The Dark Lord's Handbook (12 page)

It gave the Chancellor the head start he needed, so that while Chidwick gave his news and filled out the details, he was racing ahead. It had been pure chance that Chidwick had gone to pick up this lad, Morden, to squash his beer enterprise, only to find something potentially more serious. Chidwick was well versed in the danger signs: black robes, skulls, thrones, brooding stares, minions and so on.

Much like messiahs, pyramid schemes and eat anything diet plans, in the Chancellor’s experience, a Dark Lord rising was not something to be too concerned about but deserved attention nevertheless. There hadn’t been one for five hundred years, and for good reason. At the merest mention of one making an appearance they had been snuffed out by the Chancellor and his predecessors. Amusingly, without fail, the so-called Dark Lords met their fate protesting that it wasn’t fair. ‘Whatever happened to following the rules?’ they asked as they were dragged off. In the archives there was even mention of a school for Dark Lords, where promising defilers and bringers of death had been nurtured. Burningham, the Chancellor of the time, had shut them down with a health inspection and locked up the leaders for failure to register an educational establishment. It was all quite pathetic.

From Chidwick’s description, and Morden’s escape, there was a good chance this lad was indeed a prospective Dark Lord. Chidwick had done well to spot the dragon pendant and recognise its import, and done even better to leave it well alone. It was obvious the boy had no real idea what he was or what was going on. The Chancellor approved of the hands off approach Chidwick had taken. Something as explosive as this Morden had to be handled with care.

Outwardly though, the Chancellor presented a gruffer demeanour. He tutted, furrowed his brow and pursed his lips as Chidwick’s report came to an end.

“I am disappointed in you, Chidwick,” said the Chancellor. “Most disappointed.”

The words had their intended effect and for a second Penbury thought that he was going to have to leap on the man to stop him killing himself. And that would not do; it was hard to find good help these days.

“If you’d be so good as to give me a second crack at him, I’ll not make the same mistake again,” said Chidwick.

The Chancellor barely acknowledged his secretary’s plea; his mind was still racing. There was something else here. Not quite sure how he knew, but increasingly certain, he thought this Morden was maybe the real deal.

A hunch was not enough though. Hunches were for the lucky and the stupid, and Penbury didn’t believe in luck so that left the latter, and he was not stupid. He needed more information. His private archives, which held the distilled wisdom of all the Chancellors, would furnish some, but Chidwick was going to have to play his part.

“Chidwick.”

“Sir?”

“I think we’re going to need some help.”

“Sir?”

“Accountants, Chidwick. Accountants. Get me accountants. Lots of accountants.”

“Ah, yes.
Accountants
. The Dark Deliverers or The Black Hand?”

“What are you on about, man? I want accountants.”

“I’m sorry, sir, I thought you were speaking euphemistically.”

“Stenhauer, Berf and Strom should do. They have offices all over.”

“Right you are, sir. Anything else?”

Penbury thought for a second. “Yes. One other thing.”

“Sir?”

“Some of those
lawyers
. Good ones.”

“Bentwhistle and Pearson?” suggested Chidwick.

“Not normal lawyers, Chidwick,” said Penbury sternly. “Chancellors don’t employ thieves.”

Chidwick coughed. “I see, you want
lawyers
,” he said. “
Lawyers
that kill people. Got it.”

“I see we are on the same page again. Good. Not that I ever said anything about their professional practices.”

“Of course not, sir.”

The two stood for a second. Chidwick looked a lot happier and expectant.

“That’s all, Chidwick.” Penbury watched his PPS slide away. He was pretty certain he was chuckling.

There was little else he could do now – the archive research could wait – and so Penbury turned back to weeding. Two small green leaves, like a two headed clover, caught his eye. His weeding fork stabbed down and lifted. The earth rose and tiny white roots were exposed. With a deft pluck the Chancellor pulled the weed and tossed it onto the pile in his barrow.

Chapter 16 Love Lost

Place a barrier around your heart lest it be ripped from your body.

The Dark Lord’s Handbook

A chill woke Edwin. At first he thought it was the same chill that woke him most mornings, the chill of fear from the dreams – the terrible dreams that came relentlessly. They had started as the odd nightmare, but now they came every night, and though the small details changed, they were all terrifyingly similar. There was always a woman, his woman. Sometimes she was blonde, other times dark haired, tall, short, buxom, lithe, but always bewitching. He was a slave to her and he had lost her. She had been kidnapped. The man in black had taken her. He had seduced her and now she was his, draped over his arm. The man in black laughed at Edwin. He stood on a dark stair before his throne with Edwin at his feet and he gloated. And the woman laughed with him. The laughter burned Edwin. It ran through him like a fire that made his love turn to hatred. The laughter grew until he could take it no more.

In his dream, Edwin would rise and his sword would be in his hand, where a moment before it had been empty. The steel would sing as he strode up the stair, calling for blood, and he would feed it. When it was done he would collapse in horror. The sated blade would be quiet and he would toss it aside, sending it clattering down the stair. Lifting up the bloodied remains of the woman he loved he would turn and face the host that was arranged around. As he lifted the corpse they would roar.

He was their Lord.

The cold sweat on his back made him shudder. He realised the sheet had slipped from him and he reached back to pull Griselda close to warm him. She was always stealing the blankets, but that was all right. He would give up anything for her.

His hand met empty space. From the corner of room he thought he could hear a sound, like a sharpening stone running down a blade.

He jerked around and saw the empty bed. The sheet was tied around the bedstead and hanging out of the open window. The grey light of dawn was creeping in. There was another light as well. As his anger grew, so did the light. In the corner of the room his sword was singing and emitting a baleful glow.

She was gone. She had left him.

No.

She had not left him. He loved her. She loved him.

She had been stolen from him.

The man in black had stolen her.

He looked east as the dawn ushered in the day and he knew where he would find her.

“Griselda!” he bellowed. Sliding from the bed, he sank to his knees. “Griselda!” His arms stretched heavenward. “GRISELDA!”

There was a loud thump and the wooden wall of his bedroom shook. “Edwin! Keep it down in there. I’m trying to sleep.”

The sound of his grandfather’s voice was like a bucket of cold water on the raging emotions that were coursing through him. His love was gone and his life was empty without her. She was his destiny and he hers. He would travel to the ends of the earth, face any danger, kill anyone who kept her from him, to hold her in his arms again.

He put on his travel clothes and stuffed a spare pair of breeches in a bag. He took the sword and slung it at his hip in the scabbard he had made. He paused on the way out. He took a last look at the room that had been his and, for the last few weeks, Griselda’s. The bed may have been short and lumpy, and he was never one for adornments and decoration, but this had been his world. He looked over to the small dresser that he had bought Griselda. Her brush still lay on it, strands of her hair caught in its teeth. He strode over and plucked at the hair. He held it to his nose so that he could smell her, then he slipped it into his jacket pocket. It was all he had left of her but it would keep him going.

There was just one more thing he needed, and that was in the smithy.

He crept downstairs and through the kitchen to the side door. There was enough light now to guide him to his lock box at the back. From it he took a wrapped bundle. He had been working on it for two weeks. It was to be the first part of a set, but for now the breastplate was the only armour he had. If it was peril he faced then he would need something that would turn a blade. He removed the wrap to look on it before he packed it. Even in the dawn light it was bright. He had used the ingots he used to make ploughs. There had been no design to work from but somehow he knew from the start how to make it. He knew which parts to turn so that they may catch or deflect attacks and where to put the fasteners for the chain that he would one day wear underneath. It was light, at least to him, but he also knew it was strong. He made ploughs that lasted season upon season; this breastplate would last him a lifetime.

He was putting it back in its cover when he heard movement behind him. He spun and drew in a fluid movement, the sword singing from its scabbard.

“Edwin!” squeaked his grandfather, eyes wide and body stiff, daring not to move.

“Grampa,” said Edwin, lowering the blade’s tip from his guardian’s throat.

His grandfather’s eyes moved from his ward to the pack on the ground. “So you’re leaving?”

“Griselda has been abducted and I intend to rescue her and make those who took her pay.”

“Abducted, you say?” His grandfather scratched at his grey bristles. “You’re sure about that?”

Edwin began to wrap the armour back up. What was the old man suggesting? “Of course. They sneaked in and spirited her away before dawn when I was in deepest sleep. It was a cunning plan.”

“Sneaked in, you say?” said his grandfather. He made a sucking sound through the gap in his front teeth. “You know how light I sleep, Edwin. A mouse would wake me. I heard nothing on the stair.”

Edwin glared at his grandfather and stood, slinging the pack across his shoulder. “She has been abducted.”

“Right you are. Abducted,” said his grandfather, nodding. “He must have climbed down the sheet with her over his shoulder.” His grandfather’s eyes drifted over to where the knotted sheets came to the ground at the front of the house. “This abductor, whoever he may be, must be a strong lad.”

“Are you trying to suggest otherwise?” asked Edwin, taking a step forward.

“No, no, son. Just saying he must be quite a strapping lad. Let’s be fair, Griselda does like her food.”

There was some truth in what his grandfather was saying. Griselda was a full figured woman, with generous curves.

Edwin laughed. It was so simple. “The sheet is a mere ruse, to make it look like she ran off so that I may not pursue. She is in peril and I will come to her aid.”

Edwin dropped his pack, strode to his grandfather and wrapped him in his arms. “I must go, but know this, I will be back. You have been good to me, grandfather, and I will not leave you to die alone in the cold of winter with no one to care.”

“Thanks son,” whispered his grandfather.

Edwin squeezed the man who had raised him and taught him everything he knew. Besides Griselda, he was the one person for whom he had any feelings. He could feel a tear come to his eye. He hugged his grandfather as the emotions swelled inside him. Edwin pressed his grandfather’s face in to his shoulder. The old man patted his back. Part of him didn’t want to let go. Even as his grandfather began to struggle in his arms and make an odd squeaking sound, Edwin could only squeeze more love into him. He would rescue Griselda and return to have children, and look after grampa. And everything would be wonderful.

With one last hug, Edwin let his grandfather go and stepped back to pick up his pack.

His grandfather slumped to the floor.

“Grandfather?”

The old man didn’t move. He had become frail in the last few years, much of the muscle from working the smith turned to flaps of skin. Now he resembled a heap of sticks in bedclothes.

“Grandfather?” Edwin bent down to his grandfather to see what the matter could be. There was a blue tinge to the old man’s lips. He wetted the back of his hand and placed it at the lips and beneath the nose. He tried to find a pulse at the bony wrist and neck. Nothing.

He was dead.

Anger rose in Edwin. He bellowed so loud that the harnesses on the smithy wall shook. How cruel was fate? To take his grandfather with a heart attack? Now he had nothing to return to when he had found Griselda.

Griselda.

Every minute wasted was one that her abductor took her further from him. He picked up his grandfather and laid him out on a bench.

“I’m sorry, grandfather. I would see you buried properly but I must be off. The living need me more than those that have passed. I must go to Griselda.”

Edwin snatched up his pack and ran from the smithy without a backward glance.