The Dark Lord's Handbook (17 page)

You must be dynamic. Stride around and make the ground shake and tremble as much as those who hear your words. Your gaze should shatter walls as well as will. A throw of your arm should level mountains and have all present ducking for cover. Your laugh should work in variations of derisive, arrogant and maniacal. Pound your fist. Raise your voice from quiet sibilant threats to deafening prophecies of doom for those who oppose you.

Lastly, take pleasure in the monologue. You can’t fake it, so put everything you have into every word and gesture. It’s your big chance to enter folklore. A good monologue will be repeated the length and breadth of the land and make you legend. Be feared. Be admired. Be remembered. Be Morden.

Chapter 22 Lawyers

You never bluff. Ever.

The Dark Lord’s Handbook

As was his custom, Chancellor Penbury took breakfast at seven and went over the pamphlets that were sent to him daily from every part of the world. The newer printed ones were the best quality, but the wood block pamphlets, though barely literate – one was even produced on bark – were far more entertaining. There was something about barbarian humour that hit a nerve with the Chancellor. He particularly liked the series on Bonehead the Barbarian and his adventures, many of which ended with graphic depictions of close encounters with evil seductresses followed by an inevitable beheading. It was coarse but he couldn’t help but chuckle.

The real reason for reading so much was so that he could keep up with what was going on in the civilised world, but that was getting more difficult. The printed pamphlets these days spent less time exhorting the populace to overthrow a cruel baron, or worship this idol or that, and more on how Princess Sasha of Brudweldland had been seen going for long rides with her Champion without a suitable chaperone. The cartoons were becoming more graphic, and in some instances there was almost no news to be seen but for the proliferation of phalli and breasts. Setting the results of the last week’s Pig Ball League aside, the Chancellor indulged himself with a sigh.

“Look at this, Chidwick,” said Penbury, indicating the pamphlets to his personal private secretary standing attentively to his right.

“Sir?”

“Tits and balls, Chidwick. It’s all tits and balls,” said Penbury. “What is the world coming to?”

“That’s the gutter pamphlets for you, sir.”

“What ever happened to the other ones, Chidwick? You know, the ones you had to fold out and had print on both sides? With a word puzzle?”

“Market forces, sir. Those big old ones were only good for one thing, so they say.”

Chidwick had a point and Penbury had to admit he’d been hoisted by his own petard. After all, market forces were his Big Thing. Though controversial at the time, once corporate heads had understood that market forces and free markets were two different things, and that free markets were not so much free as whatever-the-Chancellor-wanted markets, they had come around. “So what are they good for, Chidwick? Besides expanding the mind and communicating valuable information across populations?”

Chidwick shuffled his feet. For some reason his PPS had never been comfortable with sarcasm. “They are quite big, and if you’re ever caught short, adequately durable.”

“So we’re left with pamphlets that are little more than privy paper?” said Penbury, indicating once more the pile on the table, “Is that it?”

“It would seem so, yes, sir,” said Chidwick.

Penbury pushed his breakfast plate aside and made a mental note to remind his chef that although his physicians advised against too much salt, seasoning was the core of all good food, even if it was only scrambled eggs with a side of bacon.

“Enough of that for now. What have we today, Chidwick?”

His PPS pulled a sheaf from his tunic and examined it. “We have a petitioning group from the wheat guild.”

“And what are they petitioning for?” The Chancellor raised a finger to stop his PPS speaking. “No, let me guess. They think that they have a better understanding of global economics than my good self and believe that I should increase the bushel price on the wheat markets with a well chosen word?”

“Indeed,” said Chidwick, nodding his head in recognition of his master’s astute insight.

“Well let’s send them packing and save an hour shall we? What’s next?”

“There’s the lawyers you asked for, sir,” said Chidwick.

“Excellent!” Now this was more like it. Penbury had almost forgotten about his little Dark Lord problem, what with increased piracy in the Southern Sea, the spat in Lower Kris that threatened the spice route and a blight of black fly in his garden. “Get them in.”

“Hrmph.”

The polite cough to the Chancellor’s left almost gave him a heart attack. Even Chidwick seemed startled.

The man who had seemingly appeared out of nowhere and was now standing not two yards from Penbury was of medium height and build, and had brown eyes. Little else could be discerned due to the fact he was entirely wrapped in black leather and cloth. Black hilted swords remained sheathed in black lacquered scabbards. If he was an assassin then he was confident. The Chancellor wondered what had happened to the five or six men that watched him at all times.

As if to answer the latter, his bodyguard came bundling into the room, swords drawn and shouting. One launched himself horizontally at the intruder in an attempt at a tackle but missed as the intruder twisted his body to one side and watched as the guard sailed past. The guard’s head met the wall with an unhealthy crack and he slumped to the ground.

In the meantime, the remaining guards had dragged Penbury from his chair and sat on him. Two others had their blades at the assassin’s throat.

“Stop!” Chidwick’s command held the blades.

“Let go of me,” said Penbury, shaking off his bodyguard. He dusted himself off. “Who is this, Chidwick?”

“Allow me,” said the assassin. “Josef Snort, of Snort and Snort.”

“Never heard of you,” said the Chancellor. He straightened his robe and tried to regain some of his substantial dignity. “Chidwick, is this the lawyer I asked for?”

“Yes, sir,” said Chidwick.

“He said Snort and Snort. Where’s the other one then?”

“That would be me,” said a voice to the Chancellor’s right.

When Penbury turned to see which impudent guard had spoken he almost died of fright for the second time in a minute. He had to immediately look back to his left to check that the assassin calling himself Josef Snort was still under his men’s blades. The two men looked identical.

“And you are?” enquired Penbury of the second assassin.

“Franz Snort, of Snort and Snort,” said the assassin, bowing, and offering a card.

“Get over there with your, your whatever,” ordered Penbury, ensuring a guard remained between himself and the two assassins.

“Of course,” said Franz.

Penbury didn’t see Franz move. One second he was where he had been, and the next he was standing next to his partner. The Chancellor suddenly realised he was holding something. He lifted the card in his right hand to read it.

Snort and Snort

Lawyers and Executors of Estates

“I assure you, Chancellor, we are not here to harm you in any way,” said Josef. “If we intended to execute your estate, we would have done so by now.”

Penbury was sharp enough to realise that in this case the execution of his estate would have had a terminal precursor for himself. There was such surety in the words that he was in no doubt that Josef Snort was telling him the truth. He still wasn’t sure how Franz had both managed to place the card in his hand and move across to the other side of the room, but if he could do that then giving him a bloody grin from ear to ear would present no problem.

“They had better know what an injunction is Chidwick, or you are fired.”

“I can assure you, Chancellor, we do.” It was Franz who spoke this time. Though hard to tell them apart, Franz was maybe an inch taller and had a slight lisp to his speech. “You must forgive us our little demonstration, but it is not often we are called upon for our night jobs. Perhaps if we were disarmed?”

Penbury nodded at his men, who gingerly slid the men’s swords from their scabbards. Being a collector of fine arts and merchandise from all over the globe, he immediately recognised finely tempered steel. “Nichi-on blades?”

The two lawyers nodded.

Penbury was impressed. The blades were worth more than several of his larger estates. If they were half as good at law as they were at assassination, judging by their tools, then Chidwick had found him the right men.

“And I take it you can handle unusual cases?”

Snort and Snort nodded. “Whatever you need.”

Penbury had the room cleared and his breakfast dishes replaced with sherry glasses. It may have been early but he needed something to fortify himself. The two lawyers sat opposite him patiently. They neither spoke, nor moved, nor scratched a nose or tugged an ear lobe. Being used to picking up on the smallest of mannerisms, this stillness was itself informative. These men were in complete control. They felt no need to speak unless spoken to and had the ability to sit perfectly still. It was hard to do. Penbury had tried when he was convinced he had a physical tell in his monthly three card brag session and failed miserably.

The room was clear, except for Snort and Snort, and Chidwick, who had his writing materials out to take minutes.

“I think best this go unrecorded, Chidwick,” said Penbury.

“Very well, sir,” said Chidwick, and he got up to leave.

“Set the writing materials aside and stay, Chidwick. There are instructions for you as well.” Penbury sipped his sherry. Where to start? “Gentlemen. We live in strange times. There are forces at work which threaten the very fabric of our civilisation and we can’t have that, now can we? In securing us from this peril I have a couple of estates I need executing, and two items retrieving to ensure that this threat never appears again. Here’s what I want you to do.”

Chapter 23 Love Snatched Away

Love is your strongest weapon, as long as there is none in your heart.

The Dark Lord’s Handbook

It had been raining for three days. In the last two hours it had slackened and was now that annoying kind of rain that barely deserved the name but was heavier than mist. It was the kind of rain that dampened spirits but Edwin was not downcast. The fact that he had eaten sparingly for a week, and that he was soaked through and a long way from home, not to mention he missed his grandpa, did nothing to lessen his determination.

He was close now, maybe half a day behind, maybe less. He had tracked Griselda and her wily captor to this road over the high moors. Being so close, it was tempting to push on harder, but he restrained himself from whipping his horse forward; he had already killed one mount. It had died under him mid-gallop and he still nursed the bruised ribs from that fall. No. He would be patient. The nag between his legs was tired and he was alternating between leading it and riding to give it some chance to regain strength.

Judging it about that time again, Edwin dismounted and cast his eye around. He had learnt that treachery was often close by and he had to keep his wits about him and sword to hand. There seemed little threat though. The moor was as bleak as the weather. It was covered in lumpy gorse with granite outcroppings along ridge tops. While it might provide cover for grouse, he couldn’t imagine bandits lying in wait.

He tugged his mount forward.

There was a desolate and wild beauty about the moor that was deepened by the miserable grey clouds that hung low over it. A cold wind gusted across it. Deep down inside him something stirred and, for the briefest moment, he thought how he might capture this depressing vista in well chosen lines that would bring tears to the eyes of any who read it. He thought of Griselda reading his stanzas and, overcome with emotion, running wildly across the moor to throw herself from a granite boulder onto rocks below. It would be tragic but beautiful. He could mourn her passing and use the pain for inspiration. He could hear her crying. Her suffering was terrible.

The next big gust of wind brought a cry that was not in his imagination. Surely that was no grouse but a woman in distress? Perhaps even Griselda being tormented by her kidnapper. The wind gusted once more and this time there was no mistaking a scream.

The nag whinnied in protest when Edwin leapt onto the mount and spurred it forward. Despite its protestations, they were soon at a gallop. The path followed a contour along the hillside and then plunged downwards. The sounds of a woman in distress were clear now, along with the sound of men laughing and shouting.

Brigands
, thought Edwin. Holding the reins tightly with his left hand, he drew his sword. It sang as it came from the scabbard and Edwin felt the thrill of impending battle. Today was a good day to die, but he had no intention of it being him who died. These brigands would pay.

He rounded the side of the hill. Ahead he could see that the hill ended abruptly in a gorge that was spanned by a decidedly ropey looking bridge. On this side of the bridge was a ramshackle hut and outside it a group of men, maybe six in all, surrounding two figures on the ground, a woman and a man.