The Dark Lord's Handbook (30 page)

Ahead of him was the Count. Edwin drew up his horse as the other knights arranged themselves around him.

“Sir Edwin!” bellowed the Count. “What in all the hells do you think you are doing?”

“Killing the enemy,” said Edwin. “We were betrayed.” The lie came easily. Let the Count rant at him. He would butcher these orcs, take the head of their leader, Kurgen, and be proclaimed a hero. There was nothing the Count could do.

The Count’s face was a picture of rage. He seemed to be trying to raise a retort but was left speechless. “Do your worst,” he managed at last. “But I’ll have no part of it.” The Count kicked his spurs and disappeared into the mist.

Edwin was pleased to see him go. He turned his attention back to the matter on hand. The knights had reformed their wedge. A hundred yards away, barely visible, Edwin could see the orcs in a tight knot. A few of the wounded had been pulled to their knees and thickened the clump. Kurgen sat impassively on his horse.

It was strange that they were not retreating. He had expected them to break and run as he rallied his men. He had hoped his short withdrawal might tempt them into fleeing so they could give pursuit and cut them down with ease. But there they were, unmoved. They must be resigned to their fate.

Edwin was about to order his men forward in a gallop that would annihilate the remaining orcs when to Edwin’s left a horse spooked. Then another. Then there was a dampened sound from the surrounding mist, but growing quickly louder.

It was the sound of feet and armour. Lots of feet.

“Hold!” ordered Edwin. Though the sword in his hand was hungry for more blood, something whispered caution.

Out of the mist to either side of Kurgen emerged ranks of mailed orcs. The front ranks held spear, and behind Edwin could see bowmen. They came to a halt but the sound of feet did not stop. With a dreadful realization, Edwin looked left and right. The mist had played tricks with sound and ranks of orc appeared to either side. Edwin’s knights were having difficulties controlling their horses as though they could sense the growing panic that even Edwin could feel rising among the men. Edwin twisted in his saddle to confirm what he already knew. They were surrounded.

“I would ask you to surrender,” bellowed Kurgen from his position, surprisingly clear given the distance. “But you’re not going to so why bother?”

He raised an arm and the rear ranks raised their bows.

A sick feeling grabbed Edwin’s stomach. They had been undone. They only had one chance.

“Charge!” ordered Edwin, and he spurred his horse forward and veered it to the left. There was no way out ahead but maybe they could burst through to the side. Edwin had drilled his men well, and as one they sprang forward with him, immediately understanding the plan.

There was a sudden hiss from all around as bows were released. Edwin didn’t have to look to know a cloud of death was about to rain upon them. He hunched forward and kicked his horse again.

Around him, arrows thudded into horse flesh and pierced armour. Man and beast fell screaming but miraculously Edwin and his mount remained unscathed.

Their number had been halved in that volley and many who remained mounted were wounded. They had no choice though. They had to keep riding. They were close to the orcs now, who were bracing themselves for impact. A wall of spears was ahead of them and Edwin felt his anger rise. He could not die like this. Not today. Griselda needed him. He had to rescue her from foul clutches. Such an ignominious death could not be his. He raised his sword, kicked once more and pulled on the reins to send his mount into a leap.

“Val elohinir!” he cried as he sailed into the wall of spears. They were words that came unbidden but they had power. Edwin could feel the energy flow in him.

The orcs also felt it. Where a mere second before they had been resolute, they suddenly collapsed. Spears dropped and orcs cowered. While to either side the remaining knights were caught on a wall of steel, Edwin crashed through. He swung his sword. It sang in the air as it separated an orc head from its shoulders. Another leap and he was beyond the back rank and clear. Arrows flew past as he fled into the mist and was lost to the archers’ sight.

As Edwin rode back to the army, he went over the events that had just occurred. His plan had been faultless. As he thought more, he came to the only conclusion he could that made sense. There was a traitor in their ranks. The grim truth made him grind his teeth in anger. Betrayed. Good men lay dead because of this betrayal. Men loyal to him and his cause. He hoped they found peace in death because he would find none until he had found whoever it was who had done this. He would find them and they would know his righteous wrath. He would grind their bones to dust and scatter it to the wind. He would have vengeance.

Chapter 33 Temptation

Keep your friends close and your enemies dead.

The Dark Lord’s Handbook

Nighttime was an opportunity for Morden to be alone. If he had been in a dark fortress with private quarters he could have found more time for solitary brooding but on a ship, even with his own cabin, there was little respite. Being a Dark Lord was hard work. Having everyone bound to your Will was exactly what the Handbook said you wanted but it also meant that you ended up having to make all the decisions.

He was going to have to delegate more effectively. So far, when he had tried there were precious few willing to step forward and risk the penalty of failure. On consulting the Handbook he had discovered that asking for volunteers was not the Dark Lord’s way. He had to thrust responsibility on minions and let them be forged by experience. If they failed then they were retired.

It was a warm night as spring gave way to summer; a little too warm for Morden’s taste. The black robe was light, and let in some air, but it still covered him from head to foot. He wished sometimes he could wear more suitable clothes but that was out of the question. Even though there was only the night watch on deck he had to be the Dark Lord. It was a full time job. He couldn’t just set his robe and the role aside each night if he was tired or didn’t feel like it. Back in Bindelburg it had been a game. Now, with a series of port cities sacked and burned in the fleet’s wake, it was as serious as it got. But that was all right. He was going to rule the world and if that meant discomfort then that was a small price to pay.

One good thing about being so busy was that he had little time to concern himself with Griselda. If he didn’t see her he was fine. She made it easier for him by staying in her cabin where, by all accounts, she spent most of the time writing or talking to Kristoff. Morden couldn’t work out their relationship. He had been initially jealous but that had been allayed when it was apparent that the only thing that Kristoff was dipping his quill into was an ink well. It seemed that their closeness was based on a common love of the written word, and in particular poetry.

Morden reached into his robe and pulled out a cinnabar cigar. He had never been a smoker until he had tried these cigars. They had a relaxing effect without loss of faculties. After a stressful day sacking a city they had proven a good way to unwind.

He held the cigar by one end and lit it with a controlled breath of fire. He’d been discovering many things about what he was and what he could do, and it turned out that although he might look like a man, he was a dragon inside and that included a set of fire glands.

It was a tricky skill. Dragon breath tended to be an all or nothing thing used to incinerate large areas. Breathing a reed of fire that danced over the end of a cigar long enough for it to catch required a good deal of concentration. It was one example of the many things that Morden had learnt about himself. The landing on a ship when he was a big dragon had been solved rather elegantly; he became a small dragon. In fact, he seemed to be able to control his relative size while a dragon by quite a bit. He could also alter his appearance in human form – skin, teeth, eyes and so on – while his general features remained the same. He was stuck at being a little over six feet tall and skinny but he could have black skin that no blade could pierce, eyes that could devour a man’s soul, and two rows of razor sharp white teeth capable of dealing with the toughest cut of meat the ship’s cook could put before him. He could breathe fire while in either form, bend most men and orcs to his will with a glance, and make suggestions so powerful that few could resist.

He smoked the last of the cigar and thought about sleep but he was still not tired. Not the gentle roll of the ship nor the lap of waves on the hull could lull him. Looking out over the ocean his fleet spread in every direction. From its humble beginnings it had assumed armada sized proportions. While crewed mostly by orcs, he had been joined by men as well, and even a giant (who sailed his own dinghy which was the size of most ships). They also had pirates, which was useful when it came to knowing where they could stop for fresh water or to sack a city for provisions.

They were still heading east but not for much longer. Soon they would make landfall on the Great Land. They had left the civilised western nations behind a week ago and would soon be on the shores of a land where everything was Great, the people were strange and few had ever travelled. From the Great Shore they would make their way across the Great Jungle and the Great Desert to the Great Mountains where Zoon had built his legendary Great Fortress.

He would raise up that fortress and gather his forces. When the time was right he would then come forth and finish what he had begun and set the orc nation free in a river of fire that would burn across the known world.

That was what was to come, but for now he was at a loss. He was not at all tired. Perhaps a flight would tire him. He could scout ahead and be the first to look upon the Great Land.

From behind him Morden heard the slightest of sounds. Someone was coming up the ladder to the deck he was on. He thought it might be a patrolling deck hand and so was surprised to see it was Griselda. She was wearing a dark night shift and had her blonde hair tied back exposing her long pale neck. When she saw him he expected her to immediately go back the way she had come but she did not. She walked confidently across the deck bare footed to stand next to him. Of all the men and orcs that Morden knew, she was one of the few that was not afraid of him. Stonearm wasn’t either, but then he was as hard as nails. Griselda was as well, but not physically. She came to stand next to him and looked out over the sea as though he were not there at all.

As ever, Morden was at a loss for words. All manner of observations, greetings, quips, jokes, compliments, rhetorical questions (a beautiful night, isn’t it?), rebuffs, threats, pleas and animal grunts presented themselves as means of acknowledging her but none were forthcoming.

He was about to stalk off in a Dark Lord kind of way when she spoke:

“Why haven’t you tried to sleep with me?”

If he had been confused before, now he was in total disarray. What kind of question was that? Presumptuous? Not really. Every man and most of the orcs had tried one way or the other to share her bed. Haughty stares, vitriolic put downs and a few black eyes had seen off all comers; when she was walking the decks she was given a wide berth.

Rather than answer directly he saw an opportunity to clarify what he suspected.

“I respect Kristoff. He is an old friend and, although I am in a position to have anything I desire, I would not see him hurt.” Even as he spoke he groaned inside at the blunder.

“So you do desire me?” There was a note of triumph in her voice. “I thought as much. You men are all the same. All you see is this body and you’re not interested in anything else.” Her hands went to her breasts and she hoisted them up. “Never mind that underneath these beats a heart with feelings.”

Mesmerised as he was with her demonstration of how ample her breasts were, Morden’s pedantic nature came to the fore. “Dark Lord. I’m not a man, I’m a Dark Lord.”

“Don’t be stupid,” said Griselda. “Unless you’re telling me you not a man under that robe?”

Morden almost choked. The implication was clear. “That’s not what I meant,” he said. “Physically I am every inch a man.”

“And dragon, if we’re being pedantic, and I know you are.”

“Half dragon, yes. But what I am physically and what I am to you and everyone else is entirely different, and you’d best remember that. I am a Dark Lord and not to be trifled with.”

“Or what?” She had turned to face him square on and she stuck her chin out. Her hands rested on her hips. “You’re a boy in a black robe from where I’m standing.”

He knew she was goading him and she was succeeding. He could feel anger rising to replace the embarrassment. “I am a Dark Lord.”

A smile was playing across her lips. “If you were a Dark Lord you’d take whatever you desired. You said it yourself. You wouldn’t care for what anyone thought. But you’re not are you? You’re a scared little boy playing games in a black robe.”

“You don’t know what I’m capable of,” he said, trying hard not to rise to her goads.

“Maybe. But from a woman’s view I’m pretty clear what you’re incapable of being.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“And what’s that?”

“Being a man.”

Every part of him was on fire. His desire for her was barely in check. He could hear his father’s voice urging him to take her and be done with it. And why shouldn’t he? She was right wasn’t she? Was he a Dark Lord or was he a boy playing games? If he were to rule the world and be feared across continents, how could he let this woman talk to him like this?