The Dark Lord's Handbook (11 page)

“Ho there. Stand!”

The man on the cart dropped the reigns and put his hands up. “Don’t shoot!”

The wagon was quickly surrounded and two figures went to the awning at the back. From the body language they seemed relaxed, as though the job were done. Maybe if they had paid more attention they would have had a chance to dodge the sword thrusts that came from the awning and took each of them in the throat. There were shouts and the sound of hoof beats. From out of the back of the wagon came mail covered soldiers and riders thundered down the bridleway from either direction.

“We’ve been rumbled!” shouted one of the bandits from the side of the wagon.

Steel was drawn and a melee ensued.

Morden’s dragon necklace gained heat under his shirt. “We best be off,” said Morden. He was sure they were far enough away not to be heard above the sound of battle but he didn’t want to take any risks.

The two of them turned and walked straight onto the points of three swords.

“Going somewhere?” said one of the men.

Morden could see Stonearm tensing.

“Lin’chzk,” said Morden. He was fairly sure it meant, ‘Now is not the time,’ in orcish but as it had come unbidden to him he couldn’t be sure. He hoped it didn’t mean ‘Attack!’.

Stonearm remained tense for a second and then relaxed.

They let themselves be led up to the road. The fight had been brief and the blood on the rutted track was testimony to the cost to the would be bandits. Three lay dead, and one guard, and another eight were kneeling, heads bowed before a plated knight.

Now that they were closer, Morden was shocked to see the familiar features of orcs among the dead. Stonearm must have seen as well since Morden could see the orc’s muscles bunch once more. But there was little they could do. They were pushed to their knees next to the bandits and their heads forced to the floor.

“Found these skulking,” said the footman who had supervised their capture.

The heavy tread of sabatons passed along the line. Morden could feel steel at his neck keeping his head down. Polished metal and chain boots pass one way before returning along the line. The armoured toes stopped and spun in place to face Morden.

“What have we got here then?”

A gauntlet tucked under Morden’s chin raised his face. The man with the sword in his neck was not quick enough and Morden felt a stab of pain. His amulet burned as hot as it ever had and the itch in his shoulder blades became a searing pain.

He looked up into the face of a man who he guessed had seen more than a few skirmishes. He must have been about forty or so – old by any standards – and had a face that looked like it had been through a mangle with razorblades on it. Scars criss crossed his face like skate tracks on a pond in winter. Morden’s hand went instinctively to his chest.

The captain looked at him with evident curiosity. “A man with orc bandits? How odd. What’s your name, boy?”

Morden was stung by the question. He was a boy no longer, but a Dark Lord. Or so he thought. The entire notion seemed ludicrous now.

“Morden,” he answered as defiantly as he could manage.

“What’s that you’re grasping at?”

The man’s hand dropped from under Morden’s chin to the chain that was around his neck from which his dragon amulet hung. He tugged it but it held.

“I wouldn’t do that,” said Morden. He was as surprised with himself as the Captain appeared to be.

“Why you impudent cur,” said the Captain. His fist swung and Morden’s head snapped sideways with the force of it. The taste of blood filled his mouth. The Captain meantime had a firmer grip of the chain and pulled hard. The links gave and he held the pendant in front of him. The miniature gold dragon shone in the sunlight.

Off to Morden’s left a crow cawed.

Morden felt like he had lost a part of himself and then, slowly at first, but then like a burning torrent, pain spread from his chest and engulfed his body. His skin felt like it was tearing and swelling. There was enormous pressure and he fell forward. His clothes began to smoulder. He writhed in agony and screamed. The guards and Captain stepped away from him, and likewise the bandits; Stonearm tried to inch away from him.

Then something inside him let go and his body was no longer his own. His robe tore as his whole body grew, his limbs lengthened and his hands clenched as his fingers became talons. He looked in wonder as his skin turned black and scaled. From between his shoulders he felt something burst free and he felt like he had grown two extra arms.

Suddenly he exploded in size. His body popped into a new shape, one much bigger than his manly form. His senses filled his head. He could smell fear, hear a dozen terrified heartbeats, see the individual hairs rising on the necks of the men who cowered and then turned and fled. He drew in a breath and exhaled after them. A gush of fire rolled out and caught the fleeing men-at-arms, engulfing them in flame. They became burning screaming marionettes.

Morden was at once amazed and horrified and pleased.

He towered over those who had remained frozen in place. The Captain had his sword drawn and was taking slow steps backwards. The orc bandits grovelled in the dirt. Only Stonearm seemed unafraid. He had got to his feet and looked at Morden with a mixture of delight and pride.

Morden focussed his attention back on the Captain. “I did warn you,” he said.

“Take it. Here. Please,” said the Captain, throwing Morden’s pendant on the ground.

Morden’s talons were far too large to pick up the pendant. “Would you fetch that for me please, Stonearm,” said Morden, keeping his stare firmly on the Captain.

His inclination was to roast the man but it occurred to him that if he were to be taken seriously as a Dark Lord then some advertising would come in handy, and a man of standing such as the Captain would be better believed than the rank and file.

“I’m going to let you live, Captain, but for one reason only, and that is to spread the word. There is a Dark Lord rising.”

A mixture of relief, confusion and fear played across the man’s scarred face. “Let me live? Thank you. Thank you.” And then as the full impact of what Morden had said sunk in, “Dark Lord? Rising? But you’re a dragon.”

Morden sighed inwardly and shifted and became a man. He wasn’t sure quite how, it was instinctive, like breathing. Though man shaped he kept his skin black and armoured. He didn’t want to tempt fate if there was a man with a bow hidden somewhere. It also served to disguise his complete state of undress.

“Better?”

The Captain could only grunt a reply.

“Shoo, now,” said Morden, and he gave the man an encouraging glare.

Clearly astonished that he wasn’t being turned into a pot roast, the Captain gave a weak smile and fled. Those of his men that remained ran after him. As Morden watched them go he was dimly aware of his giant orc companion coming to his side.

“This is yours, my Lord,” said Stonearm, holding out the pendant.

Morden turned to look at his friend. His first thought was to tell the big lump that there was no need to address him as Lord, and was about to do so, when he understood something for the first time. He was going to be a Dark Lord and, no matter what, things would never be the same again.

He took the chain and passed it round his neck. With the strength he now realised he had, he squeezed the broken link closed and let the pendant hang.

Stonearm coughed and his eyes turned to the sky. The surviving orc bandits who had been sneaking a peek at him from their prostrate positions buried their faces back in the dirt.

“What?” said Morden. There was a gust of wind and Morden realised he was stark naked and pinky white once more. He snatched up one of the bigger pieces of the robe that he had torn and wrapped it around his midriff. Grabbing the Handbook from where it had fallen, he scurried to the back of the wagon.

“Sort these men…orcs…out, Stonearm. I’ll be in the wagon.”

As he scrambled into the back of the wagon, Morden could hear Stonearm bark out orders and organise the surviving orc bandits. It took a second for his eyes to adjust to the dimness of the wagon. There were no trade goods, just bows, arrows, cooking gear, hard tack and cold meats, a barrel of beer – that by the smell was not up to the Brothers’ standards – and not much else.

A huge fist thrust in through the back flap. It held an assortment of clothes, mostly clean but with the odd splash of blood.

“I thought these might be useful,” said Stonearm from outside.

The fist released the clothes and the barking commands resumed. Morden got dressed as fast as he could and sat to gather his thoughts. What to do now? So far he’d lost everything, been kidnapped, escaped, been captured, turned into a dragon, escaped. It was hardly what he’d been expecting. Where was the vast army and towering obsidian spires of his mountain fortress? He felt at a complete loss.

His eyes drifted to where he had put down the Handbook.

Well, it couldn’t hurt
, he thought, picking the Handbook up and flicking open the cover.

Chapter 14 Third Lesson – Hard Work

On Being a Dark Lord

Being a Dark Lord is no easy thing, Morden. Often people get in to the Dark Lord business because they think it an easy ride with nothing but conquests (of every type), loot, snappy clothes and fortresses. Well, if that’s what you think it’s all about then do yourself a favour and go do something else, like mugging.

Being a Dark Lord is a hard road to travel down. It’s one where you are constantly swimming upstream. There’s always another mountain to climb. You’ll feel like you’re pissing in the wind; struggling to keep your head above water.

No tired metaphor quite manages to convey just how hard it is being a Dark Lord.

You’re not appreciated at all. People raise armies against you. They go out of their way to slander you and tell lies about your personal life that involve farmyard animals. They’ll try to destroy your armies and bring your fortress crashing down. After all the hard work, it’s so inconsiderate.

Even those who work for you are never happy. They always want more. There’s not enough blood in the world for some.

So why bother you may ask?

Indeed, thought Morden. If the book was trying to put him off the idea of being a Dark Lord, it was doing a good job.

Enough of that thinking, Morden. The fact is you don’t have a choice. It’s like asking a bird why it flies. You are a Dark Lord. It’s what you do. Period. There are times when it will seem like a poor career choice but then you’ll realise it wasn’t a choice in the first place. You were born to rule; born to conquer; born to wear black clothing and terrify all those around you.

So you are a Dark Lord. Get used to it. The only real questions to ask yourself are: How do I be the best Dark Lord this miserable world has ever seen? How can I forge a legacy that will last forever? Shall I go down in history as a death bringer or a privy cleaner?

And once your resolve is set, don’t doubt. Don’t stop believing. Pull on that black robe and show the world who is The Boss. It’s there for the taking.

Have faith, young Morden.

Chapter 15 Bad News

Everything comes from Power.

The Dark Lord’s Handbook

One of the distinct advantages of being the wealthiest man alive, or for that matter who had ever lived, was that Chancellor Penbury could live where he pleased, and in choosing Firena he was able to indulge his two greatest loves: food and gardening. Firena was placed on the busiest land and sea route in the known world, and accordingly everything that was of any value eventually passed through. It meant that nothing of gastronomic or floral interest escaped him.

Additionally, the weather was good all year round – a fact attested to by the pleasant sunshine that warmed the flowerbeds he was currently weeding. It was an activity he enjoyed for a number of reasons. Foremost, it wasn’t often he got his hands dirty in a literal sense and the feel of earth on his fingers was a pleasure he found hard to explain. There was also a certain meditative quality to weeding. It was not as though it required his gargantuan intellect to perform, yet it did require attention to the finest detail. A weed could not just be plucked but had to be dug out, its deepest root removed to prevent its return. The Chancellor was more than pleased when on leading guests through his garden they would remark on how his flower beds were perfectly clear of any weed or blemish. This was compounded when they were genuinely surprised that he attended to the weeding himself.

This attention to detail extended to all areas and so when Chidwick slid into the garden the Chancellor knew what he was going to be told before the unfortunate man had said a word. The dirt on Chidwick’s boots told him he had not changed but come straight to him. It meant he had important news. The grosser elements of body language were well hidden – Chidwick was a master of many arts – but Penbury was also a master and he noticed the slightest departure from normal behaviour. In this case, Chidwick blinked as the Chancellor caught his eye, and Chidwick never blinked.