The Dark Lord's Handbook (4 page)

Count Vladovitch fidgeted under his white robe. He was used to the feel of coarse wool and armour rather than the touch of silk, but their leader had insisted they do this right; and that included suitable attire for conspirators. It did have a certain practical side in that none of those present was immediately recognisable, though the sheer bulk of Tulip (the Countess of Umbria) could not be mistaken.

The use of adopted names did seem ridiculous. That he should have to be referred to as Hemlock was not only demeaning but daft. He had a famously grizzly voice that none who heard could forget. It wasn’t as though he didn’t know exactly who any one of the nine present was either.

Foxglove, who had suggested the idea of the names, had explained that he was missing the point entirely. The robes, the names, the secret meetings were used so that what they plotted was plausibly deniable – a term that once explained seemed equally absurd as, in the Count’s experience, a conspiracy that was plausibly deniable would become eagerly admitted upon the threatened use of a hot poker.

Nevertheless, there they were, shivering in the flimsiest of white silk, waiting for the last of their number to arrive.

Petunia and Marigold were discussing a point of order when there was a strong buffeting and heads turned to the steeple dome. There was a crash and several tiles slid past a window. Curses could be heard and more crashes before Black Orchid made her entrance.

Unlike the rest, Black Orchid’s robes were sable. And unlike the rest, the Count had no idea who Black Orchid was beyond the fact that she was the leader of this conspiracy and was not to be trifled with in the slightest. They had started out as an even thirteen but Pansy and Carnation had made the mistake of challenging Black Orchid’s leadership – on the basis that she was a woman. Bits of them were still unaccounted for, though there was little doubt that the parts that had been found belonged to the pair.

“I see I’m the last to arrive,” said Black Orchid from under her black hood. “Let’s cut the formalities and get down to it shall we?”

There was a sibilant hiss to Black Orchid’s voice and the Count found the accent hard to place.

Feet shuffled but there was no response. The Count was happy for the hoods that hid their faces. Though he had lived a life of martial hardship, and was no stranger to danger, he was also no stranger to fear and there was something about Black Orchid that made him deeply afraid. When he addressed his men before battle he could hide his fear, but he was not sure that he could have hidden the terror he felt when Black Orchid was addressing them.

“How goes the search?” asked Black Orchid.

This was the first question Black Orchid always asked and the Count dreaded it. They had been meeting for years, every six months regular as clockwork, and each time after that first meeting, when Black Orchid had given them the Prophecy and they had gone out to search for the Hero, they had returned with no news.

The world was a big place. Finding one particular child in all the villages, towns and cities across a dozen lands was no mean feat. True, there had been candidates, but none had turned out to be the Hero that Black Orchid had revealed to them; the Hero that would throw off the yoke of the merchant classes and return the aristocracy to its rightful position. Too long had they lived under the burden of loans and interest rates. Darkness was coming and the Hero would lead them in the final battle against the Dark Lord. The people would hail them as saviours and they would take back everything they had lost in promissory notes. The only problem was that it had been a long wait so far and none of them was getting any younger.

From the Count’s left, Hogweed coughed.

“Yes?”

“I…I think I found him,” said Hogweed. In the Count’s experience Hogweed, the Prince of Greater Wallencia, was not a timid man but even he seemed to show nerves.

“Oh, really? Pray tell us more.”

“I found a monk.”

“And?”

“He spoke of a virgin birth.”

Black Orchid sighed and fear rippled around the group. This was hardly news. Stories of virgin births were the staple of a good night’s story telling in many an inn across the Western Reaches.

“I brought him here with me,” said Hogweed.

The Count’s fear turned to terror and he took a step to his right. He could see that Foxglove on Hogweed’s left had likewise distanced himself from the visibly trembling Hogweed.
He was either brave, tired of living or certain he had found the child
, thought the Count.

Though it was hard to tell under a black cowl, Black Orchid seemed to be considering Hogweed with some interest. It was a terrible breach of protocol to bring anyone to their meetings.

“I do hope you’re right,” said Black Orchid at last. “Bring him in.”

Hogweed bolted to the stairwell and returned moments later. When he led the monk into the centre of the gathering, the Count understood why Hogweed’s gamble was perhaps a safe one. The monk was blind, a terrible scar running across the man’s face from ear to ear. He looked frail and was mumbling to himself continually. The man was dressed in a torn brown robe and his grey hair and beard were unkempt. He looked more a hermit than a monk.

“A blind man will lead and the Hero will be found,” gasped Lilly, quoting the Prophecy.

Black Orchid raised a hand to silence the excitable Lilly and addressed the monk:

“Tell us your name and your story, old man.”

The monk stiffened and turned his blind stare toward Black Orchid. “I am Brother Francis of the Seekers,” said the monk, his voice as frail as his body. “And I am the last of my Order.”

The monk coughed and brought his hand to his mouth. The Count could see flecks of blood in the man’s spittle. If he had a story to tell, he had better be both quick and brief as he did not look like he would make sundown.

“You must excuse me, I am old and not long for this world,” said the monk.

Perhaps he’s a prophet as well as a storyteller
, mused the Count.

“I was there when He was born, more than ten years past,” continued Brother Francis. The monk paused and scratched at his beard. “Perhaps nearer twenty years. Maybe more. Maybe less. It was such a long time ago.”

The monk stopped and started to count on his fingers.

“Let’s call it twenty, shall we?” said Black Orchid. “Please, continue.”

“It was twenty years ago,” said Brother Francis. “Or there about. On the night of a Blood Moon he was born and I was struck blind.”

Brother Francis told his story of how he and his fellows had been Seeking, as was their wont, and had been directed from an inn to Wellow, a small village in the Reaches. On leaving the inn they had been attacked by a great dragon. After the attack he had stumbled blindly, his cries unheard in the wind, for miles. He had at last been drawn to the cries of a woman giving birth.

To the Count it sounded implausible at best. Dragons were the stuff of legend and the pure chance of wandering miles to the exact spot he had been trying to find was more than unlikely, it was ridiculous.

Brother Francis continued his tale. He had been there when Diona of Wellow, who claimed she had never known a man, had given birth to a boy. She had died in childbirth but her father, a widower himself, had raised the child.

“Diona’s father is a blacksmith,” said Brother Francis with a hint of satisfaction.

The Count was astonished and it seemed his fellow conspirators were equally taken aback. There was a stunned silence.

“That makes him an orphan child of virgin birth and raised by a blacksmith?” explained Brother Francis, turning his blind eyes as though sweeping the assembly. “If he isn’t the Hero then I’m no Seeker!”

The Count had never believed in prophecy or suchlike. He had always held the belief that it was expedient nonsense. If prophecies were true then why were they always so vague and unspecific? He’d never once come across a prophecy where the prophet who delivered it hadn’t been so imprecise as to be obtuse. If they could really see the future then surely they could be more accurate?

“Yes. Yes. We do understand Old Man,” said Black Orchid. “You said you were attacked by a dragon?”

“Terrible it was,” said the monk. His hands went to where his eyes ought to have been. “If it wasn’t for the clear night and moon we would likely have not seen him so black he was.”

“A black dragon?” said Black Orchid, her head tilting to one side. “Really? How interesting.”

The monk coughed as though to continue but a raised hand from Black Orchid silenced him; his lips moved but no sound came.

“Brethren, it seems after these fallow years our search may well be over,” said Black Orchid. “Who has the sword?”

There was a general muttering and fidgeting. The Count prayed that whoever had the sword had brought it.

“I do,” said Tulip at last, heaving her massive bulk a step forward.

Her hand delved into voluminous folds of cloth and emerged with a sword that sang as it left a hidden scabbard. Of good length, it was as bright as burnished steel – mainly because it was burnished steel, but also because of the charm that sat upon it. The Count thought there was a terrible elegance about the keen edge and simple hilt. You could do someone real harm with that sword.

“Have it placed where He may find it,” commanded Black Orchid.

Tulip’s hood turned to one side and she whispered something to Lilly. There was an exchange of sorts before Tulip’s hood turned back and a quavering voice rang out.

“And…well…I mean to say, where would that be exactly?”

Black Orchid let go a sigh that shrivelled the Count’s heart and made his breakfast make a bid for freedom.

“I don’t
know
! Somewhere near to where he lives. The charm will take care of the rest.”

“You mean like in a hedge?”

Black Orchid’s head turned heavenward and she roared. “No. Not in a
hedge
. Plunge it into a stone or something. Put it on display for all to see but only the chosen to wield. Am I making myself clear?”

Tulip collapsed into a large blubbering wreck on the ground and it was hard to tell whether she was nodding vigorously or merely shaking in the absolute terror that had also gripped the Count.

“As…as…as you wish.”

“Good,” said Black Orchid, regaining some composure. “Now, the rest of you, go and prepare. You’ll need lots of money, so borrow more. And don’t worry, it’s not as though you’ll be giving any of it back.”

“We won’t?” said Lilly.

Black Orchid’s hood turned in Lilly’s direction. “Of course not. How stupid are you? Really? The world is going to be laid to ruin and we are going to save it. Saviours don’t give anything back. Now go. Quickly.”

The ten left hurriedly by the spiral stair. Black Orchid presumably would leave the same way she had arrived, by
alternative
methods. The Count tried to suppress the notion that Black Orchid flew, either under her own power or on some creature, and the associated connotations should that in fact be the case.

There was little small talk as was normal after such meetings. The mood seemed tense. Until now their conspiracy had been mostly talk and complaints about the continual rise in the cost of living and the horrendous overheads in maintaining their stations in life, spiralling ever more into debt with the loathsome middle classes. Now, however, it seemed to the Count that perhaps things were going to happen. For a man of action such as himself, the prospect was invigorating. It was all well and good leading a small army of highly trained knights and footmen but such a waste if they did little more than control brigands and have the odd prearranged border skirmish. War was coming, proper all-out-and-bloody war, and the more the Count thought on it the more invigorated he became.

Chapter 6 The Handbook

A strong right hand has many uses.

The Dark Lord’s Handbook

Morden followed the orc into the warren of alleys that led off the town square in the direction of the poorer part of town. Morden forgot the lure of warmth, beer, and the maids that purveyed the latter in the Slap and Tickle.

“What should I call you?” he enquired of the hefty back in front of him.

The orc stopped to face Morden and grinned. Morden couldn’t decide which was worse, the teeth or the breath that escaped from between them.

“My orcish name is Kzchtk,” said the orc in a contortion of vowel-less grunts that sounded like he was about to vomit. “But you can call me Grimtooth.”

Morden observed the orc with what he hoped was a dry smile. “Kzchtk, you say?”

The orcs eyebrows rose like two hairy caterpillars heaving themselves off a branch. “Few can speak the Orcish tongue. You’ve had your tonsils removed?”

Morden smiled. “Not at all. Let’s just say I have a gift for pronunciation. So what does,
Kzchtk
, mean?”

“It means, Grimtooth,” said the orc, his fierce grin widening.

“Touché,” said Morden. “Lead on, Grimtooth.”