by Paul Dale
All that stood in their way was a pathetic rabble of a few thousand knights, noblemen, and hangers-on. The only real problem was their leader, Griselda. Morden knew how stubborn she could be, and how angry she got when she didn’t get her way. When he had agreed to his father’s plan, he had thought it an opportunity to get some work done while she was away and, once the world was under his dominion, they would reconcile. This seemed unlikely now. Here she was, directly opposing him with an army. It put him in a difficult position. The last thing he wanted was to fight her—he never came out of their arguments ahead—and yet she gave him little choice. He couldn’t ignore this challenge to his authority with his entire army present, not to mention his father and Lady Deathwing. It was hard enough keeping them in check without showing weakness. His father had never approved of Griselda, and Lady Deathwing’s contempt for him, and his affections for his estranged wife, were clear to see.
Today was the day, then. Today they would have to settle things once and for all.
Morden had finished reading the last words of wisdom from his Handbook and settled it into its inner pocket in his robe. There was nothing else for it to say. It was down to him now. He had to go out and show the world this time was different. This time, the Dark Lord would triumph and a new age would come to the world, an age where he kept the promise he had made to the orcs all those years ago. The shackles of oppression would be thrown off, the rich would be toppled from their lofty seats of power, and an age of egalitarianism would come into being, with the one exception being himself.
He took several deep breaths, more out of habit than need, and stepped from his tent. A glitter of generals, Field Marshal Stonearm foremost amongst them, awaited him, his personal guard at rigid attention providing an avenue through the army. To one side his charger, which had been specially selected for its size, the utter blackness of its coat, and its docility, was held waiting for him to mount. Morden would have preferred not to ride but he’d been convinced he had to ride into battle on the back of this black stallion.
“All is ready, Field Marshal?” he asked.
“The army is deployed and awaiting your pleasure,” said Stonearm stiffly.
Morden took the reins of his steed (in his mind he called it Rampage, which was the last thing it was inclined to do), and mounted. Rampage was a huge stallion, and from his back Morden was afforded a fine view of his army, stretching off in every direction. When the nearest saw him, they called his name. It was taken up and spread as a wave of sound, filling the air with a thunder of voices, which was louder than the real thunder that came from the storm clouds above. Morden had never consciously tried to affect the weather but it did seem to get stormy whenever he was around. Black clouds, spiked with lightning, filled the sky above his army and to the east. The only clear sky lay off to the northwest, up in the hills that formed an arc above Firena.
Morden gently spurred Rampage and he obediently plodded between the ranks of his guard. He rode to the front of the army where his cannon had been positioned on a slight fold in the otherwise flat country. His father and his wife, along with their offspring, loosely gathered in a bunch and looking surly as teenagers were prone to do, waited for him. Lady Deathwing would be leading her children into battle, while his father oversaw the cannon, having pleaded to his wife he was unfit for combat due to the headaches he still suffered from the beating he had taken. Whether this was true or, more likely, that he was lazy and a coward, was of no concern to Morden. He had plenty of firepower in the remaining Deathwing clan to get the job done. And he wanted his father in reserve with the cannon, should he be needed.
From his position at the front of the army the enemy was clear to see, less than a mile away across the plain. It looked pretty with its ranks of glistening knights, rows of bowmen behind hastily entrenched spikes, and a rabble of footmen to either side. The plan had been for Morden to ride up and down to show himself, speak rousing words to his army, and then send them to their deaths and his glory while he retreated tactfully to the rear, out of harm’s way. It was a good plan but one that had not been told to the opposing army. From the ranks of knights, a rider rode out and proceeded to gallop up and down the front of the army waving a sword that glistened brightly in the small amount of light it could catch. The rider was slight of figure, with long golden hair. It could only be one person: Griselda. As she rode, her army cheered, her name carrying to Morden on the wind.
His own army muttered around him. When the orcs started to catcall and shout insults, Morden decided it was time he put on his own show. He spurred Rampage forward and stood in the stirrups as he had practised. When it came to a personal weapon, he had settled on a mace (though not a massive one), and he held it aloft in one hand, drawing on what strength he had to keep it there. It was a lot heavier than he would have liked. At the sight of their Dark Lord, riding along the front, his army once more called his name and the earth shook as thousands of orcs stamped their feet. Morden rode for a hundred yards, turned around, and came back along the front of the army. It would have taken him most of the rest of the day to reach the farthest limit of his army, so vast was it. He couldn’t imagine how Griselda and her ragtag army could hope to stand against this might. There was no sign of the Fae, and even if they did make an appearance, they couldn’t do anything in the face of so many.
He drew up his horse in the centre of the line of cannon and faced his army. He could hardly believe that only a few years ago he had been a young man in a school, with a throne in a disused store cupboard. Now here he was, in front of a horde of orcs, about to finish the conquest of the civilised world. And there was Stonearm, the big orc who had rescued him from Penbury’s clutches. A steadfast friend, now field marshal, he towered over those around him, resplendent in his black plate armour, a club the size of a tree in one hand, and a shield that looked like a barn door on his arm. Morden was sure if he asked him, Stonearm would single-handedly take on all comers for his master.
Morden felt a lump in his throat. It was all getting too emotional. Time to get things moving.
“TODAY IS THE DAY!”
The last time the world had heard a sound so loud was when Firerock Mountain had erupted. Ranks of nearby orcs were knocked off their feet. Of those within fifty yards, only Stonearm and the dragons remained standing.
“Today is the day!” he repeated, taking it down a notch. His enthusiasm had got the better of him. He didn’t want to kill his own orcs before the battle had even started. “Today is the day when all we have worked for comes to fruition. Today is the day we finally put all ills behind us and take back what is ours. Today, you truly become free orcs. One more battle. One more fight. All that stands in the way is this pathetic army of fops and half-wits. No, don’t laugh. At least they tried. Though hopeless, they at least managed to turn up. It won’t be much of a battle, and for that I am sorry, but enjoy it as much as you can. And when you are victorious, in about twenty minutes or so I would say, then Firena is ours, and all that is within its walls is yours to do with as you please. Get drunk, have a good time. You deserve it. We have come a long way to reach this point. Now let’s finish it!”
It wasn’t what he had planned when he had sat down the night before and penned a speech, but it would do. He had originally gone for something more epic but the occasion was getting the better of him. He was so proud of what he and this army, which cheered his name and called for more, had achieved. When all was done, and he was master of the world, and they had all gone home to their wives and children, he would miss this.
“MORDEN DEATHWING!”
The voice was shrill, surprisingly loud, and from behind him. He turned in his saddle and there she was. On a white mare, of a size to rival his own steed, Griselda had ridden out from her army and called his name from a few hundred yards away. That she could be heard at all was impressive. She looked spectacular, bright silver in the darkness, lightning reflecting off her polished armour.
“Morden Deathwing, com
e and face me, you bastard.”
Catcalls and whistles rose from the ranks of orcs, along with unsavoury requests for Griselda to expose herself for their pleasure.
“She will not be getting them out,” he said, turning to face his troops, who fell silent as his power ran over them. “Stonearm, what is that she has on a leash?”
“Hard to tell, my lord. A battle pig?”
“Morden, you coward. Are you too scared to face me, you undead piece of shit?”
Morden had become well-read in the previous few years, as well-read as a Dark Lord could become when he had as much as he had to do. As well as the Handbook, he’d read mainly histories, and the odd comedic romance in the early days after his marriage. In none of those histories had language like this been reported. He presumed that whenever there was a major event such as this, when a Dark Lord crushed the last hope of the world, somewhere to one side there were a gaggle of historians, scratching furiously as they bore witness to the events. Or, more likely, they made it all up after the event based on what they thought had happened and a few drunken post-battle interviews.
“Don’t do this, my lord.” Stonearm had stepped up to his horse and was holding Rampage by the rein. “It will only end badly.”
“Do I look stupid, Field Marshal?”
It had only been the previous evening he had been going over today with the Handbook and it had given him clear and unwarranted advice on how a Dark Lord should never engage in single combat, especially if it was with an estranged wife. He was no fool. She had that damned sword for one. Not that he thought he couldn’t win a fight. He may not be great when it came to combat, but he was sure he was still much better than she was. He was a Dark Lord and she was a mediocre poet with a questionable line in abuse. There was no way he was going to go out there and embarrass himself by facing her. Who did she think she was? There was a battle to be fought. Now was not the time or place for her to air their marital issues.
“Lord Deathwing. Be ready to fire on my command,” ordered Morden, shaking Stonearm free of his reins and spurring Rampage to one side of the cannon. Griselda was dead in line and about two hundred yards away. Even his orcs couldn’t miss at that range.
“Morden Deathwing, so-called Dark Lord, face me like a man, or would you like me to tell your army what kind of a man you really are?”
She was bluffing. Besides, as far as he remembered it, their love life had never been a problem, at least not performance-wise. It was true it had dropped off in recent years but he’d been busy, and he’d become increasingly undead.
“Are you going to let her get away with that, son?” asked his father. “We Deathwings have a reputation to uphold. Shall I fire?”
Morden shook his head and raised his arm. “On my signal. Only then do you fire.”
“Too scared to face a woman? Too scared to come and do a man’s job, and instead have your snivelling orc minions do your dirty work for you? The great and mighty Dark Lord Morden. How the world trembles. How can you be master of the world when you cannot even master me? Craven. Weak. Terrible in bed. Morden the Flaccid.”
“That’s it, son. If you’re not going to do something about this, I will.”
His father was right. He’d had enough. Who did she think she was? He was a Dark Lord, not some boy to be taunted and shamed in front of his army. He had his reputation to think of here. He could not let her sit there and spew this bile. If he let her get away with this, even if he cut her down with cannon, it would always be in the minds of those who had seen and heard this. He didn’t have the balls to face his wife. He would forever be undermined, even if she were dead. Not that he wanted her dead. He just wished she’d shut up for once. This was going to end. Now.
“No need, Father. I’ve got this.”
Morden spurred Rampage hard and his stallion leapt forward at the shock. At the sight of their Dark Lord riding out, the army once more roared his name. Trying hard not to fall, Morden galloped towards Griselda, mustering his power as he did. Inside, the dragon popped its eyes open. Morden could feel its interest. And lust. There was a fair maiden on a white mare and he was galloping towards her. This is what dragons lived for. He was a Deathwing and he would silence her, one way or another.
At his approach, Griselda’s horse reared up and she struggled to keep it under control. He pulled up Rampage, coming to a halt ten yards from where she still struggled with her horse. He could see now she did, in fact, have a pig on a leash at her side. It was terrified. Not surprising, given it was so close to a Dark Lord sitting on a massive black stallion.
“Nice swine,” he remarked, as she finally managed to gain control of her mount.
“It’s a pig. I call it Morden. I’m going to—”
“Stonearm told me. Bacon sandwiches. What do you want, Griselda? Can’t we do this after the battle?”
“For a start, don’t interrupt me and let me speak. That’s one of your problems. It’s all about you. Well, I’m sick of it.”
“That’s not fair. I’ve always been a Dark Lord, ever since we met. What did you expect? That I’d change my ways? You knew I’d always want to conquer the world. Is this about your father?”
“My father? The man you drove to suicide because you wouldn’t let him find his son? The man who inspired me with his soaring verse? My own flesh and blood. I can’t imagine how that would upset me.”
Morden knew he hadn’t been the best husband. He also knew he hadn’t been the worst. That she hated him for something he hadn’t done was irksome. Well, now was a good time as any for the truth. It’s not as though it could get any worse. After all, she was here to kill him with a soul-sucking magic sword. The marriage was pretty much over.
“About that. Your father didn’t commit suicide. He was murdered. Now, don’t look at me like that. It wasn’t me. You know how squeamish I am. I couldn’t murder anyone. It was my father. He threw him out of the window so you’d blame me and leave. I knew you wouldn’t believe me if I told you the truth. Not then. But now? What have I got to gain by lying now? Kristoff loved you, Griselda. He wouldn’t have left you.”
Griselda’s eyes narrowed and her bottom lip trembled beneath gritted teeth.
“Your father killed mine and you did nothing about it. You think that’s better?”
She had a point. When said out loud it didn’t sound much better at all. Probably worse, in fact, but what could he have done? He needed his father, his father’s wife, and their offspring. The Black Dragon Flight was the foundation of his power. Without them, he was just another Dark Lord with a big orc army. It was his edge.
“Perhaps not. But it was too late. I liked Kristoff.”
“Liar.”
“All right, so his poetry was pretty bad, and he was miserable all the time, and moaned about Edwin—who, I might remind you, tried to kill me. But apart from that, I did like your father.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Let’s get this over with, shall we? I’m going to make you sorry you ever married me.”
“I already am.”
“You bastard—”
“No, I don’t mean it like that. I’m sorry it turned out this way, that’s all.”
“And to think there was a time when I loved you. I’m such an idiot. Fuck. I’m going to enjoy chopping you into bits.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. And I’m going to feed your marrow to my pig, fuck wit.”
Rampage was nibbling on grass but raised its head when Griselda drew her sword. When blue fire leapt along its length, Morden felt a sudden surge of panic. He didn’t believe for a second Griselda could do him any harm, but maybe that sword could. His mace felt inadequate in comparison. Maybe he could talk her out of this. As he spoke, he drew on his powers:
“You think you can win? No man can kill me.”
“Hah! I am no—”
“Or woman. Or orc, or whatever. I don’t want to hurt you. Put down the sword, it’s over.”
“We’ll see about that, li
mp dick.”
His words were having no effect. His voice, which would reduce most to gibbering wrecks, washed over her, leaving her unaffected. That damned sword must be stronger than he thought. With panic rising, he raised his mace in what he hoped was a threatening manner. There was a chance she might back off if she thought he would defend himself.
Instead, she spurred her horse and jumped forward. Then everything went crazy. From behind him, there was a thunderous explosion and something went whistling past him. One second Griselda was there, the next she was gone, knocked backwards from her saddle, her horse veering off to one side, and the pig squealing and running straight at him. Rampage reared in consternation and Morden had to hold on as best he could with one hand while trying to retain his balance, waving his mace around in circles. His horse bolted and he rocked back in the saddle, hanging on for grim death, his mace high in the air. As he charged forward, he glanced back to see what had happened to Griselda. An unmoving silver-clad body lay in the dirt, her sword stuck in the ground next to her. He feared the worst, but there was nothing he could do on his out-of-control steed.
Ahead, the enemy army was waiting, and from it came a great scream, then they started towards him. From behind came an answering roar and more explosions. Cannonballs went shrieking past him, and where they hit dirt, great spurts of mud flew up, still far short of the line of knights galloping out to meet him. He pulled as hard as he could on the reins in an attempt to slow down the well-named Rampage, but to no avail. Whether he liked it or not, he was leading the charge.
