The Dark Lord's Handbook (6 page)

Morden was almost dumbstruck. “Wow, that is old.”

“Thank you for reminding me,” said Grimtooth. He glared over his shoulder at his fellows. “Happy now?”

“You don’t look it,” said Morden. “Though I have to say I haven’t met anyone who claims to be as old as you before. You don’t look bad. No, really. You must work out.”

Grimtooth seemed to brighten a little. “It shows?”

“Oh, yes. Definitely.”

There was an embarrassed silence. “Do you think we could talk more privately?” whispered Morden, suddenly aware that there were twenty pairs of ears hanging on his every word.

“Scram,” barked Grimtooth, and the other orcs disappeared in a frenzied scramble.

Morden was relieved to be alone with Grimtooth. He had a thousand questions, but first he needed to get warm. He’d been sitting next to the door-flap for the last ten minutes and there was quite a chill running up under the hem of his coat. He edged himself around out of the draught and warmed his hands. Grimtooth remained standing, head bowed.

“Come sit,” said Morden, realising that the orc was waiting for his command. Though the orc could have ripped him limb from limb and used his sinews to floss, somehow Morden knew that Grimtooth would now only ever do Morden’s bidding even if it cost him his life. At this realisation, a surge of energy swept through his body. So this is what real power felt like.

“I have so many questions,” said Morden when he was comfortable. “Where did you get this book?”

Grimtooth was staring into the flames and began to speak:

“The last Dark Lord was Zoon the Reviled. He had a mighty army and his power covered the land like a bad rash, one that itches and causes extreme discomfort. But he was thrown down, for the salve to his rash bore a righteous weapon and Zoon’s hand was hewn from his body and he fell. A young orc bore witness, and unseen this orc took the hand that was hewn and the book that it clutched and kept it.”

“And that young orc was you?” Morden was quite incredulous at the idea that Grimtooth had witnessed the stuff of legend.

“No, that was my cousin, Nimblefinger. He was always nicking stuff. I got the hand when we were sorting through his belongings after his
accident
.”

Grimtooth shuddered and Morden decided that any accident that made a savage orc such as Grimtooth shake at its memory was probably one best left unexplained.

“But how did you know to find me? And how is it that our names are written in it?”

“I am as puzzled as you, young Morden, as to how our names are written, but they are. We are bound to this book somehow. I have dreams, and those of late had me come here to visit my brethren. I know not why, but I knew you would pass by me; I had been given the name Deathwing in the dreams, and when I first set eyes on you I was sure.”

“But we’ve never met.”

“It was the robe. I was looking for a Dark Lord and there you were, striding into the square in an ankle length black robe, hooded, and with your hands plunged into your sleeves.”

“You’re kidding.”

Grimtooth gave Morden a sidelong look. “Well, what else did I have to go on? Anyhow, when you got close I could smell something different about you.”

“Ah, well. That could be the lotion that matron gave me. I’ve been getting this rash you see.”

“A rash?”

“Yes. And no, it’s not what you’re thinking. My skin sometimes goes a bit…scaly.” Morden couldn’t believe he was telling Grimtooth about his rash. When he’d first gone to matron she’d told him to wear boxing gloves to bed and not to fiddle with himself. When he insisted she take a look at his chest and the rash he had there she was as mystified as he had been. His skin had blackened and become scaled in a small patch over his heart. She’d given him a cream and told him to come back in a week if it didn’t go away.

“It was no lotion I smelt,” said Grimtooth. “It was the smell of ambition and power, a scent the world has not had waft around it for five hundred years. It was the smell of a Dark Lord.”

Again, Morden felt a thrill run through him and deep down he knew there was some truth to the orc’s words. He had no idea what it meant to be a Dark Lord, but the very words, Dark Lord, made his spine tingle and his teeth itch.

“You will set us free, Morden,” said Grimtooth. “For five hundred years we have lived as slaves, a forgotten race, our teeth filed flat, bred like animals to be docile and do the most menial jobs. We have passed into legend but we are still here, a few of us unbent in spirit, waiting. And now my burden is passed to you and you shall lead us. We shall throw off our shackles at last.”

Morden was quite taken aback by the fire in Grimtooth’s words. He was doubtless a proud orc.

“What burden?”

“I have been the bearer of the book all this time. While those around me grow old and die, I remain, destined to forever walk the world, searching for the one that can take the book from the hand and set me free.”

Morden looked at the book and weighed it in his hand. It was without question magic. No other book could write itself as he read, nor include the reader in its words. And to have kept Grimtooth alive so long was further testimony.

“What should I do?” said Morden, suddenly aware of the huge burden that he had taken on. He was to be a Dark Lord and he didn’t have the faintest idea where to start. How could he, a teenage boy, one who had only recently discovered beer, women and a good pipe of weed, be anything in the world, let alone a Dark Lord? Though it thrilled him, it also scared him. His life was more than comfortable. His operation pretty much ran itself. There was no hurry.

“You should go. Return to the monks and read. I shall leave and start to spread the word. A Dark Lord will be rising. Preparations need to be made. Leave it to me.”

“Preparations?”

“We’ve no time to waste. Go. Read. I will return in the coming months.”

“But you haven’t even told me who I am; what I am.”

“There will be time enough, Morden. Go now.”

And with that, Morden found himself being ushered out into the cold and shooed down the street back the way he had come. As he trudged back towards the school, the book clasped firmly under his robe, Morden brooded. Grimtooth was right. He had a lot to learn and he had better be a quick study.

His feet had carried him back to the main square which was now lit with torches to push back the night. Across the square he could hear music and laughter coming from the Slap and Tickle. The school and his bed were in the other direction, but what harm in a pint and pipe before bed? Pulling his hood down over his head to shield it from the bitter wind that came out of the north, he headed to the inn where he knew he could find a dark corner and brood some more, and maybe steal a kiss from Trudy.

Chapter 7 Food and Beer

There is no limit to your genius. Be sure this is well known.

The Dark Lord’s Handbook

Chancellor Penbury considered the choice of dishes laid out on the table. The first was sirloin of Paguar, a rare cat that lived on only one small jungle island, Pag, in the Great Outer Sea and preyed exclusively on a small deer that was also indigenous to the island. It was served on a crisp potato patty with a crescent of puréed cauliflower and a sweet red currant and Port gravy. The meat’s aroma hinted of musky distant lands.

The platter in the centre sported a rough haunch of Mountain Yak served with an unceremonious dollop of celeriac mash and gravy thick enough to paint a wall. It was as inelegant as the first dish was sophisticated but sometimes junk food really hit the spot.

The last dish was a bowl of soup that bubbled and had something swimming in it. An eye stalk occasionally popped out of the pale brown broth and twitched around before plopping back down.

“And this is?” enquired the Chancellor, indicating the soup with the most subtle twitch of a digit.

“Erubian Swamp Broth with a live spriggle served with a side of soda bread,” said a gangling chef standing behind the dish. He was gripping his hands in front of himself and had beads of sweat running down his prodigiously long nose that threatened to drip into the soup.

The Chancellor arched an eyebrow. He’d never had spriggle in a broth; it was normally served in a cage of pork ribs. Spriggle was not only tremendously rare but fantastically dangerous. Only three gastronomes in the last three hundred years had managed to eat one and live to describe its taste. The Chancellor was one of those three, and although there was an exquisite piquant flavour to the spriggle, he hadn’t taken the requisite pain suppressants nor indeed did he have any of the seven poison antidotes to hand.

“I’ll go with the Yak,” said the Chancellor. Though the Pag was tempting, his stomach was feeling a little fragile and he fancied the stodge. “And I’ll have the Pimpaho Red to accompany it.”

“A wonderful choice, sir,” said the wine waiter.

The unwanted dishes were removed and the Yak dish placed in front of the Chancellor. The spriggle chef seemed relieved as he took his dish away. Despite the spriggle’s well known tendency to kill, it was always the chef who got the blame when someone died.

The Yak was good, the gravy every bit as rich and cloying as it had promised, and the celeriac mash was passable. The Chancellor settled into a measured pace. It was a big portion and would take some effort to polish off. The Pimpaho helped wash it down, as he knew it would. Each grape that was used to make the wine was squeezed between the thumb and forefinger of a virgin, which imbued the resultant wine with innocence and freshness; it was a wine whose spirit had not yet been crushed. And it brought out the full flavour of the Yak.

The Chancellor was mopping up when his personal private secretary, Chidwick, slid into the room. He was as thin a man as the Chancellor was bulky, and he had a dark viscosity about his looks.

The Chancellor could see that Chidwick was somewhat agitated, but whatever was disturbing him was still not strong enough to disturb his master while he was eating.

Not fancying the last of the mash, the Chancellor dabbed his lips with his napkin and pushed his chair back. A servant swept in and magicked his plate away.

“Yes, Chidwick?”

“Some disturbing news, Chancellor,” said Chidwick.

The Chancellor raised an eyebrow. He was the richest man alive by far. He was head of the largest merchant cartel that spanned dozens of fiefdoms and kingdoms. There was a three year waiting list for royalty to be invited to dine at his table. For centuries his family had effectively ruled across two continents; perhaps not in name, but certainly in fact. He found it hard to imagine anything that may have been disturbing, except perhaps the failure of the Roseberry harvest, the rarest and most sweet of all fruits that he alone in the world ate.

“Oh, really?”

Chidwick was the Chancellor’s aide for many reasons. Aside from his efficiency, ruthlessness, superior intelligence and unswerving loyalty, he was also one of the few men that was not afraid of the Chancellor. But now, he didn’t seem to be able to look the Chancellor in the eye. Rather than be angry, the Chancellor felt something jump inside him, and it wasn’t wind. Perhaps Chidwick did have something interesting to say.

“Spit it out, man,” said the Chancellor.

Chidwick’s chest heaved and he at last brought his eyes up to meet his master’s. “We have a serious beer problem,” he blurted.

Now it made sense. Beer was close to Penbury’s heart, and indeed he considered himself a foremost authority on all matters pertaining to beer. Beer and its production was also a vital grease to the economy. In a world where beer was safer to drink than the water, it was a matter of importance that beer was both plentiful and cheap so that the average working man could turn up to work half cut. Better a slightly drunk worker than a dead one.

“Explain,” said Penbury as Chidwick hovered.

Chidwick laid out what had come to his attention. There was a new force in brewing it seemed; one that had managed to corner the vast majority of the Western Reaches beer production. It was obvious to the Chancellor that this person, whoever he was, was both skilful and yet stupid. They obviously did not understand that such activity would not go unnoticed.

“Very good, Chidwick. Excellent work. You were right to bring this to me. I want you to go and pay this brewer a visit. Wrap up his operation and bring him here. Do you know where he is based?”

“Bindelburg, sir.”

“The Brothers of Divine Brewing?” asked Penbury. They had been purveyors of the finest beers for centuries once all the time they had spent in praying had been freed up through drunkenness. “Curious. Nevertheless. Go Chidwick. Settle this matter quickly. We can’t have anyone messing around with beer.”

Chapter 8 First Lesson – Preparations

Suffer no fools. Rather make fools suffer.

The Dark Lord’s Handbook

With all matters for the day taken care of, Morden settled himself with a mug of tea, a plate of squashed fly biscuits and the Dark Lord’s Handbook. He hadn’t had a chance to read any of it so far as once back at the school he was quickly snowed under with his empire of organised crime, the majority of which revolved around extortion and selling beer. All thought of being a Dark Lord had gone when faced with the reality of running a business.