The Dark Lord's Handbook (40 page)

“You’re a coward,” said Edwin.

“If you like,” said Deathwing.

Though the sword still wanted blood, the dragon’s plan had merit. He had no idea where Morden was, and if this thing could take him there faster then the sooner he and Griselda would be reunited.

“Where is Morden?” asked Edwin.

“Across the sea, in the orc city of Deathcropolis.”

“Never heard of it.”

“You come from a hovel in the Western Reaches, why am I not surprised?”

“Across the sea?”

“Well, ocean if you are being picky.”

That was a blow. Even if he killed Deathwing now and continued on his way, if Morden was that far away then it would take him an age to reach him. Of course, it could all still be part of a ruse. But he couldn’t see how that made sense.

“You would fly me there?” asked Edwin.

“That would seem best,” conceded the man come dragon. “You have heard the scorpion parable?”

“Of course.”

“Well, you’ll not be riding my back with your stinger. I shall carry you in my claws with your arms pinned.”

“And what stops you dropping me from a great height? I’m not stupid you know.”

“If I wanted you dead, Edwin, I would have dropped a rock on you while you slept.”

The dragon had a point. Even so, he didn’t like the idea of being grasped helpless while he was flown to Morden. “What if you dump me at his feet?”

“That’s exactly what I am going to do.”

“You what?”

“Well, not literally at his feet. Somewhere close by from where you can approach him, and then you are going take that sword of yours and remove his head from his shoulders.”

It was a simple plan, but Edwin couldn’t find fault. It was direct and to the point. In fact, very much his kind of plan.

“All right, dragon. You have a deal.”

Chapter 43 Party Planning

Money not only talks, but it speaks all languages.

The Dark Lord’s Handbook

Count Vladovitch was not sleeping well. The army had come to a halt. The public reason was to allow the logistics to catch up but in reality it had been due to another night visit from the Chancellor’s man in the camp asking if they may stop. The Count was only too happy to oblige. He was in no hurry to get to the next city and the battle that would ensue. With Edwin gone life was a lot quieter. The mood had assumed one of a summer campaign with the unpleasantness of actual fighting being kept to a minimum.

While the Count was happy to drag his feet, Lady Deathwing was not. As soon as they had stopped she made an appearance, demanding that they push faster and catch up with Sir Edwin. The Count recognised a plan unravelling into ruin when he saw one, and Sir Edwin hot footing it after his strumpet was not in Lady Deathwing’s plan at all. The Count had had to use all his powers of persuasion to convince her that the delay was necessary. But she was not happy.

The light from under the tent flap told him that dawn was here. There was no point lounging in his field cot. Besides, Baron Fanfaron would doubtless be presenting breakfast shortly. It had become one of their things. They both shared the common notion that a good breakfast made you ready for the day. What each thought constituted a good breakfast varied, the Count preferring his black pudding and eggs, whereas the Baron cooked these sweet crescent shaped butter pastries that he dunked in coffee.

The Count had just cleared a space on the fold away table he kept in his tent when the tent flap opened and the Baron ducked in. Any other man would have received a roasting for such impertinence but the Baron had become a firm friend.

“Good morning, Sergei. And how are you this fine day?”

Pierre was always insufferably cheerful in the morning. The Count merely grunted his reply. He took a folded chair and opened it up, placing it opposite his own chair. He indicated that Pierre should sit.

With both men in place, a procession of the Baron’s chefs appeared bearing plates of croissant, a pot of coffee, plates of meats and eggs, fresh bread and butter, condiments, and serviettes. It was all a little too much fuss for the Count but he was happy enough to indulge Pierre’s need to do things just so (as he liked to say).

“You have not slept again?” asked Pierre, once all was in place and the two had been left alone.

The Count shook his head. “My visitor made another appearance.” The Baron was the only one of the Count’s staff that knew of his contact with Chancellor Penbury’s spy in the camp. He was the only one he could trust, which was fortunate given what he had been told last night about what was soon to happen.

The Baron slurped heavily on his coffee but didn’t say anything. The Count appreciated how Pierre understood when to keep his council and wait for him to talk.

“Penbury will be here tomorrow,” said the Count.

“The Chancellor? Merde.”

“Merde, indeed,” agreed the Count. “And he wants you to cook for him.”

“Me?” The Baron looked perplexed. “But how does he even know I am…ah, but he is the Chancellor. He has ways of knowing. But, of course, it would be an honour.” The Baron put a finger to his pursed lips. He looked excited. “But what to cook?! We have nothing. Nothing I tell you. Sergei! What shall I do? The greatest gourmet in the world is coming here to eat my food and we have nothing but rations! I am undone.”

The Count pushed a slip of paper across the table to his friend. “My visitor left this. It is the menu. The guest list is at the bottom.”

The Baron took the list and ran his eye down it. After sniffing dismissively, he tossed it on the table. “Impossible,” he said, waving the list away. “These things cannot be found unless…”

“Unless you are the Chancellor,” said the Count. “He will be sending the harder to find things in advance of his arrival. They should be here today.”

Pierre snatched the list back. The Count had never seen him so absorbed. As his friend read he started to mutter to himself.

“Yes, yes. We could do that, but then even if I started now, it will be close, but perhaps, yes, I can do this.”

The Count went back to his breakfast. The eggs were especially good. Pierre had taught him to appreciate food in a way that he had never done before.

The muttering had stopped. The Count looked up to see Pierre watching him eat.

“And what is the meaning of this?” asked his friend. The Baron slid the paper back over to the Count and jabbed first at one spot, and then another further down. “I am not an assassin, you know.”

The Count had been waiting for him to get to this part. “The spriggle?”

“Yes, the spriggle! And this, this, this, woman who is coming as well. You think I don’t know what is going on here?”

“Neither you, nor I, are assassins,” said the Count. “But am I not correct in thinking that the Chancellor has in fact eaten spriggle and lived? Perhaps it is only for him.”

“It says, two portions,” said Pierre. “Two!”

While Pierre had become a close confidant, there were some things that the Count had not told him, and revealing the truth behind the mysterious Black Orchid was one of them. While he was not sure what Penbury was up to, he had no doubts that Lady Deathwing could look after herself.

“What can we do, my friend?” asked the Count. “I am too old for plots and talk of assassins. I do what I am asked and hope that I will see my wife again. It’s a meal.”

“A dinner.”

“A dinner. It’s a dinner for two special guests. I assume they are meeting to settle certain issues, of which I do not know nor wish to, and that we will be their gracious hosts. That is all. We will not be assassinating anyone.”

Though he did not look completely happy, Pierre did look mollified.

“Very well. But you must excuse me. There are preparations to be made. There is barely enough time as it is.” Pierre dabbed his mouth on his serviette, got to his feet and bowed. “Count.”

“Thank you, Pierre. You are a good friend.”

The Baron left, leaving the Count to contemplate black pudding and wondering what would kill him first: the pudding or the dinner that he was to host between an ancient evil dragon queen and the most powerful man in the world.

Chapter 44 Rock Bottom

There are good reasons a Dark Lord often stays single.

The Dark Lord’s Handbook

Morden had preferred it when he was alone in captivity. At least then he didn’t have to suffer the incessant nagging along with the deprivations and humiliation of being held by his rival Dark Lord. It wasn’t made easier by the lack of privacy. There were certain things that none of them was happy doing with others present, except Stonearm, who seemed devoid of shame.

Morden had tried to use the time to learn more about Griselda from Kristoff, while she played Stonearm at a simple board game they had etched onto the slime covered floor. But Kristoff had not been forthcoming. He was left knowing only that Kristoff and Griselda were not together in anything other than a platonic sense (and Kristoff physically shuddered when Morden had suggested otherwise) based on shared interests. Equally, he had little to say about her ex-boyfriend, Edwin, and why he was stalking them half way across the Western Marches. It was all muddy waters. So they ate, argued, played a stupid game invented by an orc, and slept as best they could.

The sonorous drone from Griselda told him she was still asleep. He wished that he could enjoy sleep as he remembered it, in that it brought welcome relief from consciousness, whereas now the sleep he enjoyed was more a thoughtful doze. He lay there on his patch of cell floor, listening to Griselda’s breath rise, like a bellows sucking air, and fall, like a bear clearing its throat. He was amazed the other two could sleep at all.

It had been three days since Zoon had dumped his new cell mates and he had not reappeared. The only source of news was Stonearm as he had managed to strike up chat with the orcs that brought them food (the undead variety made good guards; they were not so good at tasks which required more tactile skill, like carrying plates of slop).

From all accounts, the city was alive, and undead, with activity. Preparations were being made for some big event, though Zoon had not yet announced what it was to be. Morden could guess. If the Handbook was anything to go by, Zoon would hold a huge rally prior to setting out to conquer the world. He would hold it at night so he could use massed flaming torches to best effect. The flickering light would make the shadows dance and lend an ominous tone to the proceedings. There would be drums and chanting, and a procession of rank upon rank of elite, death dealing, orc zombies. He would work them up into a frenzy of blood lust, exhorting them to go forth and claim what was rightfully theirs (which technically it wasn’t but that wouldn’t fit the rhetoric).

It was what Morden would do, if he were the Dark Lord preparing to come forth before laying waste the world. All the time he had spent reading the Handbook had not been wasted. The problem was that he was in a cell and Zoon was upstairs with his army, and he was no closer to making an escape, as Griselda liked to point out continually.

For now, Morden had nothing better to do than lie there and listen to the avalanche-like snores from Griselda. They were so loud that he almost missed the scratching sound. It was probably a rat. A brave one at that, seeing as Stonearm had decimated the population in short order. If Stonearm woke he’d soon be joining his brothers as an orcish dietary supplement.

Morden raised his head to see if he could spot the little bugger. He was not prepared for what he saw. It was a rat, but rather than chewing on some cell detritus it was chewing on his foot.

“Aaaaaaarh!” Morden screamed and kicked out.

Griselda jerked awake and sat up just in time to get a rat in her lap.

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!” she screamed, grabbing the rat and throwing it.

Stonearm sat up and the rat hit him in the face. It tried to scurry away but the orc was too fast and he grabbed it. “Breakfast!” said the big orc, grinning.

“What the hell was that?” shrieked Griselda, looking at Morden.

Inwardly he sighed. If anything was upsetting, uncomfortable, smelly, itchy, unfair or inconvenient, it was his fault.

“Eh?” said Kristoff sitting up. Of them all, he was the heaviest sleeper by far. “What’s going on?”

“Nice bit of rat, this,” said Stonearm, proffering the rodent to the others.

Given that most small birds and mammals that came anywhere near Morden seemed to die in short order, Morden imagined it was a rather tough rat.

“Disgusting,” said Griselda, turning her nose up.

It was both an infuriating and cute habit she had. Though he could happily watch Griselda all day, the state of his toes was of more concern. It couldn’t be that bad as he’d felt nothing, but he’d better check. Sitting up, he pulled his foot up onto his thigh so he could examine it.

Two toes were missing gobbets of flesh. He could even see the bone with little teeth marks on the big toe. Strangely, there was no blood. Given the damage done he should be bleeding profusely but he wasn’t. He should also be in pain but he couldn’t feel a thing.