The Dark Lord's Handbook (41 page)

“Ow,” he said experimentally. Maybe he was in shock and had to acknowledge the injury before he could feel the pain.

“What’s the matter?” asked Griselda. “Ratty bite your toe? Wuss.”

Kristoff came over to have a look. If his expression was anything to go by the wounds were as disgusting to him as they were to Morden. “That must hurt,” he said.

“Actually, no,” replied Morden. “In fact, I can’t feel a thing.”

Griselda’s curiosity got the better of her and she came over to have a look as well.

“That’s disgusting,” she pronounced.

“Yes it is,” said Morden. “Thank you.”

Stonearm had made short work of the offender and, tossing the remains into a corner, came to complete the group gathered around Morden’s foot.

“You’ll want to put something on that,” he said helpfully. “Those bites could go bad.”

“Oh really?” said Morden. “Maybe if I ask nicely they’ll let me see an apothecary.”

Morden prodded at the wounds and the surrounding toes. Nothing. The flesh looked pale and felt rubbery. For that matter, the rest of his foot looked the same. He jabbed himself and still nothing. The same up his leg. He couldn’t feel anything anywhere.

He lifted up the rags he was wearing to look at the wound in his left side where the spear, or whatever it was, had hit him in the ribs. The wound, though closed, was still livid on the flesh.

“What’s that?” said Griselda.

Was that genuine concern in her voice?
thought Morden. “I was shot,” he said, probing the wound gently. It should still hurt but didn’t. Then Zoon’s words came crashing down on him and his hand recoiled from the wound.

“Mostly dead,” said Morden. “He said I was mostly dead.”

“Mostly dead?” said Kristoff. “Who said?”

“Zoon. He told me I was mostly dead.”

“I’ve been saying that for ages,” suggested Griselda, and she laughed at her own joke.

“What’s that mean?” asked Stonearm. “Mostly? Nearly dead I get. Dead I get. Not dead is fairly obvious. What’s mostly dead?”

Morden poked his leg. “This. This is dead. I’m a walking corpse.”

The thought was horrifying but made so much sense. It explained everything and yet, if he was mostly dead, how was he still not all dead? Or undead for that matter? Had he actually died on that beach or was he still dying?

“You can’t feel anything?” asked Griselda, and this time the concern was clear. “Anything at all?” Her eyes darted to his nether region.

It was true. He’d spent the last few days near the woman who used to boil his blood but now there was nothing. He’d caught more glimpses of womanly flesh in the last few days, both unintentional and completely intentional, to satisfy his wildest imaginations, but thinking about it, while mentally he had been excited, physically it had produced no reaction. His sword had lost its steel. That was not good. How could he answer? Griselda couldn’t possibly be with someone who was incapable of satisfying her physical needs. It was a disaster.

Left floundering for something to say, Morden was saved by the grate on the cell door being pushed open. Something that wasn’t food was pushed through and slapped onto the ground. With palpable collective relief that here was something to distract them, the four rushed over to see what it was.

Stonearm got there first and picked up a sheet of vellum with something written on it. Stonearm held it in one hand while running a thick finger along the words and mouthing to himself.

“What does it say, you big oaf?” demanded Griselda.

Stonearm was frowning, as though he were having some difficulty with what he was reading, but when he looked up at Griselda he smiled (a good smile, not one of those ‘I’m going to kill you’ smiles).

“Congratulations,” said the orc.

“Congratulations?” said Morden, Griselda, and Kristoff as one.

“This is an invitation,” said Stonearm, waving the vellum at Griselda. “To her wedding.”

“What?”

“Wedding?”

“Here, give that to me,” said Morden, putting a hand out. He scanned it once and then read out loud as though he had to hear it to believe it.

‘To Prisoners it may concern, You are cordially invited to the Ziggurat of Death on the happy occasion of the wedding of Lord Zoon and Griselda at midnight of the full moon, and at which you will be sacrificed. RSVP. (Formal attire.)’

Morden flipped the vellum to see if there was anything else but all it had was an address, ‘Lord Zoon, The Ziggurat of Death, Deathcropolis.’

The grate on the door opened again and several packages were thrust through. Each was a bound bundle with a tag.

Kristoff picked up one and tossed it at Stonearm. “That’s yours.”

There was one for each of them.

“He’s a funny man,” said Stonearm, ripping his package open. Inside was a black shift. The orc put it on quickly. It was floor length and plain. He did a little spin. “Least it fits.”

Morden held his package and tried to work out how he could turn this to his advantage. While he was initially shocked by the invitation he quickly realised that this was the opportunity they needed. They couldn’t possibly escape from the cell, but maybe they could escape getting sacrificed and stop Zoon at his wedding. He wasn’t sure quite how he might do it but he was sure something would come to him.

Meanwhile, Griselda had opened her package and held up a dress. It was beautiful. Unsurprisingly, it was black, covered in jet stones and embroidered with roses and skulls in a silk thread. Low cut, it would without doubt contrast well with Griselda’s pale skin. Morden’s first thought was that he couldn’t wait to see her in it, but then he remembered the reason she was expected to wear it and was not so keen.

“Well, I’m not marrying anyone,” said Griselda. She threw the dress on the ground and glared at Morden. “So what are you going to do about it, Mr ‘I’ve got everything under control’?”

“I don’t particularly want to be sacrificed, either,” said Kristoff. “Anyone know when the full moon is?”

“In about 16 hours,” said Stonearm with certainty.

“How do you know that?” said Morden.

“Just do,” shrugged Stonearm. “It’s an orc thing.”

“Well?” demanded Griselda.

“This isn’t as bad as it looks,” said Morden.

Griselda’s eyebrows raised as though to say ‘oh really?’. “Well I’d like to be fucking told when it’s going to get worse than marrying a fucking lich,” she screamed.

Kristoff and Stonearm winced.

“Calm down,” said Morden. “Everything will be fine.”

“Fine? Fine? I’ll give you fucking fine,” screamed Griselda.

Then something snapped inside Morden. He’d had about enough of this. “Well, it’s not you who’s going to be sacrificed, you selfish bitch,” he shouted back. “At least you’ll still be alive.”

He expected her to recoil at his outburst, but it seemed to have the opposite effect.

“Alive? What, to have little undead babies? You fucking moron, I’d rather be dead.”

“I wish you were,” shouted Morden, and then clamped his mouth shut.

Griselda quivered in front of him.

“You bastard,” she whispered. She stooped and grabbed the package. “You fucking bastard.” She went to the far side of the cell and hunched down. Her shoulders started to shake and Morden was sure she was crying.

“I’ll talk to her,” said Kristoff, putting a hand on Morden’s arm.

“You’ll think of something,” said Stonearm.

“I will?” asked Morden.

“Of course,” said Stonearm. “You’re Dark Lord Morden Deathwing.”

Chapter 45 Gastronomy

Pain is the seasoning of life.

The Dark Lord’s Handbook

It had been a number of years since Chancellor Penbury had seen such a large and well organised army. It was pitched in rolling fields that had been commandeered from local farmers. Lines of tents made neat ranks. On a rough parade square, soldiers drilled. It spoke volumes of its leader, Count Sergei Vladovitch, who was standing with an honour guard ready to welcome their guest. Penbury had travelled light, with only Chidwick and a handful of men, making the best speed they could. Their only stop had been for some special ingredients for the banquet that was being planned for that evening.

As Penbury got out of his carriage, an order was barked and the honour guard snapped to attention. An elderly man in a general’s finery was standing with some officers. The man’s gaze was steady and rested comfortably on the Chancellor. There was an intelligence and steel in the man’s eyes.

“Count Vladovitch,” said Penbury, offering a handshake. “Good to meet you at last.” The Count’s grip was firm and Penbury could feel the man assessing him in the shake, both with grip and eye. Penbury turned to the slightly nervous looking man to the Count’s right. “Baron Fanfaron, a pleasure after all these years. I am so looking forward to this evening.”

“Msr. Chancellor,” replied the Baron, nodding in acknowledgement. “The honour is mine to cook for a palate such as yours.”

“I take it you received all the items I sent ahead?” asked the Chancellor. The last thing he needed now was to find out that his special ingredients had gone astray. So much depended on them.

“They arrived safely last night,” the Count assured him. “You must be tired. If you would follow me I will show you to your quarters.”

“If you will excuse me,” said the Baron, “but I have many preparations to make.”

The Baron scurried off in the direction of a set of tents which were a hive of activity. Open sided, they contained benches and stoves around which a small battalion of chefs manoeuvred. It looked like they were cooking to feed an army (which the Chancellor realised they probably were) rather than just for two.

The Count led him through the camp. As they passed by men, without fail, they gave a salute and it was clear the Count commanded a deal of genuine respect from his men. The Count stopped occasionally for a word with an officer, or an NCO, to deal with matters as minor as a correctly fastened tent to receiving a scout report. The army seemed to be run in a way that Penbury himself would have been proud.

Penbury kept his eyes peeled but he did not spot his man, Snort. But then he would have been disappointed if he had. Though he had faith in Chidwick who trailed behind, there was comfort in Snort’s singular skills being on hand, which he was sure they were.

When not dealing with the odd military matter they came across, the Count was not one for small talk.

“Has our guest arrived?” asked Penbury to break the silence.

“Not as far as I know,” replied the Count. “But then you can never tell with her.”

For the first time, the Chancellor detected a hint of nervousness. It wasn’t surprising.

“Here we are,” said the Count, stopping outside a tent that was set aside from the rest and large enough that you didn’t have to duck to enter it. “We’ve tried to make it comfortable.”

“I’m sure it will be fine,” said the Chancellor. “What time is dinner?”

“Eight o’clock,” said the Count. “I’ll leave you to it. I have an army to look after, you understand.”

The tent proved to be more comfortable than the Chancellor had anticipated. Not that it mattered. While he was a creature of comforts, there were more pressing matters than the surprising presence of a chaise longue (probably borrowed from Fanfaron) and a teak desk (the Count’s, no doubt).

Chidwick set about organising the things that they had brought with them. Toiletries aside, the thing that concerned Penbury the most was a small wooden case. Chidwick placed it carefully on the table and Penbury produced his key for the lock.

Inside was a collection of seven small containers: several vials, two small sealed jars and a tiny silk purse. They contained the antidotes that he would need to take if he was going to survive the entrée. He didn’t have much time. Each had to be taken in particular order and at a precise time between each. The process also had to be completed a specific amount of time prior to the course, and not too soon, in order that otherwise lethal doses would be countered by what he was going to eat.

It was no wonder he was one of a select few who had ever tasted spriggle and survived. There were millions of permutations required to find the precise mix of ingredients, not to mention the harder to find elements, such as the deadly, but rare, miniature crab spider (to be eaten fresh and so was kept in the silk purse). The combination had come after centuries of research by a dedicated group of gastronomes, Les Bons Vivants. When close to death, they would try the latest theoretical permutation seeing as they had nothing to lose. It was only the members of this select group, of whom Penbury was head, who knew the secret, and only Penbury himself who had both the stomach and palate to rise to the challenge.

“Dinner at eight, and so the entrée should be served by nine at the latest,” said Penbury.

“Very good, sir,” said Chidwick. “I’ll confirm with the Baron.”

While Chidwick did so, Penbury started on the breathing and relaxation exercises required. It was found that being near death was also an important part of the process, probably because the body’s actions were all slowed down. It would take thirty minutes or so for him to be ready. Chidwick was back in twenty. Ten minutes after that he helped Penbury eat, drink and sniff each of the components.