The Dark Lord's Handbook (35 page)

She would be there as well. Griselda. She did things to him that he found disturbing. He was a Dark Lord; well almost a Dark Lord. He was going to lay waste the world and hold it under his dominion. So why was it that this woman was able to control him so easily? He let her get to him and he shouldn’t. What did her opinion count for anyway? He knew who and what he was and she ought to be more grateful for his mercy. If it wasn’t for Kristoff he would have discarded her. There were many other alluring women. She was nothing special.

He sighed to himself. When he got back he would have to first talk to Kristoff and then to her. She would be his, and if she wasn’t interested then they would have to go. He couldn’t have her around distracting him when he had important things to do.

Not that he doubted she would want him. Who wouldn’t? He was young, tall, apparently good looking if the serving maids back in Bindelburg were anything to go by (they teased him tirelessly), and was going to be ruler of the world. Who wouldn’t go for a man like that? He was quite familiar with playing hard to get. If she didn’t like him then why had she come up on deck to speak to him? She could have stayed below and avoided him altogether.

The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that she liked him every bit as much as he had to admit he liked her. And that was good. She could be his Queen. She was well suited. She had a wicked tongue on her. She would be stern, commanding and beautiful, as befits a Dark Lord’s spouse.

Settling on this image he dozed. Light on his eyelids told him that dawn had come but the day could wait. He wouldn’t have time to daydream in the times to come so he may as well get as much as he could in now.

The drums had stopped a while back but now they had started again, though something was different. Whereas before they had beaten a complex rhythm that sounded like a language, now they beat a steady rhythm that drowned out the sound of the jungle. Morden could feel that the boat had slowed as well. He ought to sit up and see where he was but it was so comfortable lying there and brooding that one more minute wouldn’t hurt.

Another sound joined the drums. It was unmistakably orcs. He’d heard enough of their dulcet tones over the months to know an orc chant when he heard one; though the tone and accent of this one was different. Now he was straining hard to listen and as he did he picked up other sounds. Was that the sound of paddles? Then it occurred to him that they probably couldn’t see him. Lying flat as he was, all they could likely see was an empty canoe floating down the river. If he lay still he might just float past. Much as he loved them, he was in no mood to have to deal with any Dark Lord business.

The chant was becoming more distinct. It was in the same language that the orcs in the village had spoken, but less provincial.

“Zoon, Zoooon, Zoooooon.”

The chant was low and throaty. And it was getting louder.

Without doubt he could also hear paddles in the water and he had a sense that there was more than one other canoe out on the river with him. There seemed nothing for it. He had to see what was going on. Making sure his hood was up over his head, Morden sat up.

It was a lot to take in at once. The river had widened considerably and slowed down. Canoes of all sizes surrounded him completely; some single man like his and others that looked like war canoes that had eight or more burly orcs stroking slowly. Some were crudely hewn from single logs, others had been crafted with jagged patterns and faces of orcs baring their teeth. The orcs themselves were arrayed in all manner of clothing. Some were wearing little more than the odd rag over their taut muscles. The ones in the bigger canoes were wearing what looked like armour and had shields across their backs. The armour was a combination of wood, reeds and plates of dull metal.

All of them were at least ten yards away. Looking behind him, Morden could see why; there was a trail of dead fish in his wake. Fascinated, he looked forward and where his canoe drifted forward fish popped to the surface.

At his appearance the chant became an almost continuous ‘Zoon’.

Morden decided to risk standing up so he could see better. The river was so placid he thought there was little risk of tipping over if he was careful. All the same, he rose slowly so as to avoid any sudden shifts in weight.

The chant became louder.

But it faded into the background now that Morden could clearly see what was ahead. The river was widening into a basin in the middle of which was a large island. A city rose off the island in a mixture of chaos and order. The wooden buildings were arrayed chaotically around a number of stepped pyramid shaped buildings that were precise in their symmetry. But the thing that really caught his attention was the statue that towered over the whole city from the top of the biggest ziggurat. It was unmistakably him: a cowled figure standing over the city, its arms spread to either side with, unless Morden was mistaken, a book in its right hand.

It was too hot for a chill to run down his spine but he was sure the intent was there. It was spooky to say the least.

A thunk from the front of his canoe distracted him away from the statue. An arrow was lodged in the front of the boat and Morden was about to get very angry that he was being shot at again when he noticed that there was cord attached to it. The cord tightened, snapped out of the water, and his canoe jerked forward. Following the line of the cord, Morden saw that one of the war canoes was towing him towards a jetty.

Part of him was uneasy with what was happening but given that he seemed to have lost his ability to fly there was little he could do short of taking a plunge in the lake. He thought about sitting down but decided that striking a lordly pose standing served him better.

His canoe made swift progress now that a canoe full of burly orcs was stroking hard ahead of him. A reception committee was hurriedly arranging itself on the jetty as he approached. A line of large orcs in plated wood and metal armour arranged themselves in a line. They held an assortment of wicked looking pole arms with jagged blades and spikes. In front of them a gang of smaller orcs huddled together. They wore black robes adorned in skulls, bones and zig zag patterns. As Morden got closer, their level of agitation increased.

With a last second deft bit of manoeuvring and a tug on the tow rope, Morden’s canoe was released and glided perfectly to the landing stage where the robed orcs pushed forward one of their number. As the canoe bumped gently into the jetty, the orc managed to gather some composure and stand up straight and pull his shoulders back.

Morden stepped onto the wooden pier and surveyed the orcs with a brooding stare. As his gaze swept over them, Morden was pleased to see that their heads ducked and his gaze was avoided. If they were not yet bent to his will it was clear they were bending.

“My Lord Zoon,” said the orc, bowing. “Welcome to Deathcropolis, City of Death. I hope you will find everything ready and to your liking.”

It took a second for the words to sink in. Lord Zoon? City of Death? Ready for him?

“You were expecting me?” asked Morden.

The orc raised his head from its bowed position, surprise very much evident.

“But of course, my Lord Zoon. We have been expecting you for centuries.”

“Really?”

“Yes, my Lord. Though we thought you would arrive on the back of a dragon and not in a canoe.”

Morden shrugged inwardly. He was happy to play along for now. They could believe what they wanted when it came to who he was until he had had a good meal and a proper lie down. Once rested, he was sure he’d be able to assume his dragon form as before and then everything would be fine.

“My apologies if I kept you waiting,” said Morden. “Lead on.”

The orc’s eyes widened even further and he managed a nervous laugh. “My Lord’s humour truly is as the histories say. If you’ll follow me, Archpriest Lopang is readying your residence.”

Morden allowed himself to be led. His honour guard, if that was what it was, formed up ahead and behind. The robed orcs, who Morden now assumed were some kind of cult leadership, tagged behind. He couldn’t help but notice that they all kept a good few feet from him. When he quickened his pace, the orcs in front jerked forward as he closed with them. As he slowed so the ones behind backed off. It kept him briefly amused to make sudden changes in pace and see them skip forward and back.

The route they took was direct. The roads were cobbled and, contrary to the chaotic architectural style of the buildings, were laid out in a regular grid. The city itself was a strange mixture of uncontrolled growth as plants and trees filled every free nook and cranny; strangling vines wrapped everything. But underneath that was a precisely laid out city. The buildings were a mixture of stone, bamboo and slatted wood with precise angles and a simple but functional feel to them.

The other immediately obvious thing was the number of orcs. It was a complete reversal of cities that Morden was used to in the west. It was an orc city with the odd human looking out of place as they went about their business. The orcs had full teeth that they showed off with rings that slotted over the needle tips and chains that hung down over their chins between the teeth.

Morden drew a lot of attention as he passed by and word spread faster than they walked so soon the streets were lined with onlookers. His passing seemed to have a varied effect from open amazement, through shy curiosity, to what might have been fear, or equally hostility. (Morden still had difficulty with orcish expressions when it came to teeth.)

At last they arrived at the foot of the ziggurat at the top of which towered the statue that so closely resembled himself. It was even bigger up close than it had looked out on the water and Morden hoped they did not have to climb it.

Somewhere overhead a crow cawed. Morden looked around, somewhat surprised that even here the damn birds found him but all he could see were parrots.

Fortunately, they didn’t have to do any climbing. At the base of the ziggurat was an arch beyond which was a tunnel that drilled into the base of the monument. His escort lined up on either side and he was led in. The morning sunlight was soon lost and torches in brackets lit the way. The air was hot and damp. The walls were etched with carvings of intricate geometric shapes, and graphic depictions of death and sacrifice. A thin film of moisture covered them and there was a constant background drip. If anyone lived in here it could not have been pleasant.

The corridor opened into a large chamber whose roof matched the stepped sides of the outside of the ziggurat. At one end there was a plinth and throne that came straight out of Morden’s dreams. Not only was it ridiculously large, but it was covered in bones and skulls, with jewels in the skull eyes, and gold braziers to each side that lit the room with their fires.

At the foot of the plinth, and to one side, a massive orc was standing in black plated armour holding the biggest sword Morden had ever seen. Its blade must have been five feet long and it curved wickedly along its length.

“Tell Archpriest Lopang that Lord Zoon has arrived,” said one of his escort.

The massive orc swivelled and disappeared into a side chamber.

Minutes passed. Then a few more. Whoever this Archpriest was, he was taking his time. Morden surveyed the room once more. It was a touch on the bare side for his liking, and although he had to admire the craftsmanship, he would be making changes. Wall hangings would help.

And still there was no Archpriest. He was about to complain about being kept waiting when he felt something. It came from the room that the big orc had disappeared into. The orcs behind him seemed to have felt it as well; they first shrank back, and then fled as fast as they could.

Morden was left alone. A sense of dread grew that felt like something was reaching inside him and slowly squeezing. Then the smell came. It was the same smell that sometimes had drifted over the school in Bindelburg if the wind switched from its normal westerly to the south; it was the smell of the abattoir. It was the smell of death, of open corpses and stale blood.

Fear gripped him as a figure drifted into the room, with the big orc and his sword a few yards behind him. A wooden mask covered the figure’s face. It was a grotesque caricature of an orc’s face painted bone white. The figure wore a floor length black shift that was covered in the symmetric glyphs and patterns of the room with the odd skull thrown in for good measure.

Two holes were drilled into the eyes of the mask and through them Morden could just make out a burning hate-filled stare. Morden struggled to stay on his feet. It was as if the eyes were pressing him to the floor.

Now that the figure was close, the smell was overwhelming. Every part of Morden wanted to turn and flee the room but something told him that if he tried the big orc would cut him in half before he had taken five steps.

“Who…are…you?” The voice was strangled like it had to be forced out between locked teeth.

Morden’s mind raced. If he got this wrong, it could well be the last thing he did.

“I am Lord Zoon,” he answered, trying hard to sound commanding. “I have come to claim my kingdom and my throne.”

At first Morden thought that the creature standing before him had a sudden nasty cough, but soon realised it was laughing. It was a derisive laugh, one that shredded and demeaned, a laugh that could tear away any sense of self worth or being. It was the laugh of a Dark Lord. Even as the figure raised what was clearly a fleshless hand to its mask, Morden with dread certainty knew who was behind it.