The Dark Lord's Handbook (22 page)

Morden gathered himself and spoke, using his normal voice as he noticed that the orcs in the front row had blood streaming from their ears and noses.

“Five hundred years ago orcs were taken into servitude. A proud race, you have had your teeth blunted and your pride taken. I tell you now, you deserve more!”

A roar of approval greeted his words.

“Many of you knew Grimtooth.”

There were nods and a grumble rippled through the crowd.

“He was a great orc! He was a wise orc! He spoke of a time that would come when orcs would once more take their rightful place. He spoke of Prophecy and a Dark Lord rising. A Dark Lord who would lead his nation to the greatness that is their destiny.”

Morden let the words sink in. He had their attention now.

“He spoke the truth. I am that Dark Lord and I will set you free as he asked me to. You will fulfil your destiny.”

Morden paused for dramatic effect and for a split second thought that perhaps he had not been heard, but then a cheer exploded from the mass of orcs that sent pulses of excitement through him. Then he was taken by the strongest of compulsions and he reached into his robe, clutched the Handbook, and held it aloft like a trophy.

“It starts here! It starts now!”

The sheer power of his voice silenced the orcs, not that they would have been heard above him. His words were like a summer storm.

“Orcs, throw aside your shackles and join me, Morden the Dark Lord, and you will reclaim the pride that was taken from you. Sharpen your weapons, and sharpen your teeth, for tonight, Bostokov burns!”

The orcs went into a frenzy. They shouted and jumped as one solid mass of furious muscle and teeth. Until now he had been intoxicated by what he thought was power, but now he had a taste of what real power was, and he wanted more. This was a few thousand slum orcs that were more a rabble than an army. He couldn’t imagine what it must feel like to stand in front of a host with the world at their mercy. Just thinking about it made his flesh burn in anticipation.

For now though, there was a city to sack.

He got off the crate and cut a path through the mob.

“How did I do?” he asked Stonearm, who was close to his right elbow, ever alert for danger.

“Not bad, boss,” said the orc. “A bit short, but not too shabby for your first monologue.”

Morden looked sideways at Stonearm, who returned the look and winked.

*****

Gaining entrance to the city was straightforward. Word had been sent to the host of orcs that worked as servants and menials in the posh houses inside the walls, and they slipped out at the appropriate time, overpowered the half asleep gate guard and greeted their fellows with broad smiles.

Morden strode through the gate at the head of his rabble and past the row of pikes bearing the first trophies of the night. The guards had been hung by their undergarments while still wearing them. The wedgie, as the orcs called it, was apparently not only deeply humiliating but painful, and by the contorted face of the guard captain it indeed seemed less than a pleasant way to be suspended.

From there the orcs spread through the city on a burning and looting spree. The fact that Bostokov was largely built from stone helped them be particular and prevented the city becoming one big fire pit.

Morden, in the meantime, headed with a hand chosen band to the Hall of Justice. The lofty hall was adorned with humorous gargoyles and stained glass depicting rich people dispensing largess. At one end, on a raised dais, was a mahogany throne that was used by the Head Justice in pronouncing his rulings. Morden found it comfortable with good back support.

It took little time for the orcs to round up the city’s finest. They had been rather rudely turned from their feather beds and now stood shivering (in fear; it was quite a warm night, what with all the fires) in their night shifts. If their indignant expressions were anything to go by, they were wondering what the hell was going on.

“I expect you’re wondering what is going on,” said Morden once the last few had been brought in and feeling the need to voice their thoughts.

Grunts of consternation came from the assembled gentry. Chuckles came from the surrounding orcs. Some beat nasty looking clubs into ham sized fists.

A man with a large bushy white moustache, and wearing a finely embroidered night shift, stepped forward. “Now look here, what’s the meaning of all this? I demand you tell us who you are and what is going on. What gives you the right…”

Morden stood. “The right?” He laughed. The sound echoed around the hall and within it was amusement tinged with menace. He drew himself up and took a step forward. The man took a step back. “I am Morden.” The man’s hair noticeably raised an inch off his scalp. “That is what gives me the right. Your city has what I need and so I am taking it. If you want to live I suggest you are both civil and accommodating.”

There was a commotion and a scuffle from the back of the group. A woman was pushing her way forward, shaking free the clinging arms that tried to restrain her.

“Let me go!” she commanded, thrusting an elbow to loosen the last restraining hand. She stepped forward of the group and glowered at Morden. The woman was young, in fact more a girl. Morden guessed she was barely a few years older than himself. She was dressed in fine silks that hinted at delights that lay beneath. “Do you know who I am?” she demanded. Morden couldn’t help but notice the little dimples in her cheeks that twitched with fury. She was without doubt the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. “I’m Rosemary Cathcart and I demand that you release us.”

He was about to say something charming when he caught himself. He was a Dark Lord pillaging a city. Now was not the time to let his attentions wander to other pleasures.

“Stonearm.” He motioned the orc forward. “Take her. I’ll deal with her later. Personally.” He laughed in a way he hoped would suggest that whatever he had in mind involved sharp, and possibly red hot, implements of torture.

The big orc advanced on the girl who looked at Morden with disbelief. “You can’t. You’re meant to ask me who I am. Well, I’m important. My father will hear of this. You wait. Get off me, you brute.”

As Stonearm got close, the girl began to thrash and scream. The noise was piercing and set Morden’s teeth on edge.

“For gods’ sake, shut her up,” said Morden, trying hard not to cover his ears; after all, it would not be Dark Lord-like to do so.

Stonearm cuffed the girl and she collapsed in a heap. Morden hoped the orc hadn’t broken anything; he didn’t seem to realise how strong he was. Stonearm picked the girl up and threw her over his shoulder like she was nothing and stomped off. The assembled nobility watched in horror.

“If you wish to avoid her fate,” said Morden, “I suggest you stop wailing and complaining, and start cooperating. Now, who is the city treasurer? I’d like to open an account and make a withdrawal.”

The old man with the bushy moustache stepped forward. “I am the chancellor. I think you’ll find we have the most agreeable rates if it’s a loan you want?”

Morden laughed. “Oh, I am sure they are, Mr Treasurer. Now be a good man and show these orcs the treasury.”

“And what about the rest of us?” piped up a voice. “What are you going to do to us?”

The orcs chuckled in a way that for many of the cowering dignitaries answered the question without the need for Morden to say a word.

“We’re very rich, you know? Can’t we come to some kind of arrangement?” said the same voice and there were assenting mutters all around.

“Yes, rich.”

“We can pay you anything.”

“I have five daughters, and they’re all quite orcish.”

Morden raised a hand to silence them and, apart from the odd sob, it had the desired effect.

“Take them back to their houses.”

A sigh of relief escaped the crowd.

“Wedgie them on their front gates and take everything of value.”

The sigh turned to wails of despair. “You can’t just kill us!” complained one voice as the orcs dragged them off.

Though being suspended on their gate posts by their undergarments was unlikely to prove fatal, Morden didn’t feel the need to disabuse them of their dread thoughts and sat back down in the Seat of Justice. He was going to enjoy this Dark Lord business.

The hall had emptied now and Morden settled for a few minutes of personal brooding time. It had been a while since he had had the opportunity to sit and think and the throne reminded him of Bindelburg. It seemed a long way away now, and an even longer time ago. He was a Dark Lord rising and he had a host of orc minions out on the town. All around him a city was burning as an army of disenfranchised orcs emancipated themselves, or more accurately burned and pillaged. All in all, assassination attempts and the death of Grimtooth aside, life was not bad.

Morden took time to soak in his surroundings. The flickering light from the burning city cast eerie shadows through the stained glass windows. It combined well with the noise of the city being pillaged and the strong smell of smoke to create an apocalyptic atmosphere that Morden found entrancing. He was so caught up in the dancing shapes that he almost missed the large hardwood doors opening at the far end of the hall.

A man entered and strode purposefully towards Morden. Behind him trailed a man and woman who seemed to be tugged reluctantly along. The confidence with which the man approached a throne upon which sat a black cowled figure with a city burning all around struck Morden as unusual. As the man got closer, the pendant at Morden’s throat began to grow warm. Given its track record for alerting him to potential danger, Morden stood.

The man’s boots beat on the stone floor. He was tall; a little taller than himself, judged Morden. His face was narrow, dark, and disturbingly draconian. Morden wasn’t sure where the latter thought came from but it made his heart beat that bit faster.

“You must be Morden,” said the man, coming to a stop, his two companions standing heads downcast behind him. “Let me take a good look at you.”

Morden was curiously at a loss as what to say.

“Do you think you could pull that cowl back?” said the man. He took a step onto the dais.

Morden pulled his hood back and met the eyes of this strange man and as he did so he saw both darkness and fire.

“Do I know you?” asked Morden. The pendant was burning painfully and his skin was itching.

The man looked genuinely surprised. “You don’t recognise me?”

“Should I?”

The man smiled to reveal a perfect row of razor sharp white teeth. He spread his arms. “Morden, I am your father.”

As soon as he heard the words, without doubt he knew this was indeed his true father. Despite this, part of him recoiled in denial. “My father? You can’t be. My father is Harold Thrumpty. How can you be?”

The man laughed. “Son. You honestly think poor old Harold could make you? A Dark Lord? I am your father. Look at your heart. You know it’s true.”

Morden put a hand to his chest. He could feel hard scales under the robe where the pendant lay.

His father climbed up and sat on the top step and patted the stair next to him. “Come sit. We have a lot of catching up.”

Morden sank to the ground in a daze. “I can’t believe this. So who am I? And who are they? What’s your name?”

Morden’s father laughed. It was painfully loud sat so close.

“You can call me dad. And we’re Deathwings,” said his father, wiping a tear from his eye. “That’s Griselda, and that fellow is Kristoff. You may know him. He’s from Little Wassop as well.”

At the mention of his name, Kristoff looked up and Morden was shocked. It was indeed the same dreamy eyed poet who had driven him to Bindelburg all those years ago, but time, and perhaps fate, had not been kind. He had aged and in his eyes there was something else. It was pain; although on seeing Morden it seemed to wash away briefly, when he glanced back to Morden’s father it returned and his head dropped once more.

Morden’s mind was spinning with questions. Maybe at last he would know who or what he was. Why had his real father left him? Why was he here now? What did Kristoff have to do with it all?

“And what about her then?” asked Morden, putting voice to one of many questions that competed to be asked.

“That’s Griselda. She’s very important and in some danger. I rescued her and brought her here for you to protect. Griselda, say hello to Morden.”

Griselda’s head rose, as though under some compulsion.

It had been a scarce few minutes since Morden thought he had seen the most beautiful girl in the world when he had met the feisty Rosemary Cathcart, but he had been hasty in his assessment of that title. Where Rosemary had girlish good looks, Griselda had beauty that not so much suggested but rather announced loudly that she was a woman. Though her clothes were ragged and her face dirtied with soot, she was captivating. But more than anything, her eyes were somewhere he felt he could be lost forever.

“A pleasure to meet you, Griselda,” was all that Morden could manage without making an idiot of himself.

Morden watched for what seemed an eternity as Griselda’s head turned so that she looked him in the eye. Her full lips broke apart to make a reply. He ached with the thought of what pleasure he would feel if he were ever to taste the sweetness of those lips.