The Dark Lord's Handbook (25 page)

She paused and Edwin let her words sink in. His dreams made sense now. Morden had his Griselda and meant to make her his Dark Queen. But that wasn’t going to happen. He wouldn’t let it happen. Every Dark Lord had a nemesis and Edwin knew his love for Griselda and his sword were Morden’s.

“The Count here,” said Black Orchid, indicating the grizzled veteran, “is raising and training an army that will oppose Morden and his host. It will be a small army, hopelessly outnumbered, but well trained.”

“And well fed,” said the Count brightly. “We have the best chefs.”

Black Orchid gave him a withering stare. “And well fed.”

“I will lead your army,” said Edwin. It was as he had dreamt. He would ride into battle, a glorious host of knights in his train and they would break the Dark Host.

Black Orchid coughed. “Yes, well. In a figurative sense that will be excellent, but perhaps you ought to let the Count do the tactical thinking, yes? We were hoping you would handle the inspirational side of things.”

Edwin barely heard her. He was not concerned with the details. He was running over the things he’d need to rescue his Griselda. “Give me a horse, armour and my sword. That’s all I want. And a regiment of the bravest knights. Yes, that should do it. Now where can I find this Dark Lord?”

Chapter 29 Machinations

With great power comes the greater responsibility to wield it.

The Dark Lord’s Handbook

The Handbook was pleased. The vessel for its plans, that is to say, Morden, was following the advice he was reading from the book as though it were Canon Law. The sacking of Bostokov had been the first big test of Morden’s will to bring destruction to the world and he had passed; though if he was to be marked down it would have to be for the astonishingly low body count. The streets had not run red from the blood of Bostokov’s residents but from the broken casks of red wine in the warehouses. (Apparently it had not been to the taste of Morden’s orcs.)

But no matter. Morden had a fledgling army, a fleet, and was ready to set sail eastward where he could make his way to his spiritual home of the Great Fortress, gathering his army as he went. Once there, he could raise the fortress back to its formidable former glory and soon after that issue forth with his black army and lay waste the world.

Yes. All seemed well enough. Although there were a few strange things happening that the Handbook had not seen happen before, at least not to a Dark Lord. The sudden appearance of Morden’s father was one. It was well known that paternal issues were in the demesne of the opposition, and often a device used by a Dark Lord to inflict crippling psychological scars. In Morden’s case, however, there was little of great concern. In fact, Morden’s father had quite conveniently educated Morden in several key areas, not least of which was this whole thing about him being a dragon and having unimagined magical powers. Being able to transform into a huge black dragon, breathe fire hot enough to vaporize stone, and fly, would almost certainly prove useful. It also impressed the minions.

What was more, Morden’s father showed no interest at all in crashing his son’s party, or become any kind of paternal burden by hanging around. On the contrary, after a few days bringing Morden up to speed on his heritage and abilities (and he did bang on a lot about how persuasive he could be when it came to humans, especially women), he was off. Had to be somewhere else rather urgently, which suited the Handbook just fine.

The other oddity that the Handbook had not seen before was Morden’s apparent infatuation with the Griselda woman. While Dark Lords often had involvements with women they tended to be non-consensual, or twisted and kinky, or both. Any emotions were always primal, mainly lust driven, and easily understood. Dark Lords had needs much like the next man, except Zoon, who being More Dead didn’t have a single lustful bone in his otherwise complete skeletal frame, and necrophilia had surprisingly not been his thing.

But Morden was behaving oddly. Instead of taking what he wanted and then discarding it once used, as any Dark Lord should, he was being charming. What was even more astonishing was that when Morden was rebuffed with scorn and foul language, the like of which Bostokov’s orcish sailors would have been proud, instead of dominating her with his iron will, or rendering her helpless with desire using his dragon powers, he instead sulked and moped around. Morden’s father had been equally disgusted with his son’s behaviour, saying a Deathwing never had to ask for anything, least of all the attentions of a woman.

But Morden was adamant. He would not take her against her will and violate her. It was a serious character flaw that the Handbook would have to keep a close eye on.

Fortunately there were many other concerns that Morden had to keep him busy, and he consulted the book frequently to ensure he was getting them right. He’d plundered Bostokov, gathering an ample supply of hard currency and supplies for his modest orcish army. He’d established ranks, officers and the discipline that was necessary to manage such an army. The orcs had taken to it extremely well, especially when Morden had unveiled his Social Partnership. The Handbook was not completely clear what it meant but it had something to do with Morden being in charge and the orcs doing what he said, and in return he guaranteed them freedom from crappy jobs, decent living conditions, the right to sharp teeth, conquest and plundering. As far as the Handbook was concerned, Morden could dress up dictatorship anyway he liked as long as he was the absolute ruler and everyone did exactly as they were told.

Though there was still a long way to go, both figuratively and literally (the Great Fortress was a long way away), the Handbook was happy enough that Morden the Dark Lord was rising and that, given time, he would indeed be the one that would finally realise the Handbook’s vision of a world that had been laid waste by war and had every drop of hope wrung from it. Morden would sit on his Dark Throne in kingship over it all, and the Handbook would be in his hand.

Chapter 30 A New Order

Be wary love’s guile for it is merely lust in romantic guise.

The Dark Lord’s Handbook

The preparations were complete and Morden’s fleet was ready to sail. All that remained was to make a dramatic exit. Morden gave Kurgen, the orc Captain he was leaving in charge of Mordengrad (as Bostokov had been renamed), his final instructions and then proceeded to the docks where his fleet was waiting for the tide. He rode through the streets on a black stallion and exuded The Fear as his father had taught him. Mordengrad’s population had been
encouraged
to line the streets to see him off but any exuberance they managed was dampened as they were gripped with terror as he passed. Morden hoped that when he was gone they would remember the feeling and pray that it never returned. It would do so only if he had cause to come back, and he made it clear that he would return if they did not embrace the New Order of things that Kurgen would be enacting.

The New Order was in fact not particularly odious. The major change was that orcs would be running things and that a tithe would be paid to Morden. The rich had been reclassified as well-off middle class and their wealth had been redistributed, principally into Morden’s coffers. Morden had dismissed suggestions of creating a genuine proletariat state as he was a firm believer in ambition and the use of incentives. In his case, he wanted everyone’s ambition to be to stay alive and the incentive was that they do what he told them or suffer the consequences.

To reinforce this he had employed the orcs, and Stonearm in particular, in much the way he had used Billard in Bindelburg; he instituted a violent but brief reign of terror that left a battered and bruised populace in no doubt who was in charge but at the same time left them alive. Dead people didn’t make money and Morden would be needing lots of money. And food. And weapons.

The logistics of being a Dark Lord were becoming clear. Even with the modest army of orcs that he had it was a nightmare to feed them, keep them in beer, and pay them a token that suggested that one day they may afford a few luxuries in life.

Down at the dock a crowd had been gathered to witness his leaving and to give him the opportunity for a few last words. A single skiff was tied up to take Morden and his newly commissioned Dark Guard out to the Black Ship – the fleet’s flagship (a merchantman that had been painted black; a touch obvious but it seemed to work).

As he strode up onto the platform, a row of trumpeters silenced the crowd with a harsh clarion call that made Morden wince. Still, it was all part of the show and therefore necessary.

Stonearm was standing at the back of the platform, resplendent in a newly crafted set of armour that must have weighed as much as the mammoth orc himself. Stonearm had continued to warrant Morden’s every confidence and he was standing proudly, casting what Morden knew to be a totally fake menacing glare over the assembled people.

Next to him was Kristoff who, while looking a lot healthier, still had a despondent air about him. Beside Kristoff, and ignoring him, was Griselda. If Kristoff was in love with Griselda then Morden could fully understand his mood.

As for the look she gave Morden when she saw him approach, it could have withered fruit on the vine. Her beauty, while great, was tempered by an unforgiving temperament and a caustic tongue, but despite this Morden felt a knot in his stomach every time he saw her. It could not be love for surely love should not hurt like this?

Morden was looking forward to the voyage if for no other reason than to show Griselda that there was another side to him that was not a Dark Lord but a man. Part man at least. Part dragon admittedly but, from what his father had to say, the Deathwing males made great lovers, which was something he hoped Griselda would come to appreciate.

He had been so busy with the sacking of Mordengrad, organising the fleet and its departure, that he had had little time to spend with either of them. There were many unanswered questions; his father had been little help, merely saying he had saved them from a worse peril, and Morden was the one person in the world that could make sure that neither came to harm. Why Lord Deathwing should give half a thought for either was a mystery as he showed scant regard for anything other than his libido.

Perhaps that was harsh. In the few days Morden had spent with his father they had grown close. Much of the time had been spent learning the extent of his powers as a Deathwing. It seemed to come down to the ability to appear human at will and exercise considerable mind powers over others. As a dragon he was apparently not only able to fly and breathe fire, but was astonishingly tough. Being a hybrid it was not clear whether he possessed the full range of magical abilities, or even more, and only time would tell.

Morden was happy enough to have some answers, and more than pleased to find out that his natural powers of persuasion would only get stronger over the decades to come. That was one other fact he’d been left with: dragons lived a very, very long time. This put a whole new angle on the Dark Lord business. If he got it right then he could be ruler of the world for a long time to come. In some ways it made it even more important that he did not fail.

Not that he had any intention of doing so, but he did feel young as he mounted the podium, nodded at Stonearm, and turned to address the crowd. He’d been reading the Handbook all night and he judged now was the time to show them Morden Deathwing, the Dark Lord, in all his glory.

Morden exuded The Fear and the crowd was silenced and rooted in place.

Somewhere close by, a crow cawed.

“Citizens of Mordengrad.”

Morden released The Fear and a weak cheer went up.

“Today the world changes. How fortunate you are to be here to witness these momentous events. You are now free men, no longer slaves to the rich.”

With Stonearm leading, the thousand or so orcs present cheered. Morden was happy to see a few humans, mostly the poorer, joining in.

“No more will you be trodden underfoot and ignored, underpaid and uncared for. I have raised you up. Your destiny is now in your hands. All I ask is that you join me in this great liberation. Help me spread this revolution and set all people free from poverty.”

This time the crowd cheered his name. There was even a faint hint of enthusiasm. Morden could feel the Handbook under his robe. He didn’t know how, but he knew it was pleased. Which was a little strange. But no matter.

“Be clear though, that this is no small thing that we do. It will require hard work and sacrifice. There will be those who oppose us. They will seek to put us once more under their privileged boot and rub our faces in the dirt. But I won’t let them. I, Morden, will oppose all those that seek to oppress the poor and the weak. I will raise you up, make you strong, and together we shall claim what is rightly ours. Together we will fulfil our destiny!”

This time the crowd exploded with shouts and cheers. Morden had no doubt they would follow him now. It wasn’t so much what he’d said as how he had said it. Combining the power of Zoon’s robe with a few tricks his father had shown him had worked. A wave of compulsion gripped the mass.

Morden turned and nodded at Stonearm. The orc barked an order and the platform cleared, leaving Morden by himself.