The Dark Lord's Handbook (42 page)

It was another thirty minutes before Penbury was able to stand.

Then he wrote his last instructions as Chancellor should things not go well. He had a will that Chidwick would execute, but that was personal. Every Chancellor was responsible for handing on the office and that was normally done at a gracious retirement dinner. On odd occasions through history the current Chancellor’s end had come more suddenly, and after one unfortunate incident there resulted a nasty bout of economic warfare that had seen thousands of companies go to the wall before a new Chancellor had established himself. To avert such a happenstance again, all Chancellors now made succession clear.

Penbury sealed the letter, made his mark on it and handed it to Chidwick. “Just in case,” he said.

“I’m sure everything will be fine, sir,” said Chidwick, pocketing the letter. “Will you be dressing for dinner?”

“I think so, Chidwick. I think so.”

Chapter 46 To the Rescue

Might makes Right, and often Wrong as well.

The Dark Lord’s Handbook

Edwin had to fight every instinct he had not to draw his sword and plunge it into the chest of the black dragon before him. The sword was screaming in his mind. It burned in his heart. He wanted to bellow with rage and indignation at the bargain he had entered into with this creature. It was an affront to everything he held to be good and true; that he should sully himself thus was only made bearable by the knowledge that some good would come of it when he saved his love, Griselda, from the clutches of an even greater evil.

“Are you ready?” asked Lord Deathwing.

Edwin nodded.

The dragon unfurled and beat his wings. Impossibly, the beast rose and hovered over Edwin. A wave of primal terror assaulted him and he had to stand strong against the urge to cower. The talon that reached out and grasped him could have opened him up like a butcher would a pig carcass, but it merely pinned his arms so that he was held helpless.

“Right then,” said the dragon. “We’d better get going. I don’t think we have long.”

A few strong beats later and they were soaring high above the ground. Everything below rapidly shrank in size, not that there was much to see in this wilderness. They approached low cloud and Edwin assumed they would stop climbing but they kept going. For a minute they were lost in a fog before breaking out into brilliant sunshine. A white folded carpet lay beneath them. Edwin noticed it was getting colder. And still they climbed. The wind rushed around him in a gale. Edwin could feel the first pangs of panic.

“What are you doing?” he shouted.

The dragon stooped his head to look at him, “Going as fast as I can without killing you, if that’s all right? Now stop wriggling. I wouldn’t want to drop you. It’s a long way down.”

The implication was clear, and Edwin decided that he was at the dragon’s mercy. If the dragon was going to kill him, he was going about it in a convoluted manner. Edwin was better off saving his energy and concentrating on the one thing that mattered, and that was the rescue of Griselda.

Though it made no sense, Edwin had imagined that they would not be flying for that long, but the hours passed. Through gaps in the cloud he could see land and sea pass beneath. He had no idea how far they had come or had to go. Tiredness won against the cold and he drifted into an uneasy sleep that was troubled by the familiar dream of the Dark Lord on the stair with Edwin’s love at his side.

He woke shouting her name.

“You’d better keep quiet,” suggested his dragon transport. “We’re nearly there.”

It was night now but the moon was full. It reflected off the ocean far below. Ahead there was a dark line across the horizon that must be land. Growing rapidly bigger was what had to be a city. It was bright against the black of night. Curiously, though the night was clear, over the city itself there was a disc of cloud that twisted and roiled like angry smoke.

They began to drop and the air got warmer. Approaching the city, Edwin could see that it was on an island in the mouth of the widest river he had ever seen, which wasn’t hard given that until recently he hadn’t strayed more than a few miles from home. Nevertheless, it was on a scale that he struggled to fit into his mind. The city was a confusion of light, given order by towering buildings that rose jaggedly above the flat roofs. The light breeze brought the first strains of drums and a smell of orc. The smell made Edwin flare inside. A city of orcs ready to be purged.

“Damned moon,” said the dragon, dipping to within a few feet of the water. “I’ll land you on that spur and then you’re on your own.”

“So your courage fails you,” said Edwin as a matter of fact.

“If I drop you now, you’ll sink like a stone and drown, so less of the jibes and listen. You’ll need something to cover that armour and sword. Though there are humans in the city, you will stick out looking like you do. You’ll want to find out what you can from any humans you do meet; they will mostly be slaves or pirates. I’d suggest heading for the Temple of Zoon. That seems the most likely place you’ll find Morden.”

Edwin couldn’t find it in himself to thank the dragon so merely grunted his understanding. When all was done, it would be the dragon’s turn to feel his justice. He could not countenance the thought of something so evil free in the world. He would hunt it down and kill it. The world would be a better place.

“I would wish you luck,” said the dragon, as the island reared ahead. “But I suspect that won’t be necessary.”

The drop off was done at speed and high enough that it hurt when Edwin landed. He suspected it wasn’t entirely necessary. He came to rest up against a tree with a banded trunk. A second later, something hard hit him on the head. It was a huge hairy nut shaped thing. This was a strange land without doubt.

From the assortment of hung nets and jetties, the spur of land had to be used by fisherman. Where the spur widened to meet the main island there were crude huts. All was quiet. The drums and noise were coming from further in the city. Edwin crept as quietly as he could to the nearest huts. His luck was in and there was a line outside hung with what passed as clothing. It was threadbare and ill made but ideal for Edwin’s purpose. In short order he was wrapped in fishy smelling rags and hobbling down the street; the affected stagger would make him look more like a beggar.

He headed towards the part of the city that sounded still awake. The moon was bright enough to light his way. There were main streets that formed a large grid and were cobbled; alleys criss-crossed between them. This was as much order as he could make out in the dark. Whereas places like Bindelburg had obvious districts based on wealth or purpose, this city was a confusion of huts, hovels, stone buildings hung with vines, small shrines covered in offerings, tethered goats, and misshapen trees from whose branches hung parasitic plants and the odd man with a placard around its neck.

He neared a central square where avenues converged. The drumming got louder and the smell of orc even stronger. The road he was on emptied him into a wide area that was thronged with revelling orcs, with what looked like drunken pirates mixed in. Orcs danced around a pyre that lit up the night. Edwin didn’t think there was a sober orc (or man) present. He wondered what they were celebrating and then a dreadful thought occurred. What if he were too late?

“This is mad isn’t it?” said a voice to Edwin’s right. It was a man wearing a tricorn hat, a filthy ruffed shirt under a knee length frock coat, and sea boots. “I’ve seen a few things in my life but nothing like this,” continued the man.

“Garr,” replied Edwin, unsure what the correct response was. All he wanted to do was cut a swath of blood and destruction through the teeming crowd.

“Here,” said the man, thrusting a bottle at Edwin and fishing a replacement from a pocket. Edwin’s new friend then prized the cork out with his teeth, spat it to one side and took a swig, dribbling a dark liquid down his chin. He raised the bottle to Edwin, “To Morden!”

At the sound of Morden’s name it took all of Edwin’s will not to cut the man in half and spread his innards on the street. Instead he gritted his teeth, clinked bottles and made the toast, “Garrr!”

“Or should I say, to Zoon!” said the man, making a second toast. “Can’t keep up with these Dark Lords and their name changes.”

Confused, Edwin merely took another drink. Sweet fire ran down the back of his throat. He coughed and felt tears in his eyes.

“Good stuff, eh?” said his new friend.

“Garrr,” gasped Edwin.

The man slapped him on the shoulder. “I’ve got some dancin’ and collapsin’ to do, so you go ahead and enjoy yourself. Maybe I’ll see you after the wedding tomorrow night.” The man, true to his word, skipped a few paces in time with the drum beats and then fell flat on his face, shattering the bottle he was holding.

Wedding? thought Edwin. Then it all fell into place. His dreams became clear. The army arrayed beneath the stairs were orcs like these. On the far side of the square a huge ziggurat rose, and at the top was a massive statue that could only be a Dark Lord. He wasn’t late at all. That must be the Temple of Zoon that the dragon had mentioned. Tomorrow there would be a wedding, but when it came to the bit about anyone objecting, he would be doing so, with steel.

Edwin tossed his own evil brew aside and staggered on down the side of the square. He would find a spot where he could wait and when the time came, strike and rescue Griselda. In the confusion that followed, the Dark Lord cut down, they could make their escape.

Chapter 47 Reluctant Bride

For forms of government let fools contest,

for without doubt, the Dark Lord is best.

The Dark Lord’s Handbook (A. Pope edition)

“Our only chance is to play along and grab an opportunity to escape when it appears,” insisted Morden for the thousandth time.

“And I’m telling you that I’m not wearing this dress or marrying a skeleton,” riposted Griselda.

“He’ll only drug you if you don’t,” said Morden. “Or bend you to his will. Dark Lords do that.”

“Let him try,” said Griselda. “It never worked for you.”

Stonearm and Kristoff had long given up trying to help Morden. They agreed with him and were wearing their sacrificial shifts, like Morden himself. The last thing he wanted was for them to be taken by force or be drugged. They needed their wits about them if they were going to make a break for it. It sounded a less than detailed plan, and one that didn’t seem to offer much, if any, chance of success, but it was the best they had. Morden knew that Zoon would not be able to resist making a spectacle of it. In the brief time observing Zoon and how he operated, it was obvious that although he may well own the Handbook, it was not at all clear he either understood or followed some of the basic and important lessons contained within it. No wonder he had screwed up all those centuries ago. It was this that made Morden certain the lich would cock it up again.

“Black is slimming,” suggested Morden.

“Is that why you wear it all the time, fat boy?”

This was going nowhere. They’d been at it for hours and time was running out. Any second Morden expected them to be dragged off for the evening wedding and sacrifice special that Zoon had planned for his army. It was not a bad plan. Everyone loved a wedding, and by assuming Morden’s persona, while throwing in adoption of a name that resonated back to the glory days of the orc nation, Zoon was showing he had a few moves politically. Eliminating loose ends in a crowd pleasing blood sacrifice was an evil touch that was bound to go down well.

“I give up,” said Morden sighing. “Have it your way.”

He turned his back on Griselda and stalked over to his fellow sacrifices-to-be.

“She’s impossible,” he proclaimed.

“There’s a good heart in there,” said Kristoff. “She takes after her mother. Very stubborn.”

It was the first mention that Morden had heard Kristoff make of Griselda’s past, or his for that matter.

“She’s naked,” said Stonearm, looking past Morden.

As a matter of reflex, Morden spun round. Griselda was pulling up the black dress over her shoulders.

“Bit skinny,” said the orc.

“Hey!” said Griselda, noticing the attention she was getting, at least from Morden and Stonearm. Kristoff had averted his eyes. “Stare at something else, will you?”

She did look fantastic in the dress. It was full length but tight fitting. Stonearm’s observation was true, she had lost even more weight and was slim in the dress. Morden reluctantly averted his eyes. He had to slap Stonearm to do the same:

“Didn’t think humans were your type?”

“True, but when there’s nothing else, you make do with what there is,” said the orc.

Morden glowered. If anyone had staring rights around here it was him.

“You’re right,” said Stonearm. “She’s not my type.”

“You knew her mother?” Morden asked Kristoff. The ageing poet seemed to have descended into one of his bouts of melancholy. “Kristoff? Her mother?”

“What? Oh, yes. I used to go out Wellow way. Beautiful lake there. Good for inspiration. Poems and all that. You know. Met her one day when she was swimming in the lake. A summer’s day that made you glad you were young,” Kristoff sighed. “Griselda has her mother’s looks as well as her temper.”