The Dark Lord's Handbook (13 page)

Chapter 17 In Command

Of course you are misunderstood. You are a Dark Lord.

The Dark Lord’s Handbook

Morden tucked the Handbook away and with new found resolve swept back the wagon’s rear awning and leapt down. He took a deep breath and swung round to address the men. He wasn’t quite prepared to see eight orc bandits drawn up in two neat rows either side of the cart facing forward, with one up at the reins and Stonearm two paces in front of the mules at the head. They stood still, chests out and chins up.

They didn’t move a muscle as he walked past them, though he did catch the odd flick of eyes in his direction.

“Eyes front!” bellowed Stonearm, all the while remaining face forward himself. Maybe his role as drill sergeant had imbued him with a sixth sense.

Morden reached the head of the procession.

“What are you doing?” said Morden in a low conversational tone.

“Men ready to move out, sir!” said Stonearm, his chest lifting slightly as he almost deafened Morden with the salutation.

Morden looked back at the line of orcs. Some of them stiffened as his gaze went their way, which was impressive considering the board like quality of their posture. They had scavenged armour from the soldiers who had died and looked like an impoverished town militia. Looking carefully, there were blackened bits and the odd red stain.

“A word in your shell-like,” said Morden, stepping further forward to take Stonearm out of the rank and file’s earshot.

“My what?” said Stonearm.

“Come here,” hissed Morden and waved the towering orc to him. “You don’t think this is a touch conspicuous?” he asked the orc when he got close.

Stonearm looked puzzled. “Is that a problem?”

“Well, we are being hunted by Penbury’s man?” suggested Morden.

Stonearm seemed to consider the point briefly before resuming his puzzled look. “And that’s a problem because? You’re a Dark Lord. Every orc here will die for you if it comes to rough stuff. And you can always turn into a dragon again.”

“Appreciated,” said Morden. “But I’m still not sure how all that dragon breathing stuff worked and I’m tired. I’d rather just get to Bostokov without fuss, find Grimtooth and take it from there. Is that okay?”

“You could have ’em, you know,” said Stonearm brightly. “Nothing can stand against you.”

“That may well be, but for now bear with me if you would. Get them in the back of the wagon and let’s be off.”

Morden could see the orc was still struggling with the sense of it.

“Now would be good, Sergeant Stonearm.”

“Sergeant?” said Stonearm. The orc’s face lit up. He turned to face his men and took a deep breath. “All right, you miserable lot. Into the wagon. Now. Sharpish! Don’t just stand there. At the double. Move. Move. Move!”

Within minutes the orcs were hidden safely away and Morden was sitting up front with Stonearm. He had thought about asking the orc to sit in the back as when it came to inconspicuous Stonearm was the antithesis, but Morden sensed he could push his new sergeant only so far.

They left the woodland a few miles on and merged with a larger trade road that ran alongside the River Loos as it curved its way across rich flatlands towards Bostokov. The road was an ancient artery of commerce and there was other traffic. Apart from the odd looks that Stonearm received, and that was to be expected given his size, they seemed to be largely ignored. The friendlier farmers and merchants managed a grunted hello but little more than that.

A few hours passed and the outskirts and smell of Bostokov became apparent. Morden could see a city wall, but it only surrounded an inner part of a greater whole. Housing and other dwellings spread out from the inner wall like a tattered skirt, and a dirty one at that. The onshore breeze brought a hint of the ocean, but mainly the smell of the sewer.

There were no guards on the road as it plunged between the first hovels. There was merely a sign which posted the direction of the city gate, which to Morden seemed more than obvious but proved of some use to Stonearm.

“City gate is straight on,” observed the orc on seeing the sign.

“Carry on then,” said Morden encouragingly.

“But I don’t think that’s the way we want to be going,” suggested Stonearm.

Traffic on the road was slow at this point, due in part to the volume but also the thick mud that the wagons had to be hauled through. Up ahead a team seemed to be having trouble with a particularly large wagon and they were forced to come to a halt.

“Why would that be?” asked Morden.

“Not our people in the city, are they? And you wanted to find Grimtooth, right?”

The orc was right. Looking around, the ramshackle housing was more like the orc dwellings in the seedier parts of Bindelburg, but those had been palaces compared to these. Morden also noticed the people who were loitering and hawking to the traffic. There was a familiar cast about them, and as he looked closer, Morden noticed the attention that he and Stonearm were getting. A good number of the people were orcs.

Ahead the merchant who owned the wagon had produced a whip and was applying it to the backs of his mules. A group of orcs pulled at the sides of the wagon.

“Heave you lazy, good for nothing slackers!” shouted the merchant, who ignored the murderous looks he received from the orcs as they pushed.

Morden could feel Stonearm bristle as the merchant’s whip strayed and caught an orc across the shoulder. There was strength in the muscle of the orcs though, and the wagon lurched forward out of its muddy clamp. The merchant tossed a few coins from his purse into the mud on either side and whipped his mules on.

From what Morden could gather, this was a choke point, and any wagon that wanted to get into the city had to make it through the quagmire. The orcs added their muscle for a fee to get each cart through.

“It’s a scam,” said Stonearm as their turn approached. He nodded to the roadside where there was an orc who was organising the other orcs. “He makes sure the mud is always fresh.”

Morden considered what he was being told. It was ingenious. Then he considered that he had no money.

“But don’t worry,” said Stonearm, as though he could read Morden’s mind.

Their wagon faced the muddy quagmire and the orc that Stonearm had pointed out came over.

“I’m Murgoh. It’s ten flounders to cross the mud,” he said with no pretence at preamble.

Morden noticed the orc’s teeth were flat like Stonearm’s.

“Krch ung klop nigh,” said Stonearm.

The orc picked at his nose and then shook his head.

“Nine is the best I can do, orc or not,” said the orc.

“You realise I don’t even have that,” hissed Morden to his sergeant.

“I’ll get the lads,” said Stonearm, and before Morden could say a word, the big orc jumped down off the wagon and disappeared round the side.

“Okay, boys, let’s be having you!” ordered Stonearm.

There was a clatter of bodies from the rear and Morden’s little army made an appearance. It hadn’t occurred to them to take off any of the armour, or leave their weapons in the back, and there was instant commotion.

“Who the hell are they?” said Murgoh.

Stonearm was marshalling his men along either side of the wagon.

“Ready when you are, sir,” said Stonearm.

“No, no. You can’t do that,” said Murgoh, waving his arms. “This is our mud. You can’t heave your wagon through yourself.”

“Why not?” said Morden.

Murgoh looked perplexed. His brow furrowed. “Demarcation! That’s why not.”

It was Morden’s turn to feel out of sorts. “Huh?”

“An assertion of working rights,” said Murgoh smoothly. “It’s clear your lads are soldiers and mine are cart handlers. You do your job and let us do ours.”

This made no sense at all. What was he on about? “But my soldiers can do your job,” said Morden.

Murgoh pursed his lips. “Right you are, indeed they could.” The orc smiled. “But you wouldn’t want my lads doing your lads’ job, now would you?”

Murgoh looked over to where his men were bunched and nodded. It was obvious they were prepared for the odd reluctant payee. Clubs, knives and assorted weapons of the bone breaking type slid into view in the hands of Murgoh’s men. It was not lost on Stonearm.

“You don’t want to be doing that,” said the big orc, squaring up to Murgoh. “We are much better armed that you lot.”

Murgoh had to lean back to meet Stonearm’s eyes. “Maybe, but there are a lot more of us.”

From his seat on the wagon Morden could see other orcs appearing from among the hovels, either side and behind. Murgoh was right, there were a lot more of them. A street fight was the last thing he needed. He just wanted to find Grimtooth and work out what to do next. He stood on his seat and spread his arms.

“Kznk d’lak!” he roared.

Much like when he spoken those words before in Grimtooth’s tent, they had power that Morden now recognised as his dragon voice. They also had a similar effect on the orcs who froze as one, even Stonearm.

“You,” said Morden, pointing at Murgoh. “Get your men and move this wagon through that mud now.”

Murgoh seemed incapable of movement.

“NOW!” roared Morden at the unfortunate orc.

Murgoh staggered backwards and then threw himself into the mud face down. Clearly Murgoh was going to be no use.

“Stonearm.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” said the orc, snapping to attention.

“Get the men to move us through.” He looked over to Murgoh’s assembled men. “We’re not going to have a problem here, are we?” he enquired of them loudly.

Weapons dropped, heads shook and bodies spirited away among the hovels that lined the road. Where there had been fifty orcs a second ago there were now none.

Stonearm ordered his men along the sides of the cart and then went to the front to lead the mules through. The mud barely made it half way up the huge orc’s calf muscles as he heaved the reluctant beasts across. Morden was sure that Stonearm could have lifted wagon, mules and men as one and carried them over balanced on one shoulder. Still, he let his new sergeant have his fun.

It didn’t take long for the wagon to get across and they were soon on their way again. There was still plenty of traffic and Morden still had to work out exactly where they were going. Entering the city proper probably was not the best idea as not only would they stand out and there were likely to be guards, but more importantly it was unlikely that Grimtooth would be in there.

For now though, they crawled through the outer city. Along the roadside were stalls selling all manner of goods, but trade was hardly brisk. The buildings, or more accurately huts thrown together from odds and ends of wood and canvas, were in a terrible state. Morden shuddered at the thought of what the place was like when it rained.

There was no lack of people though and Morden couldn’t help wonder how they survived or what they did. After a while, he noticed orcs huddled in small groups, sitting in the mud, seemingly oblivious to their surroundings with vacant expressions.

“What’s the matter with those orcs?” Morden asked Stonearm when they had passed the fifth or sixth such group.

Stonearm looked over to where Morden had indicated and shook his head. “Bad news, boss,” said Stonearm sadly.

“Bad news?”

“Headfucker,” said the big orc, snapping at the reigns and urging the mules on.

Morden had heard of the drug but he’d never seen anyone, or any orc, under the influence.

“They aren’t here any more,” said Stonearm by way of further explanation. “They are lost.”

Morden looked at the stoned orcs and brooded. Such a waste. What they needed was something to live for, or maybe die for; they needed motivation.

The city walls were getting closer now. They came to a crossroads. There was an outer road that circled the city, and ahead Morden could see the gate into the city. The walls were tall and imposing. The gate was well built and well guarded. Steel shone in the late afternoon sun. There was less traffic heading into the city, much of it turning left and right. Only the wealthier looking were going straight on.

Decision time.

Morden looked left and the road was much like the one they were on, flanked with hovels and a stinking pile of refuse of every kind; animal, vegetable and orc.

He looked to the right expecting much the same, and was not surprised bar one small detail that made his heart leap. Standing at the corner, arms folded, looking directly at Morden was an orc that he hadn’t seen for months.

Grimtooth!

When Morden caught Grimtooth’s eye, the orc swung round and marched off.

“Turn right,” said Morden.

Chapter 18 Weeding the Flowerbed

Your ambition should have no limits.

The Dark Lord’s Handbook

The Count was wondering if he had the right day. When he had arrived at the tower there was no evidence of the other conspirators. He didn’t feel the need for an entourage, but the others normally had personal servants and guards. At the foot of the tower, to one side, was a small but ornate out building that served as servant quarters. He could have expected to see a certain amount of bustle, maybe smoke from a fire, or tied up mounts. But all was strangely quiet.