by Paul Dale
“Boss!”
Stonearm. Only he could call Morden ‘boss’ and get away with it. Morden turned to greet his friend and senior general-cum-admiral. He approached Morden with his arms spread. It had been so long since he had seen Stonearm that Morden didn’t mind when the big orc scooped him up and crushed him in his ever-strong arms. Even if it wasn’t the behaviour a Dark Lord should allow, Morden felt he needed some love given all the crap he’d had to put up with recently.
“Good to see you, my friend,” said Morden between clenched teeth. “Now put me down before the guard gets here.”
Stonearm dropped Morden as the first of the guard caught up with him and piled into the sacrificial area, where they hurriedly formed ranks and stood to attention. They were a mean-looking bunch. Stonearm was the biggest orc Morden knew, but the guardsmen were not far off. They were bigger than his own personal guard, had bigger teeth, shinier armour (as much as black plate could shine) and wicked-looking black lacquer scabbards at their sides. They stood as if they were chiselled from rock, with not even the wind daring to move a hair out of place.
“Impressive,” said Morden. He strode to the end of the line and thrust his face close to the first orc. The guard didn’t flinch or twitch. Very impressive, given a Dark Lord’s nose was a mere few inches from his own. Most mortals would be reduced to festering piles of mush by coming within ten feet of Morden’s powerful aura. These orcs were clearly made of stern stuff and totally loyal. Morden walked the line, inspecting each closely.
“And what’s your name?” he asked, stopping at an orc towards the end of the line.
“Chang, my lord.” Chang was the biggest in the guard and an eastern orc. When he answered Morden’s question his eyes did not move an inch from their forward stare.
“And what do you do, Chang, when you’re not on guard?”
This time the orc’s eyes darted in Morden’s direction.
“Uhm. I’m not sure I understand the question, my lord.”
“Hobbies, Chang. Do you have any hobbies?”
Chang’s nose wrinkled and his eyes took on a look that combined a hint of consternation with a touch of perplexity. “Hobbies, my lord?”
Morden was enjoying himself now. If there was one thing he had learnt, and he had learnt many things, it was that everyone had a weakness. The last thing Chang expected from a Dark Lord was convivial chatter.
“Never mind. Carry on.”
Morden continued down the line. If Stonearm had done nearly as good a job with the rest of the men at his disposal, then he would have exceeded Morden’s expectations. While he’d known Stonearm was no dummy, despite his outward demeanour, he had not appreciated how good his old friend was when it came to knocking orcs into a fighting force.
“Fishing.”
Morden stopped and turned slowly back on himself with measured gravitas. “Fishing?”
“Fishing, my lord.” It was Chang. The poor orc’s left hand was beginning to shake. “I like to fish.”
Morden stalked back to Chang and thrust his hooded face close to the orc’s nose. “You like to what?” he hissed.
“Fish?” gulped Chang.
Beads of sweat formed on Chang’s brow. Morden indulged the fun he was having and reached out and wiped one with a bony digit.
“Good,” said Morden with as much malevolence as he could muster. Chang’s right leg began to wobble. “I hope you catch …” The orc’s left leg joined its partner in shaking. “… a big one …” Poor Chang’s lips were now quivering. “… the next time … you go fishing.”
Slowly, like a tree falling, Chang toppled backwards and hit the stone floor with a crash.
“Excellent job, Stonearm,” said Morden. “Fine orcs. You two. Help him up. Stonearm, lead on.”
The guards on either side of Chang grabbed him by the arms and dragged him off. The rest remained ramrod straight and facing forward. The biggest of them had just been knocked over with a few words. Morden was sure they got the message and word of what had happened would spread. He liked Chang, and felt sorry for him, but an example of his power had to be made. It would serve to reinforce his credentials as a Dark Lord who meant business.
Stonearm led him down the stairs into the ziggurat. The air immediately cooled but remained laden with moisture. The walls were slick with it and the memories flooded back to when he had been captive here with Griselda. She had been irresistible. Her fury at her capture and treatment, and most especially the curses she threw at Zoon, were clear in his mind. She may not have been the best of poets, but she knew how to swear. And if sacrificial altars were made for beautiful victims then none were more beautiful than her. The fire in her made her natural good looks come alive in a way that had captivated him with the first words she had ever spoken to him: ‘Get fucked.’
Morden sighed to himself. He did miss her. It was a shame things had ended the way they did, but in the end he had been faced with a choice, and it was in fact no choice. He was a Dark Lord and there was no room for romance and happiness with a woman if he was going to bring wrath and ruin to the world.
“And how are things, Stonearm?”
Morden directed the question at the orc’s back as they made their way down the spiral stair, emerging into a small antechamber. It was here they had sat those three years ago, awaiting their fate.
“The navy is ready and eager to sail. The marines are fully trained and want nothing more than to do battle. Everything is ready as ordered, my lord.”
“Wait.”
Stonearm stopped at the head of the next stair down and turned to face his master.
“My lord?”
“How are things with you, Stonearm?”
“You’re not going to make me fall over, are you, my lord?”
“No. Of course not. Never mind. So everything is ready. Good. Is there anything else I should know about?”
“There is one thing, my lord. I was taking you there now. It’s something I found in Zoon’s old quarters.”
This sounds interesting, thought Morden. “Intriguing. Lead on.”
Zoon’s old quarters had undergone a change since Morden had last seen them. The stench of death had gone and the once-barren room was now done in an orcish décor of wall hangings, braziers (more for light than warmth), a large fur-covered bed, wooden chests, and a keg on a short stand. The room was finished with an assortment of clothes and undergarments that were strewn around to give the place a lived-in look, not dissimilar in many ways to Morden’s own bedchamber around which Griselda used to throw her dresses and undergarments. At first, Morden had found the sight of lacy underwear carelessly tossed over a chair, or left where it had fallen on the floor, deeply arousing. It didn’t take long for it to annoy him as he found himself picking up after her all the time. It wasn’t as though he tossed off his black robe and left it lying like so much clutter.
“Excuse the mess, my lord,” said Stonearm, as he hurriedly swept up armfuls of clothing with used dinner plates and half empty bottles. “I don’t have company that often.”
“I’ve seen worse,” said Morden. He picked up a portrait frame from the side-table next to the bed. It was a painting of himself in his robe, grasping the book, with a dragon flying behind him and a volcano in the background. “Nice painting.”
Stonearm had dumped the mess in a corner and thrown a rug over it so it looked like a rather uncomfortable floor cushion.
“You had something to show me?” asked Morden.
Stonearm went to the trunk at the end of his bed. He produced a key from a chain hung around his neck and unlocked it. “Yes, my lord.”
“You don’t have to bother with the ‘my lord’ when it’s the two of us, Stonearm.”
Stonearm frowned. “I think I’d prefer it as it is, my lord. I know you’re my friend, but you’re also a Dark Lord and my boss. I suppose I could mix it up and use ‘boss’ if that would be better?”
“Either will do.”
“Okay, boss. Well, a
s you can see, I’ve commandeered Zoon’s old quarters and I found this book hidden in a secret compartment behind some loose stones. Over there, on that wall. Low down. Now I know that book you have is real important, and I figured any book Zoon may have hidden is probably just as important. So I kept it. Here.”
Stonearm produced a rectangular, cloth-wrapped bundle and handed it to Morden. Half expecting some kind of reaction to his taking it, Morden was disappointed to feel nothing. He sensed nothing from inside the cloth.
“Have you read it?”
“I still can’t read, boss. I’ve been meaning to learn but it’s been so busy with all the planning and strategy and whatnot. I’ve not found the time. It does have words in. Not like the one you got.”
Morden’s handbook did have words, but they only appeared to him. So this was probably an ordinary book. Perhaps it was Zoon’s diary. The Diary of a Dark Lord. It had a certain ring to it. Morden unwrapped the cloth. Anticipating something that would fill a mortal with dread simply by seeing it, perhaps bloodstains or a death’s head, Morden was mildly surprised to find a worn, brown leather book with ‘ZOON’ embossed in the cover. It looked even more likely it was a diary. He opened the cover and was met with a title page: The Book of the Dead. An appropriate title, thought Morden.
Morden started to read. The first two pages were much like a diary. The way they were written, it sounded like Zoon had not yet become the undead Dark Lord lich he was later in life. In fact, it read more like the depressed ramblings of a normal man who spent most of his time feeling sorry for himself, having been slighted by the world. Skimming through, Zoon had been jilted and run off. Finding himself lost and in the far north, he had been rescued by some weird monk types. Zoon had been taught by them from a book called The Book of the Dead and he had copied sections of it into his diary. The personal entries became less frequent as the writings he copied took over. Certain sections had big arrows pointing at paragraphs. Others were ringed in violent circles, making some the words hard to read. This was interesting stuff.
Morden closed the book. “I’m going to have to keep this, Stonearm.”
The orc shrugged. “Figured as much. Anything interesting?”
“Possibly. It’s hard to tell. Zoon’s handwriting is pretty bad. There may be something in there. Anyway, enough of that. I have some good news and some bad news. Which would you like first?”
Stonearm scratched his nose with one hand and his crotch with the other. “The bad?”
“Kristoff is dead and Griselda has left me.”
It was odd hearing it from his own mouth. Stonearm was the first one he had told so openly. Feeling suddenly weak at the knees, he dropped into a chair and let himself sag. Being here, where they had got married, consummated that marriage, and been happy, was getting to him. It was good only Stonearm was here to see him like this. What kind of Dark Lord would let this get to them? Zoon certainly wouldn’t have. From the little he had read, he may have felt rejected and depressed as a young man but he had bounced back, become the all-powerful Zoon the Reviled, and come close to conquering the world. Morden had to pull himself together. Griselda was gone and that was it. He had his destiny to face, to bring the world under his rule for its own good.
Stonearm looked aghast at the news. “Griselda left you? And Kristoff is dead? What happened?”
Indeed, what had happened? Where had it all gone wrong? Perhaps he should have paid more attention to the Handbook. It was clear about Dark Lords and relationships. The two didn’t go together. Given any good relationship was about sharing and compromise, it was inappropriate for a Dark Lord to have a wife in anything other than name, or as a trophy to dangle off an arm. A Dark Lord did not share or compromise. In hindsight, it had been a mistake. That didn’t make him feel any better. He had thought as a Dark Lord he could have it all, when now it was clear he could not. That wasn’t quite true. He could have forced Griselda to be whatever he wanted. She would have been helpless before his will and done whatever he bid, in whatever fashion he could imagine, and all for his personal gratification. It sounded fun but really it was no different than spending some personal time with the more erotic pamphlets that circulated the fortress.
“Boss?”
“Sorry, Stonearm, caught in a brood there for a second. What happened? Let’s say, my father saw a window of opportunity and he took it.”
Morden wondered whether he should tell Stonearm everything but decided against it. Stonearm was going to have to work with his father in the coming months and he didn’t want any bad blood between them. He knew Stonearm liked both Griselda and her father. His naturally jovial and optimistic nature seemed to protect him against Kristoff’s ability to depress anyone who spent any time with him. If Stonearm learnt of Kristoff’s defenestration it could only turn out badly.
“As for Griselda … she took her father’s death badly. Things had not been going well between us. I’d been neglecting her, what with all this preparation for conquering the world and everything. On the bright side, I have a Black Dragon Flight.”
“Yes!” said Stonearm, brightening. “Great entrance. What’s the plan now?”
“I’m glad you asked, my old friend. Here’s what I want you to do.”
Chapter 39 Training Body and Mind
No need to fear the man with muscles, but be wary of the man with a brain.
The Dark Lord’s Handbook
Compared to the serenity of the place when Edwin had arrived, Solitude had become a relative madhouse in the last few weeks. As the days had lengthened and the snows receded, the elven army in the upper tiers of Solitude had woken. Edwin had helped at first, but once the first were awake they had made it clear his help was no longer needed and he should prepare himself for a long march. As Solitude woke, he felt increasingly marginalised and ignored, and this made him angry. He was used to being a leader. Instead, he was being treated more like a child, which he supposed he must seem like to the immortals who now thronged the chambers and hallways. He was also a stranger, whereas he could see old friendships being renewed and the excitement that ran through the place at the prospect of making one more stand against a Dark Lord.
More often, Edwin stayed in his room, did his exercises, and meditated. He didn’t even need to leave his room to eat as his meals were left outside his door. His meditations were becoming more difficult as he was anxious to be gone and the peacefulness of Solitude was broken by the sheer numbers who now lived there. Today was no exception. Worse, even, as there was a new sound to distract him: the clash of arms. It was a sound that woke a slumbering spark inside him. Dressed in a robe, wearing thick socks and sandals, he had no weapon or armour. His exercises were open-handed with imaginary foes. He was tempted to go see if he may join the elves training for the battle to come.
His meditation was further disturbed by a knock at his door. Edwin exhaled and let his eyes fully open.
“Who is it?” he asked.
The door swung open and Kezef entered with two elves in tow.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Kezef with a smile that gave lie to his platitude. “We’ve disturbed your meditation. We can come back later if you like.”
“You’re here now,” said Edwin, rising from his cushion. He went to his bedside table and took a drink of water from a clay cup. “What can I do for you?”
“It’s what I can do for you,” said Kezef, beaming. “We have been remiss and left you out of things. You must forgive us. There’s been so much going on, so many preparations to make, so many to wake. We thought it was time you started your training. Assuming you still want to be a hero?”
Edwin sent his self-pity packing like a house guest who had overstayed their welcome. “I never stopped.”
“Good. Very good. Well, in that case, I expect you’re a little rusty, so I thought you may benefit from a couple of companions who may help you in your preparations. May I introduce Namu and Ga’brel.”
“I don’t need minders,” said Edwin. “Gi
ve me armour and a weapon. I’ll be fine.”
Kezef’s smile widened. “Indeed. You misunderstand. Ga’brel and Namu are not minders, or sidekicks for that matter. They are experts in various disciplines that may help you, should you find yourself facing a Dark Lord.”
“I know how to fight.”
“Yes … I’m sure you do. If Morden is good enough to face you with a sword, I am sure there will only be one winner, but I doubt he will. Morden will be smarter than that and he will be strong. You have started down the path with your meditation, but you need to travel further. You need to strengthen your mind so it can stand against a Dark Lord and you are not reduced to a gibbering wreck. Then there is the small matter of magic.”
“Magic? You think me a fool. I am no child to believe in such fancy.”
“You mean a fancy like immortal beings lying asleep for hundreds of years only to wake and march forth to face a Dark Lord in battle? That kind of fancy? Or do you mean the fancy that is a man who can become a dragon and breathe fire? No? How about the fancy that is a sword which sucks the life force from its foes and talks to you in your sleep?”
Kezef had a point. “All right. But I’d like armour and a sword first.”
“Excellent. I’ll leave you to get acquainted.”
Kezef made his exit, leaving Edwin with his two new companions, who both looked as pleased with the prospect as he was. Edwin thought Namu was a woman, though he found it hard to tell elven men and women apart as the men looked so effeminate, the women tended towards the flat-chested end of the scale, and both were slim. Edwin preferred his women with a few more pounds and plenty more curves. Namu had straight, black hair that shone—another common characteristic among elves— almond eyes, a short nose, and thinly curved lips. For an elf, she was quite attractive, though characteristically lacking in the bust area. Ga’brel was taller than his companion and marginally more masculine. His smooth skin looked like it had never needed the attention of a razor and his hair was in the kind of condition that in Edwin’s mind was the demesne of women. It was hard to tell what Ga’brel’s eyes were like as he was taller than Edwin—which was impressive given Edwin was taller than most men—and he looked down at Edwin through the nostrils of his aquiline nose. Thin lips expressed nothing but disdain.
