The Dark Lord's Handbook (19 page)

“They’re with me,” said Morden.

The sergeant put his hands on his hips and said in a raised voice, presumably so his men could share his wit, “You invading us then? You and your army?”

Inwardly Morden sighed. Much as he’d like to teach this buffoon a lesson, farm products cooked in fat were foremost on his mind. “If you like.”

“Hey lads, we’re being invaded,” said the sergeant. A captain, if his armour was anything was to go by, came out of one of the towers to see what the fuss was all about. The smile quickly left the sergeant’s face when he saw the officer. “How many times do I have to tell you kids to stop yanking my chain. Be off with you.”

Morden’s patience was running low. Overhead a crow cawed.

“STEP ASIDE.”

The sergeants eyes bulged and he staggered backwards. His lips moved but no sound came out. One guard dropped his spear and another wet himself. The officer stopped in his tracks. Morden’s orcish entourage roared with laughter and cheered.

“COUNT YOURSELF LUCKY I’M HUNGRY.”

Morden strode into the city, dimly aware he still had an orcish entourage in tow. No matter. He was ravenous now and plunged into the narrow streets of the city.

Everything about Bostokov suggested wealth, from the two story stone buildings to the cobbled road with gutters that ran with clean water. A city that could afford to keep its streets this clean was a wealthy city.

Morden’s long stride carried him quickly into the heart of the city, past shops which were opening up. One street sold nothing but tableware made of beaten copper and painted ceramic. Another street had rows and rows of spice shops with pyramids of primal coloured wares from all over the world.

As the city came alive, he was urged to stop and buy rugs, pots, bananas, a parrot, wicker baskets, silver nose rings, a device for smoking herbs, a giraffe, spices, holy relics, life insurance (he was not sure what this meant but he didn’t like the look of the manicured hawker of this ‘life insurance’ so did not stop to ask) and pomegranates.

None of this, unfortunately, was breakfast.

Eventually Morden broke free of the narrow streets and emerged into a large square dominated by flower stalls. His spirits immediately rose as he saw a number of hostelries on the far side of the square. Urged on by deepening growls from his stomach, he quickened his pace, deciding that following the edge of the square would take him to his goal faster than weaving his way through the stalls and carts. He was relieved to see at the first corner that instead of stalls there was a clear space dotted with two foot high pedestals. They were all bare except one, upon which was standing a lanky individual with a placard. His clothes were ragged and his beard was unkempt, bushy and hung to his knees. Morden had never seen such a long beard. The man looked like he was preaching to an audience of one, a short woman with a flower basket over her arm. Even Bindelburg had had its fair share of weird religions and self-proclaimed prophets that evangelised them and so, although it was curious, it was not worth stopping given his imminent demise due to starvation.

As Morden cut the corner he glanced up at the placard that the man was carrying.

‘The End of the World is Nigh’ it proclaimed.

Morden smiled and somewhere close by a crow cawed.

“And the day will come when He will walk among us and it will be the End of Days!” proclaimed the zealot.

Morden eyed up the hostelry signs that were close now. The Stuck Pig sounded like a fine bet for the sustenance he craved.

“He shall bring Ruin to the World and Burn it to cinders and all shall be consumed in His fire!”

Morden’s mouth was watering so much he was in danger of drooling down his robe. Another forty paces and succulent flesh would be his.

“There! There He is. He has come! He has come! Death walks among us!”

Morden glanced over his shoulder. The zealot was pointing at him, froth coming from his lips as he shouted, “The Dark Lord is Rising! He walks our streets!”

Morden looked around, half expecting to see another Dark Lord but instead he only saw orcs. He’d forgotten that they had been following him. Though lessened in number, there were nevertheless a good few straggling behind him and the zealot now had their full attention.

Seeing that his audience had increased dramatically, the zealot turned to face the orcs, all the while stabbing his finger in Morden’s direction.

“He is Death! He will Ravage the World!” insisted the zealot.

The orcs looked over to where Morden had stopped and cheered. Something inside Morden stirred, and it wasn’t his stomach. One thing that Morden had learnt when it came to bending people to his will was that half the battle was already won because most people wanted to be led. Making choices for themselves was far too much effort for the majority and having someone tell them what to do was just fine by them, so long as some kind of reward was evident. The reward didn’t even have to be real; the mere promise of something good often sufficed.

Morden glanced once more in the direction of The Stuck Pig, and though his desire for a fine pork sausage was deep, there were more important things to be done. There was a day to be seized.

Morden turned back towards the zealot and his audience.

“A Darkness shall fall upon the world and He will make us unto chitterlings,” continued the zealot. “His power is manifest and it will crumble the mightiest. And his name is…”

“Morden Deathwing?” The enquiry came from Morden’s left and stopped Morden in his tracks.

“Yes?” answered Morden, turning to see who was asking. He was dimly aware that his pendant had grown hot.

At which point everything seemed to slow down.

A man dressed entirely in black – but specifically assassin black rather than Dark Lord black – with a short sword in either hand, lunged forward, one sword aiming to take Morden beneath the ribs, the other slashing at his throat.

Morden froze. He knew there was nothing he could do. The assassin was too quick and he was going to be stuck like the pig that he had so craved. He raised an arm instinctively to try and ward the blows but his arm seemed to be moving with painful slowness. He could see the blades cutting towards him.

And then in his peripheral vision he saw someone flying horizontally across his front. The blades struck the body as one, squarely in the chest. Morden staggered backwards and the body thudded to the ground, blood pooling beneath it.

The assassin vanished.

Around him there was chaos. Orcs were stampeding towards him; flower sellers were stampeding away. Women screamed and orcs shouted.

Morden knelt to see who had saved him. It was Grimtooth. Blood dribbled from the old orc’s mouth but he was not dead. His eyes were open and when Morden lifted him to cradle his head in his arms relief swept across the orc’s face.

“You are unhurt?” gasped the orc.

“Untouched,” said Morden. His head was full of inappropriate platitudes; he knew the orc was dying. There was one assurance he could give though. “I am going to kill whoever did this.”

Grimtooth tried to say something but his failing breathe was too quiet with all the noise that was around them. Morden leaned closer to catch what the orc was trying to say.

“Free my people,” croaked Grimtooth. The orc clutched Morden’s hand in a vice-like grip and a rattle snuffed out the words. With a last hiss of breath, Grimtooth passed from the world.

Morden clenched his jaw. Deep inside anger raged but it could wait. He would nurture it and when the time came he would release it on the world. Then woe betide any who stood in his way. He laid Grimtooth down and stood. Whatever boyish notions had been left inside him had just died with one of the few friends he had ever had. Someone had tried to kill him, and at the cost of his friend’s life. It was not going to go unanswered. He had a good idea who it was as well. Penbury was going to realise that messing with him was not a smart thing to do. If it was a fight he wanted then he was going to get one. It was time to get serious about being a Dark Lord.

“Coming through!” Stonearm’s familiar bellow cleared a path through the orcs that had surrounded Morden in a cordon.

When Stonearm saw Grimtooth’s body he froze. Morden couldn’t tell exactly what range of emotions played through his sergeant’s mind but he wouldn’t like to be on the receiving end of them.

“Are you hurt, my Lord?” said Stonearm, his concern switching to Morden.

“I am unhurt,” said Morden. He was trying hard not to scratch the itch that was at the back of his mind and involved fury and dismemberment. “Lift him and follow me.”

Stonearm and three orcs raised Grimtooth’s body to their shoulder; no questions asked. The mood among all the orcs present was tangibly grim, and the non-orc population of Bostokov, perhaps sensing this, was making itself scarce as Morden and Stonearm led the orcs from the square.

They moved back through the narrow streets. From the mob of orcs came a dirge and, as if in response, the sky darkened with cloud and rain fell. Pretty soon it was not just spirits that were dampened.

The city did not look so bright now. The cheerful bustle of the early morning was gone. As the procession passed by, shutters were slammed shut, and shoppers scuttled away down side alleys rather than face the orcs and their burden.

Soon they were back at the gate. As they approached, Morden could see the captain and his men arrayed in front of it. He hoped that they were going to make something of it, but perhaps self-preservation got the better of them as they suddenly disappeared into their guard tower. After all, their duty was to stop undesirables entering the city, not leave it.

They left the inner city and moved into the slum. Immediately the numbers following the procession grew as more orcs fell in behind. Morden had no idea where they were headed, but Stonearm seemed to know so he let the orc lead them on.

At last they came to a square of sorts – an open muddy area surrounded on each side by hovels and huts. Word must have passed ahead as in the middle of the square there was a funeral bier waiting for Grimtooth’s corpse.

His body was laid upon it.

“We’ll send him off at sundown,” said Morden, partly so that the orcs could pay respects and partly because it was still raining and it would have taken an inferno to light anything.

Stonearm organised a guard under Morden’s watchful eye.

Once everything was in place, Morden turned to other matters. He was still hungry but he had no desire to eat. He needed time to prepare himself for what he planned that evening. The time he had spent drifting was at an end. Tonight he would claim his position in the world. He would bend these orcs to his will and Bostokov would be where he announced himself as the Dark Lord Morden.

Chapter 25 A Hero Gets His Army

Lose the thigh length boots and whips. You are better than that.

The Dark Lord’s Handbook

As instructed, Count Vladovitch had begun to raise an army. It was a complicated affair. First willing recruits had to be found, and if that failed, then not so willing recruits. They had to be housed, equipped and trained. Then there was finance, sourcing supplies, marching, then lots more marching, and deciding on a flag. The latter was proving difficult. A good flag had to be something that would be followed, that soldiers would die for and have draped on their coffins. It had to inspire and uplift. A good flag was worth a regiment of men.

The designers had come several times to present their ideas, and each time the Count had sent them packing. They had nothing but the same old rampant beasts and crosses.
Perhaps
, thought the Count,
I am was getting jaded in my old age
. He suspected that it was more a case of not being too sure exactly what he was fighting for. Though he understood the basic idea, that he was to be the general of an army that was to deliver the aristocracy from its penury state, Lady Deathwing worried him. Worried him a lot.

He tried not to think about it. He was a soldier first and foremost; that was what he was concerned about, and in respect of soldiering he thought he was doing a good job. He had five thousand men under his colours (which were being used in lieu of a proper flag) and he had started to put word out that he was looking for knights. The first few had arrived with their squires, sweethearts, and romantic notions. This was all well and good but what he needed were no nonsense, hard-nosed killers that could do more than pleasure a Lady with their lance. He hoped that today he would be more successful in finding the hammer for his army that would crush the enemy against the anvil of his pike blocks.

The army was marshalled at his family castle, which had perched for three hundred years on a steep hill. It was surrounded on three sides by sheer cliffs that bordered the River Jon, and commanded a good view of the entire region. As he rode down that morning, he was pleased to see blocks of men parading around the grounds in tight formation. Battles came down to manoeuvre and discipline and it was in these aspects that the Count had his men spend the majority of their time.

The Count enjoyed as best he could the short ride down to his tent on the grounds. During his life he had spent more time in the saddle than out but these days the pleasure had been lessened by terrible piles. He was sure that the leeches didn’t help but his wife, may the gods protect her, insisted he do what the charlatan physicians said. A cushioned saddle would have helped more but he couldn’t be seen to be weak. It was a pain he suffered for the greater good.