The Dark Lord's Handbook (39 page)

“Zoon, you lich bastard. Let me out now!” railed Griselda.

“Griselda, language,” said Kristoff.

Stonearm had Morden in a tight bear hug.

“You’re breaking my ribs,” gasped Morden. Stonearm let him go. “Good to see you too, Stonearm.” His ribs were thankfully intact but it was clear that whatever had happened, Stonearm had lost none of his strength.

“I’m going to rip your lungs out, you corpse fucker!” screamed Griselda through the small grill in the door.

“Morden?” Kristoff had given up on Griselda as she smashed the door with her tiny fists.

“Lord Morden,” Stonearm reminded Kristoff.

“It’s all right, Stonearm,” said Morden. “Morden is fine. Yes, Kristoff, it’s me. Good to see you old friend. Please, come and sit.”

In his time in the cell, Morden had scraped away a section of the floor where slime didn’t drip and used it as the place he could sit and sleep. He ushered Kristoff and Stonearm over.

They settled themselves, leaving Griselda pounding on the door. She had a lot of energy but her efforts seemed to be weakening.

Stonearm was first to speak, bringing Morden up to date with the fleet and what had happened since he had flown off. No one had suspected anything was wrong until Griselda had got close to Zoon, as he was now calling himself.

“You thought Zoon was me?” asked Morden. “That’s a little surprising.”

Stonearm shrugged. “Tall, black robe. Was hard to tell.”

“What about the speech? The, you know, looks? The smell?”

Stonearm shrugged. “Who knows what Dark Lords get up to? Sure there were changes but you, I mean he, did explain it, sort of.”

“Oh, really?”

“He said that he had walked dark paths, faced death and overcome it, and with him at our head we would spread across the world, lay waste the living and bring ruin to all.”

“And you didn’t find that strange?”

“You’ll forgive me, Lord Morden, if I say it’s standard stuff for a Dark Lord. We orcs have listened to that talk for hundreds of years. Anyway, he said he wanted to be called Lord Zoon and that we should prepare ourselves for conquest.”

“But you didn’t believe him, did you?” said Morden. “And he couldn’t allow you to say anything so he threw you in here before you could gather the boys together and rescue me.” Morden placed his hand on Stonearm’s shoulder. “You are a faithful servant, Stonearm, and you shall be first among orcs when I rule.”

There was a loud snort from behind Morden.

“Bah. That dumb ox believed every word,” said Griselda, throwing herself down.

Stonearm coughed and had the decency to look embarrassed. “Sorry, boss.”

Feeling put out or angry was the last thing on Morden’s mind. Griselda was here and looking as amazing as ever, even in a ripped, slime covered shift. If anything, it gave her that rough look that he often fantasized about, with her wild hair and hot passion.

Morden became aware he was staring. So did Griselda.

“What you gawping at?”

Her breasts were what came to mind. “Nothing,” said Morden, averting his eyes. “So, Kristoff, tell me what happened.”

Kristoff’s mouth opened but it was Griselda who spoke.

“I was the one who spotted that Zoon wasn’t you.”

Morden was both surprised and happy. She had noticed?

“He didn’t behave like a puppy dog around me,” continued Griselda. “It was obvious.”

Puppy dog?
“Don’t flatter yourself,” said Morden.

“Woof,” said Griselda.

“I was merely being polite,” said Morden. “Out of deference to Kristoff.”

Morden looked at Kristoff for support but he merely raised his hands as though to say, leave me out of this.

“Woof. Woof,” said Griselda.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Morden. “I’m a Dark Lord. Don’t fool with me, woman.”

Griselda sighed. “Cut the crap and admit it.”

This was getting out of hand. Morden looked to Stonearm for help but the big orc was staring assiduously at the ceiling, whistling a silent tune.

“So it was obvious Zoon wasn’t you. Besides, he smelt better.” Griselda smiled and stuck her tongue out.

Then it struck him. And he was amazed. She was pleased to see him. More than pleased. It was true. She had known that Zoon wasn’t him but not for the reasons she gave. How stupid he had been.

“What are you grinning at?”

“You like me,” said Morden.

“Fuck off.”

Morden laughed.

“Griselda,” said Kristoff. “Stop tormenting him. She does this, you know.”

Griselda slapped Kristoff’s arm. “Shut it.”

“She never stops talking about you,” continued Kristoff, pulling his arm out of range of a barrage of slaps. “Morden this. Morden that.”

“Will you SHUT up!” screamed Griselda.

Morden didn’t know what to say. He was astonished, pleased, scared, happy and wanting to jump up and down and scream some more. But he was a Dark Lord. He’d make do with merely enjoying the truth of his feelings and the fact that Griselda, in her own slightly warped way, seemed to feel the same.

“It’s true,” said Stonearm, the ceiling apparently having lost his interest. “She said Zoon wasn’t you and insisted I confront him.”

Griselda folded her arms and hunched up, trying hard not to look at Morden, but he could see her glancing his way.

“How did you do that?” asked Morden, making a point of ignoring the fuming Griselda. “Did you ask him about something only you and I would know? Like when you rescued me and we jumped over that fence? Remember? That was funny. Well, at the time it wasn’t. But looking back.”

“I asked him if I could ravish Griselda,” said Stonearm.

“You what?” Morden was shocked.

“It was her idea,” said the orc. “She’s not my type at all. Look at her. She’s not even an orc. Anyway, Zoon said yes, so I knew she was right.”

Morden was stuck on the idea of Stonearm ravishing Griselda when the rest of what Stonearm had said sank in. “You did? How? I could have said yes as well.”

“If you say so, my Lord,” said the orc.

“I could. I’m a Dark Lord.”

“I wish you two would get over each other,” said Kristoff. “It would make it a whole lot easier for the rest of us.”

“It would that,” agreed Stonearm.

“There’s nothing to get over,” said Morden.

“Exactly,” agreed Griselda.

Stonearm and Kristoff exchanged glances and shrugged.

“Now, how are you going to get us out of here?” asked Griselda, rounding on Morden. “In fact, why
are
you stuck in here at all, Mr ‘I’m a dragon’ Dark Lord? You lost your puff?”

The three of them were looking at him expectantly. For all her taunts, Griselda was right. Would a Dark Lord really be stuck in a dungeon like this? Probably not. But there was no way he was going to give her the satisfaction.

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head,” said Morden. He gave them what he hoped was a deep, brooding, significant look, one from the depths of his Dark Lord soul. “I have everything under control.”

Chapter 42 A Pact

Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows, and often it’s a king size bed.

The Dark Lord’s Handbook

It was a dark and gusty night, with far off lightning promising to make it stormy. Edwin sat huddled over the meagre fire he had managed to make from what little wood was available. As he had headed east, the land had turned from wooded hills and lowlands to vast open steppes. He was burning the last of the wood he had gathered when he had noted the change. After this it would be cold at night, with little to no cover.

Somewhere nearby a bird called out. Further west he would have said it was a crow, but out here he imagined it was some other scavenger, perhaps waiting for him to die out in this wilderness.

Another gust brought the first licks of rain and Edwin gathered his cloak around him. If it rained he would have no fire. It was discomfort he could bear though. All he had to do was imagine the intolerable agonies that his love must be suffering and the trials he underwent seemed nothing in comparison.

A movement out in the flickering dark caught Edwin’s eye and he reached for a stone. There were dog-like beasts out here, not dissimilar to wolves, that had started to tag along behind him. But instead of a dog, a man stepped into the light. Edwin dropped the stone and reached for his sword that lay beside him.

“You’ll have no need for that,” said the man. “I merely wish to share your fire if I may.”

The man had stopped at the limit of the small camp. He was dressed in black leathers, but seemed unarmed. There may be a dirk hidden in his boot or belt, but that would not trouble Edwin. Under his cloak he still wore his armour.

“Of course,” said Edwin, indicating a spot next to the fire. “Never let it be said that Sir Edwin would refuse comfort on a night such as this.”

The man bowed slightly and sat opposite Edwin. “You are most gracious.”

Edwin could see his guest more clearly now. He had sharp features; a pointed nose, high cheeks, long straight dark hair, and the fire, such as it was, reflected off eyes that were as dark as the storm that hurried towards them.

Neither said a word and a sense of wrongness began to niggle in Edwin’s mind. The man made no chatter, but nor did he warm himself on the fire, or ask for food, or even move. He sat quite still, staring at Edwin, unblinking.

“You have me at an advantage, sir,” said Edwin. “You have not introduced yourself.”

The man’s lips twitched into a half smile. His answer was not immediate as he continued to study Edwin.

“You must excuse my manners, Sir Edwin. I am Lord Deathwing.”

Edwin’s hand that had been next to his sword stretched out to grasp the hilt. His foe was here! He had to fight to remain calm. No sudden moves. He was confident he could slay his enemy but he had to choose his moment to strike.

“Your fire is is ailing somewhat,” said Deathwing. He pursed his lips and a jet of liquid fire spat out, hitting the embers, and setting it roaring. “That could have been you, Edwin. So why don’t you let go of that sword and let us talk.”

Edwin leapt to his feet in a fluid movement and brought his sword up into guard. It sang in the shimmering air.

“You monster. Prepare to die,” spat Edwin.

Rather than transform into the dragon that Edwin now knew his guest to be, Deathwing instead laughed.

“I do like your style, Edwin. Really, I do. Now calm down. I came here to help you get Griselda back. Harm me, and you’ll never see her again.”

“Griselda!”

“Yes, Griselda. Now drop the sword.”

“I could kill you here and still rescue her,” insisted Edwin. The sword was starting to whisper to him. It wanted blood, and so did he.

“I doubt that,” said Deathwing. “If you wish to be reunited with your true love, you will drop the sword and listen to what I have to say.”

“Why don’t you tell me something that convinces me that I shouldn’t kill you instead?” countered Edwin.

“Touché,” said Deathwing. “How about, I want Morden dead as much as you do?”

Of all the things the demon dragon in front of him could have said, this was not on the list of things Edwin thought he would say. It didn’t make sense. It had to be a trick. He raised the tip of his sword. “Explain yourself, and it had better be good, dragon.”

Deathwing looked nonplussed by the threat. “Very well. Morden is an unfortunate accident that has grown to embarrass me and he needs to be dealt with. For centuries we have lived unnoticed and unmolested; he has come along with his Dark Lord pretensions and ruined it all. He has Griselda. I want him dead. They are both a long way away and I can take you to where he is before he gets too powerful even for you and your sword. So I suggest you let me take you there and then you can do the rest. Morden will be dead. You will have Griselda back and the Deathwings will once more recede into legend.”

“An unfortunate accident?” asked Edwin. “I’m sure Mrs Deathwing may not agree.”

“
Lady
Deathwing is not pleased he is my bastard by a serving wench and that is part of the reason I want him dead. It would smooth over things at home.”

“Ah, so he is a bastard. Even so, you would have your own son dead?”

“Is that a problem?”

Edwin was horrified by the idea. What kind of person would kill their own offspring? And talk about it so coldly? A black hearted dragon is who would do exactly that. Not so much a person as a thing. The foulest, most evil spawn from the darkest reaches of the world. He knew he could never trust such a person. There must be more to what was being offered. He would likely try and kill Edwin once the deed was done.

“Why don’t you kill him yourself?”

Deathwing sighed. “If only I could. But it would be no sure thing. He is young and I am older than I look. Already he has grown powerful and it may be me that ends up dead if we fought. Whereas you, with that sword in particular, will have no problem. You will be Griselda’s hero and rescue her. What can stand in the way of love?”