The Dark Lord's Handbook (28 page)

“Agreed,” said Penbury. Given the enormity of the events that were unfolding, it was a small price, especially for a man of his means. “I think we are concluded for this evening. Thank you, gentlemen. It’s been most illuminating.”

The two brothers gave curt nods in unison. “We shall ensure your safe return,” said Josef.

“That would be generous,” said Penbury. The next time Chidwick tried to insist on an escort he would listen to his secretary.

Penbury enjoyed his stroll back through the moonlit alleyways of Al-Frahzi with nothing but the odd strangled scream of a thief being dealt with to break his thoughts. At the forefront of these was what he should do next. Now that his intelligence was sorted out he needed to make plans for all eventualities. He would try to ensure that there was no war. It would be such an inconvenience if there was, but if it couldn’t be avoided then he needed to be sure that whoever won would quickly come under his control; and this was where the Snort brothers’ intelligence would come in doubly handy. If he could establish their dependency on him, then they were his to command.

Chapter 32 A Hero’s Treachery

If your opponent has a cause to die for, this is a good thing.

The Dark Lord’s Handbook

When word arrived of the burning of Bostokov, it caused a degree of consternation in the kingdoms of the Western Reaches, and so after two months of recruiting, training and fine eating, it was time for the army to move.

Count Vladovitch was pleased because Sir Edwin – the Count had been forced to knight the blacksmith’s son to give him a rank – had been driving him crazy with his constant diatribes against the Evil that was abroad with the woman he loved.

Also, he needed the exercise a field campaign would afford. His waistline had grown uncomfortably large thanks to Baron Fanfaron’s chefs. The Count’s initial scepticism about the Baron had long been dispelled and the two had become good friends. As his letter of introduction had said, the Baron was an excellent raconteur and the Count enjoyed the Baron’s stories enormously, not only because they were genuinely interesting and funny, but because they also kept his wife silent as she listened.

It had been ten years, possibly more, since he had been on campaign. Below on the parade grounds the army was standing arrayed in its splendour – rank upon rank of stout pikeman, keen eyed archer and blood crazed knight. The Count enjoyed such moments. After all, it was downhill from here as far as looks went. The practicalities of being in the field would muddy those jerkins soon enough and take the shine off that plate.

Except the plate on Sir Edwin’s back, who maintained a zealous attention to his own armour. Even now, the Count could see him on the field, riding up and down the line of mounted knights that would be the Count’s hammer in battles to come. If there was one element of his army that the Count had no reservations about it was Edwin’s men. In a few short months, he had formed them into the most formidable, and frankly terrifying, group of blood crazed killers the Count had seen under a banner. Though there was much talk of might and right, pride and the rescuing of flowered maidens (and the Count suspected de-flowering shortly after), underneath the shine and the glamour there was a ruthless efficiency. He was glad he would not have to face them.

“Have you got a clean handkerchief, dear?”

If there was one thing that he missed when he was away, it was his wife. He couldn’t abide her fussing and her tears, but he knew it was because she still loved him. He was a lucky man. Many a noblemen had ridden off to campaign and glory leaving behind a beautiful young wife only to return to find her with child and the summing of the months not right. More than a few of his friends had sons who looked more like the gardener than the man of the castle.

But not he. She had remained faithful, and he to her. They’d had two sons, both tragically lost – one in battle, the other in a freak fishing accident (even now he did not know how the pole managed to get where it had) – who had been as like to him as his reflection.

He had thought that this time it would be different, that he would be glad to get away from the gentle scolding and nagging, but he was mistaken. That one harmless question pulled hard on his heart and he questioned if he was doing the right thing. He probably wasn’t, but what choice did he have? His earlier enthusiasm for battle had long since gone and now he was embroiled in a venture he could only see ending badly.

Black Orchid, however, left him little choice. As much as he loved his wife and would rather now see out his days spoiled rotten by his wife, he would not see her a pauper, and that was the fact of it. They were broke. Then there was the abject fear he had of Black Orchid herself. His imagination was not sufficient when it came to thinking about what she may do to him, and more importantly his wife, should he let her down.

No, he had little choice, and so he had best make the best of it.

“Right here,” said the Count, producing the kerchief she had given him just yesterday, his monogram on one corner.

He could see her eyes were full and ready to burst. He felt a sharp tug inside and he had to affect a cough to prevent tears of his own. That would never do, especially not with his guard drawn up and ready to leave with him.

“I best be off,” he said. “I should not keep the men waiting.”

Leaning forward, he pecked his wife on the check.

“I love you,” she whispered, so only he would hear.

He drew back an inch so that she could see him and what his eyes were saying before kissing her again, this time full on the mouth.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” he said softly.

He turned to address his men. Eyes snapped to the front as he did so but not fast enough for him not to notice a fullness in the eye among his older and most loyal guards.

“Can’t a man kiss his wife without you horrible lot staring?” bellowed the Count.

It was his good natured bellow that they all knew and more than a few were smirking.

“Three cheers for the Count,” commanded his Guard Captain.

“Huzzah! Huzzah! HUZZAH!” cheered the guard.

As he rode down the hill from the castle, the Count tried hard not to look back; he never had in the past, believing that if you went anywhere with regret then your heart was not ready for battle. But this time, he turned to look at his wife; she was at the gate, watching them leave. She must have seen him look as she raised her scarf. He raised his arm in reply and swore to himself that he would be back to retrieve the lady’s favour.

Taking a deep breath, he brought himself back to the matter in hand. He had a campaign to run, a battle to fight, and city to save. There was no room for sentiment when his and his men’s lives were on the line.

“At the trot!” he ordered, and spurred his horse on down to the waiting troops.

Baron Fanfaron and Sir Edwin were mounted and waiting.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” said the Count.

The Baron inclined his head.

“All present and ready for inspection,” barked Sir Edwin.

The lad was keen, but an inspection was the last thing the Count needed. “They look magnificent, Sir Edwin,” said the Count. “But let’s not tarry, shall we?”

“Sir, yes, sir,” said Edwin.

The young knight had become quite the horseman in a short time, and turned his mount on a shilling to face the men. Sir Edwin drew his sword and held it high.

“To Bostokov!” shouted Edwin. “And to glory!”

A ragged cheer went up from the men.

It took two hours to get the army moving. Apart from the fighting men, there were the supplies and camp followers, all of whom needed to move off down the one rutted road. Baron Fanfaron’s men brought up the rear, close to their much loved cooking utensils and supplies, doubling as a rear guard on the march.

The Count was glad for the early onset of spring in as much as it promised fairer weather, though the rain may muddy the roads. If he was to sleep in a field tent for the next months then at least it would be temperate. He was definitely of the Old School that believed the campaign season should be spring to late summer, that autumn should see armies heading home, and winter should be spent next to a roaring fire with hounds at one’s side.

*****

It took three weeks to march to within a day of Bostokov, which was where the Count called a halt. The army had swollen, especially as they drew closer to Bostokov and the provincial nobles contributed handfuls of men. The halt gave the Count an opportunity to call a council of war where he would weigh up whom he could rely on should the going get tough.

There was a familiar buzz of excitement in the tent when the Count and Baron Fanfaron entered – there hadn’t been a major engagement, of the military kind, for years. It was an opportunity for the Western Marches nobility to send their sons off to learn a man’s work, and for a few to dust off their own gear and meet up with old friends.

Count Vladovitch was relieved to see grizzled veterans among the youthful faces that could barely manage a single beard between them. There was Baron Haldoron, stern looking, battle scarred and still a gleam in his grey eyes. Next to him was Sir Romquist, a keen tactician and a master of siege warfare (handy given Bostokov’s walls). There were others that nodded respectfully as his gaze passed over the assembly. There were also many pansy eyed fops barely out of baby linen but they could be given menial jobs.

“Gentlemen,” said the Count, his voice clear and commanding above the general babble.

A mock up of the area had been constructed on a large table. It was impressively detailed, with miniature woods, streams and even sheep and cows. Little men stood on the wall that surrounded Bostokov and its narrow streets with their slate roofs and chimneys. There were tufts of grey cotton for smoke. Outside the walls, beyond the carefully crafted slum area, with what looked like real mud, was arrayed an army that was equally detailed. Little figurines carried pikes and bows, and even the flags were accurately painted with the heraldry of those present.

The Count took in all the details, not so much the little men and women who had been placed in the town square, but the terrain, the walls and the slum that skirted them, the availability of fresh water and wood. There was a small hill a mile from the edge of the slums that commanded a good view.

“I’ll establish my headquarters here,” said the Count, stabbing at the hill with a handy stick that had been provided for him. “Sir Romquist, your thoughts?”

Sir Romquist nodded at the acknowledgement and coughed. “We’ll have to clear this,” he said waving at the slums. “It will get in the way of the siege engines. We can establish road blocks here, and here, and here, and screen the areas between. There seems to be no good sally point so I don’t anticipate a problem there.”

“How long?” asked the Count.

Sir Romquist twitched his nose and stroked his short beard. “Well, we can’t starve them out, they have the sea and we have no fleet. So it will have to be assault. Say, three weeks to clear and build the machinery, a week for probes and feints to determine weakness. I’d say, in a month we could be in.”

The Count couldn’t help but notice Sir Edwin punch his fist into his palm at this. It seemed bloody assault was right up Sir Edwin’s alley. Though siege by starvation would cost fewer men and would have been the Count’s preference, regrettably he had to agree with Sir Romquist’s assessment.

“Very well. It all seems straightforward enough. I’ll put together a parley to give them the opportunity to surrender…” the Count paused for polite guffaws that greeted this notion. “…and then we can start the clearance and siege. Shall we say, day after tomorrow?”

There seemed to be a general assent, except for one person.

Sir Edwin.

Though his lips were tight shut, the Count could see the muscles in his neck were taut with anger and there was a rising flush. Then what little control he had evaporated:

“This is NOT what we should be doing,” exploded Edwin, banging his fist down on the table. “We should go immediately to the gates.” With a sweep of his hand he brushed away the carefully crafted slum houses and sprayed them across the room. “We break them down,” he continued, jabbing a finger at the finely detailed gates, pushing them in and a good section of the wall. “Defeat this so-called Dark Lord Morden and his foul creatures, and rescue Griselda. We don’t need any siege, and certainly no parley. Anyone left alive in there is obviously a traitor as it would be better to kill yourself than live under scum like this Morden.” He pounded the city, where a miniature figure in a black robe had been stood in the middle of the city square, flattening it. “This is what I think of this Dark Lord.” Sir Edwin picked up the squashed figure and ripped its head off. “So let’s not have any of this namby pamby parleys and siege and niceness. Let’s get in there, kill these evil orcs and be done with it. Who’s with me?”

In his time, Count Vladovitch had seen many outbursts by zealous or pissed off commanders, and this was right up there with the best of them. Among his assembled officers and nobles there was open mouthed amazement. Sir Romquist even went as far as rubbing his eyes, perhaps in disbelief at what he had just witnessed. Sir Reginald Pother, a young lad with a bookish air, was close to tears at the sight of his carefully created model beaten to a pulp. The Count knew he had been up all night working on it and now it was just so much smashed up board and lead.