The Dark Lord's Handbook (10 page)

Autumn was enjoying a reprise before winter took full hold and there were ripples here and there as trout took small insects from the water’s surface. It was perhaps because of this Edwin did not notice one such ripple become more wavelike. Once he noticed, however, it made him sit up. There was something big down there, made obvious by the water that was spreading like a bow wave as whatever it was came closer to the shore where he lay.

It was odd. Odd enough for him to get up to see if he could catch sight of what might cause such a disturbance. As he did so the lake’s surface was broken by an explosion of water and a brilliant sword thrust itself into the air. It cleared the water sufficiently for Edwin to see the hilt was grasped by a hand, possibly female, covered in weed. The sword was a few yards out, and not within reach unless he fancied wetting his hose. It was all quite surreal and he was left wondering what he should do.

The sword shone, water dripping down its length, bright and terrible in the sunlight. It was a thing of beauty and Edwin reached for his quill and parchment. If only he could capture in words the razor edge and reflected sunlight that spawned a thousand rainbows he would have something to show Griselda.

The sword began to shake. The hand that held it seemed to waver, as though beckoning. The position of the sun and the fact that the water had been stirred into a murky blackness made it hard to see anything beneath the wrist. Could there be someone down there?

Bubbles broke the water’s surface and the hand was definitely trembling. More bubbles came to the surface and then the hand arched back before sweeping forward and releasing the blade. The sword rose into the air, the weight of the hilt sending it into an end over end spin. Edwin was transfixed as it spun in slow motion towards him. At the last second, he had the good sense to step to one side and the sword buried itself in the earth where he had been standing a split second before.

From the lake there was an eruption and a great bulk rose, covered in weed; a behemoth that surely had been dwelling in the lake’s depths for centuries. It spluttered and shook, sending muddy water and weed in every direction. Edwin could see more clearly now that it was no behemoth from the depths but in fact a woman of not inconsiderable bulk. She stood up to her knees in the water and placed her hands firmly on cliff-like hips.

“Well don’t stand there gawping,” she bellowed. “Help me out of here!”

Without hesitation, Edwin sprang into the lake and helped the woman out. A thousand questions rose in his mind but they could wait until she was on dry land. Once there he took off his shirt and handed it to her so she might dry herself off.

As she did, he could see she was checking him out. He was quite used to this. It was hot in the smithy and he often worked shirtless, even with the hazard of sparks. In the past few years, it had drawn some attention from the village girls. All but Griselda. Perhaps a physique that looked like it was hewn from granite was not her thing. Maybe she didn’t like a washboard stomach and a hairless chest (what hair there was tended to be singed off). He was not deterred though. He’d been told he was attractive to women often enough to believe them, though he didn’t see it himself. He thought six feet and five inches was far too tall. His jaw was too square for his liking, and the grey paleness of his blue eyes was watery. He cared not for his looks and if good looks were not Griselda’s thing then perhaps his poetry and charm could win her.

Nevertheless, whoever this woman from the lake was, she was definitely giving him the eye.

“Very nice,” she said at last, tossing the shirt aside. She regarded him quite openly, like he was a plough horse. Water dripped from the hem of her embroidered gown. Edwin took the quality of the cloth and workmanship as a sign she was a well moneyed lake dweller. “You’ll do,” she continued. “I dare say, you’re going to break a few hearts along the way but you’ve definitely got the…well, you’ve got it.”

Edwin wasn’t sure how he should reply, and believing that when there was nothing definite to say then it be best left unsaid, he did just that.

“Bit quiet though. Do you know who I am?”

“A Lady from the lake?” With only the facts to go on it was the best he could surmise.

“And so sweet,” said the Lady smiling. “No. Well, yes. In a manner of speaking but not exactly
the
Lady from the Lake, but a lady from a lake is close enough. I am the Countess of Umbria.”

She pushed a hand forward with a ring on it and Edwin dropped to his knee to kiss it.

“At your service,” he said, rising to his feet and bowing in the manner he had read described in fiction, and that was with a flourish that unfortunately caught the countess in the stomach and would have put her on her bottom if she had been less substantial and able to keep her feet.

“Steady there,” she said, taking a step back. “No need for all that.”

“I beg your pardon.”

The Countess continued to look at him strangely and Edwin was at a loss. He would be late back to work but there were genuine extenuating circumstances, especially if he escorted the Countess back to the village. But this was secondary to why she had tried to kill him by tossing the sword at him from a lake. What had he ever done to her?

“You look confused,” said the Countess.

“I am, yes,” answered Edwin.

“Could you fetch me that?” asked the Countess, waving a hand at the sword that stood embedded in the lakeside mud.

Edwin turned to do so, as though he had no choice. The aristocratic tone of the Countess’s voice was hard to resist. And yet, as his hand reached out to take the sword by the hilt something deep down seemed to be shouting ‘Noooo.’

Perhaps it was the voice of a poet that was never to be heard for when Edwin’s hand pulled the sword from its muddy sheath everything changed.

There was a wide plain on a baking hot day, the dust stirred from it by the thousands of horse and foot that wheeled towards a wall of darkness rolling in from the east. Dragons rose above the darkness that swept toward the gleaming host. Edwin could see at the point of the vanguard of this brilliant host was a man, sword raised, urging his men on.

“To Glory!” Edwin mouthed the words as though he spoke them.

The hero was at the tip of a lance of steel that thundered toward the wall of dark creatures. There was a collision that shook the ground. He could smell blood. The cries of those being hacked and hewn filled his head, and his own voice sang in ecstasy as the sword cleaved its way through the ranks of orcs and ogres and other foul creatures that writhed around him.

“Are you feeling well?”

The Countess’s voice seemed distant. He turned to face her, lifting the sword so that it stood straight and proud in front of him.

“I am well, madam,” said Edwin. “I thank you for returning my sword.”

The Countess arched an eyebrow. “Your sword?”

“Indeed.” Edwin took a few practice swings. He had never been trained in any martial affairs but the sword felt like it was part of him.

“I can’t tell you how relieved I am to hear that,” said the Countess. “You must be a hero!”

The sword urged him on. He started to move his feet and twist and turn and lunge as though he were beset by attackers.

“Jolly impressive,” said the Countess. “Black Orchid will be pleased.”

He spun, the sword carving a vicious arc.

The Countess’s head left its body with a mild look of surprise and plopped into the lake, where it bobbed for a second before sinking. The torso sprayed a fountain of blood before toppling slowly backwards.

Blood ran down the length of the blade and Edwin could feel hot stickiness on his face and chest. And it felt good. It was unfortunate about the Countess but it had been an accident, and accidents do happen. He cleaned the blade with his wet shirt and then rolled the Countess’s body back into the lake from whence it had come. He then washed himself off and, apart from the red stain on the grass, there was no sign that anything had happened.

Edwin picked up his parchment and quill and threw them in the lake. He wouldn’t be needing those any more. Poetry? What had he been thinking? There was only one way to win a woman and Griselda was about to be won.

Chapter 13 Birth Right

There is no retirement plan for a Dark Lord.

The Dark Lord’s Handbook.

Morden woke. It was cold and a rock was sticking into his back where he had rolled over onto it in the night. But that wasn’t the only discomfort. There was something else, in his head, like he ought to know something but didn’t. It was as if the world had changed. As he tried to catch the thought, his discomfort grew and his pendant started to feel warm against his chest. That only happened when he was in danger, and that was one thing he had become all too familiar with in the last week.

Stonearm was still asleep, his massive bulk a heap across the cave entrance. Morden crawled over to him. Morden shook the orc gently and then ducked. Stonearm’s fist swung instinctively back to where Morden’s head had been a moment before. Morden’s eye was still tender from the lesson he had learnt the first time he had woken the giant.

Stonearm sat up sharply and cracked his head on the low cave entrance, dislodging a stalactite. Morden winced but Stonearm seemed not to have noticed.

“What? Eh?” said Stonearm, looking around.

“Quiet,” said Morden. “I think they have found us.”

Stonearm sniffed the air. “You sure?”

Morden had grown to trust the orc’s nose. It was an odd trait but Stonearm seemed to have a nose that would put a wolf to shame.

“Well, something is not right.”

The look that Stonearm gave Morden showed the orc had as much respect for Morden’s instincts as Morden had for the orc’s nose.

“I’ll take a look,” said the orc, and he slid from the cave with surprising stealth for a creature so large.

They had been on the run for what seemed an age but had only been a week. Then they had come across the river Loos and lost their pursuers by riding a tree Stonearm felled with a body charge. Morden was not a good swimmer, never having needed to learn, so he had gripped the trunk like his life had depended on it. The two of them had spent a day riding the torrent – the rain that had kept them soaked for the previous few days being of some use after all – until they had washed up on a gravel spit, hungry and exhausted.

Morden hoped that the churning in his gut was more of that hunger, though that was unlikely; Stonearm had killed a deer with a well aimed stone the night before and a roasted haunch had been their supper. The more Morden focussed on the thing that was bothering him the more it felt different from his normal sense of danger. The skin on his chest itched, which was normal, but there was also a curious sensation between his shoulder blades. The cave was suddenly claustrophobic and Morden scrabbled out after the orc.

For a second, he expected an arrow to come out of the trees, but all was quiet. The river had taken them east into lightly wooded farmlands of the Lower Loos region. This was the food basket of the port city of Bostokov, which was the place they had agreed on getting to next. The city was vast and Stonearm said he had many kinsmen there. Grimtooth may even be there and that had settled it for Morden.

Morden listened intently but, apart from normal woodland sounds, he heard nothing, not even Stonearm until the orc broke wind loudly from behind him.

“Hush,” hissed Morden. “They might hear us.”

“There’s no one out there,” said Stonearm. He broke wind again as though to reinforce the point.

Morden suspected the orc was right.

They cleared up as much as they could and headed east. Now that food was not a problem they could move quickly without having to forage. The undergrowth was sparse under a thick woodland canopy so the going was easy enough. Even when it thickened up Stonearm ploughed his way through and Morden followed in his wake. They were leaving a track a blind man could follow but after an hour Morden was convinced there was no pursuit and speed was more important.

With Stonearm taking the lead, and not being one for chat, Morden had time to reflect on the big orc. His size and outwardly stupid demeanour had turned out not to reflect the orc’s true nature. He was brutal, direct, and uncompromising, but also cleverer than he let on and as steadfast a companion as Morden could hope for. And he could cook.

Morden hadn’t expected the woods to go on as long as they did. He was wondering if they had gone wrong and in fact were circling when Stonearm stopped suddenly and raised a fist in warning. Fortunately they were in good cover. Morden leaned around the broad shoulders of the orc to see what had stopped them. There was a gentle bank and two mules dragged a covered wagon along the top. A bearded man sat on the wagon paying more attention to the contents of his nose than the road or mules.

This was the first person they had seen for two days. Morden had the urge to come out of hiding to speak to the man but, as if Stonearm could read his mind, the orc held an arm out to one side to block Morden as he shuffled forward.

The wagon was level with them when the trap was sprung. Either side of the road the bushes rose up. An arrow embedded itself between the wagon rider’s legs. Someone grabbed the halter of each mule and a commanding voice cried out: