldn’t hurt to be nice,” said Hal. The constant peacekeeping was exhausting. “Both of you. Ferg, show us the way. Zara, don’t let him wind you up so easily. And Ferg, be nice.”

  At his words, Zara looked genuinely hurt. He let her go and she turned her back on them both, her head raised slightly.

  “Ferg, apologise,” ordered Hal.

  The orc gave Hal a ‘you’ve got to be kidding’ look. Hal folded his arms and frowned.

  “Okay, okay,” said the orc. “Zara, I’m sorry.”

  “There,” said Hal. “Ferg’s apologised, so can we get going?”

  “I’m sorry you’re wound up tight because you so desperately need to get laid by Hal, but he’s too nice to take advantage. Really sorry.”

  With a scream of rage Zara turned and launched herself at the orc, but she was too slow. Ferg was already off at a sprint, laughing hysterically. Zara set off in pursuit.

  “Damn,” said Hal, and gave chase.

  With the weight of the pack slowing him, Ferg and Zara were pulling away. Hal shrugged it off as he ran. It wouldn’t be hard to find given the trails being left in the ash. Even with the pack gone, he had to work hard to get close to Zara before she ran down the orc. Ferg was smaller than both of them and his little legs seemed to be tiring in the heavy going. Zara was gaining fast, but so was Hal. He leapt at her as she jumped on the orc. The three of them went down in a cloud. The ash stung Hal’s eyes and made breathing almost impossible. The three rolled over and Ferg was flung free, with Hal ending up lying on top of Zara. All three coughed as the ash swirled around them. Zara struggled but Hal was too big and strong for her. He pinned her arms with his knees and sat his weight across her belly. Zara became still and Hal was aware of a change in her body as it relaxed, and in his own. He was suddenly aware of her under his hips, her heaving chest. From the smile that came to her lips, Zara could also sense a change in the body language between them.

  “About time,” said Ferg, getting to his feet and dusting himself off, which had no more effect than putting more dust into the air. “I’ll leave you two for some … privacy.”

  Zara wriggled under Hal, increasing his discomfort. He felt both excited and ashamed. She was Zara. He’d known her since they were little. He’d caught diseases off her when their parents had made them share bathtubs. They’d played, fought, and grown up together. They’d got drunk for the first time together, and been in countless bar brawls, always coming out on top. He couldn’t imagine her ever not being around, but he’d never felt the way he did in this moment, far from home, on a crazy quest to kill a dragon, in sight of a Dark Lord’s fortress, covered in ash from a still-rumbling volcano that continued to smoke. So why here, why now, was he having these feelings? He was no stranger to sex. He’d had his share of liaisons in his time. He knew what it was to feel those urges, but he’d never had them with Zara. Not like this. It was both exciting and wrong.

  Hal jumped to his feet and stretched out a hand to help Zara up. She took it and he hauled her to her feet.

  “Bah,” said the orc. “And I was looking forward to a peep show. I’ll be discreet while I watch. I promise.”

  Perhaps sensing his discomfort, Zara was keeping a straight face, but Hal knew her well enough to see the amusement in her eyes. She was clearly enjoying this. Her attention only made his situation worse.

  “You two wait here, and don’t fight,” said Hal. “I’ll get the pack.”

  He started to backtrack in the ash. He’d gone maybe forty yards before he heard Ferg say something and Zara burst out laughing. He quickened his pace. At least they wouldn’t be killing each other while he was gone. Instead, Ferg would doubtless be telling dick jokes from his seemingly bottomless supply of them. Zara knew a few as well, from her time on the watch. It was almost the only thing she and the orc had in common.

  A minute later he found the pack, hefted it onto his shoulders, and began to trudge back to his companions. As he drew close, the two of them exchanged glances. It seemed that in those few minutes, they had come to an understanding. There was definitely a thaw in the air between Ferg and Zara. Good. Now perhaps they could concentrate on the matter at hand. There was a Dark Lord’s fortress to be entered and a dragon that needed slaying.

  “If we’re all ready?”

  Ferg and Zara nodded and, without a word, the orc led them north along the tree line. Hal fell in behind Ferg with Zara behind him. Eyes fixed on the orc’s back, the only thing he could think of was Zara’s body beneath his. Its firmness. Its
curves. Its movement when she had struggled against him. He had better get a grip on himself. Now was not the time. Best if never at all. A casual fling was not worth their friendship. But then a thought struck. What if it were not so casual? Ridiculous. In the same way he had on occasions gone home from the pub with a woman, Zara too had had her dalliances. In fact, she’d often been open about them the following day. And in every case she had been dismissive of them. They never meant anything. She’d never seen any of them again. As she had said, she had urges that needed satisfying and occasionally she satisfied them.

  With Hal, it had not been so clear cut. He thought he’d been in love a few times. He’d even had his heart broken when he was seventeen. Clarinda Flowerseller. She had been as pretty as the posies she and her mother sold in the market. She had also turned out to be cruel and fey; she not only tormented Hal, but all the boys who pursued her.

  Hal sniffed. A terrible smell was being brought to them on what little breeze there was. A thousand times worse than the odours Ferg was capable of, it smelt of orc. Soon after the smell came the sound of running water. That was good. Hal’s throat was parched from all the ash they kept kicking up.

  “We’re here,” said Ferg, calling a halt.

  Coming to the top of a bank, Hal’s anticipation of a cool drink was dashed as he looked down on the gurgling rush of a dirty brown stream. It cut deep into the earth with high banks on either side until it reached the moat, where it was carried from the fortress by an aqueduct. There was no cover at all across the aqueduct’s length. Any eyes that were watching could not fail to see them if they tried to cross now.

  “We’ll wait until dark,” said Hal. “We should rest while we can.”

  Hiding in the tree line, all thoughts of Zara left Hal’s mind as he looked at the fortress and thought on the dragon lord within. At last, he was going to earn his name.