The Dark Lord's Handbook (24 page)

Griselda!

The memories came flooding back. His sword, his love, his loss, the pain and anger. They had surrounded him and he had tried to fight them but they were too many. His hand went to his leg as he remembered being shot.

He had to get out of here. Raising his head barely off the pillow he looked around. There didn’t seem to be any guards. A few men who seemed to have only minor injuries were playing cards around a table near the entrance to the tent. But he didn’t have to leave that way; the bottom of the tent had a gap running along it. It would be tight but he could slide under that. He tried to move. The wound sent pain shooting up his leg as the muscle tensed, and his head throbbed. He felt like a rag doll. He was so weak.

He slumped back and dark despair descended. He was useless, and surely for every moment he lay here unspeakable acts were being committed on his love, Griselda. He could only imagine her despair as she called his name in desperate hope that he would rescue her. He hoped her love for him kept her strong; for love such as theirs could not be denied. There was destiny in them being together. Nothing could keep them apart as long as they were true to that love, and he was as sure of his love as he knew she was of hers.

His grief overwhelmed him and he fell into a half waking dream where he struggled in vain to rescue her. In his dream he could see her, standing at the side of a dark cowled figure. She had been bewitched and was draped over him like a harlot, dressed in the flimsiest of skirts and veils. The Dark Lord mocked him.

He tried to get to them so he could cut his tormentor down and break the spell on his love, but as he moved it was as though he were wading through mud. He fell and found he was drowning. He struggled for breath. Above him he could see the surface of the water shimmering with light. He reached out as he sank. His lungs burned and he thrashed around. He was going to die.

No!

Griselda could not be left to her fate. He would rescue her. Fighting against darkness that sought to swallow him, he headed for the glimmer of light that was left.

Then he was awake. His lungs were screaming with agony but he could not cry out or draw breath. There was a pillow over his mouth and a great weight holding it down. It was night but there was moonlight. He could make out a man above him. He was trying to smother him.

With all his might and fury, Edwin swung a fist round and felt it connect with a satisfying smack. The man fell sideways and hit the ground with a thud. The pillow was released and Edwin gasped in a huge breath. He rolled to one side and savoured the taste of the cold night air. The burning in his lungs became an ache.

With painful slowness, his head thick and his leg still sore, Edwin leaned over the edge of the cot to see who his attacker had been, but there was no one there. The pillow lay by itself, scrunched up on either side where it had been held, an impression of Edwin’s face pressed into it visible in the low moonlight.

Around him the other men slept and snored, oblivious to what had happened. Someone had tried to kill him.

No. Not someone. Edwin knew who had tried to kill him, if not in person then by dispatching an assassin: the man in black from his dreams, who had summoned the foulest of creatures to steal away his love. He had done this. Edwin knew he could tarry no longer. He would bear the pain for what was that next to the suffering of Griselda? It was nothing. A test of his love. It was pain he could bear.

He sat up.

He steadied himself, and then, grimacing with the pain from his leg, he swung himself out of the cot and stood. At least his leg was good. It hurt but could bear his weight; the arrow had not shattered bone. He took a step. And then another. He stumbled and as he did so he felt something brush his face and then there was a thud from the tent post to his side. His hand went up to his face automatically. It came away wet and then came the sting. Without thinking he rolled to the ground and there was another thud. The body on the cot that he had fallen next to jerked. There was a sickening gurgle from the man and the body twitched around in death throes. Edwin rolled under the cot and tried to work out where the assassin was firing from, but he could not see much from where he was. He instinctively rolled sideways. A bolt hit the earth where he had been a second before. He was a dead man unless he did something. There was only one thing he could do.

He filled his lungs and roared. As he did so, he burst to his feet and turned over the next cot, tumbling the man out onto the floor. Another bolt swished past him but his roar had woken people. Within seconds there was a general commotion as Edwin continued to bellow and everyone woke up.

Then the dead man was found, a bolt through his neck, and Edwin was seized.

“It wasn’t me!” he bellowed. He was held by four men, and they were having a tough time of it. He struggled as hard as he could. “Let me go. Let me go!”

Struggling like this he wasn’t going to break free so he relaxed, going limp in their hands. He felt their grip loosen in response. He took a deep breath and exploded outwards with his arms and sent his captors flying in all directions.

Then there was a blow to the back of his head. He fell face forward to the floor and the world went black.

This time when he woke and tried to move his arms, he couldn’t. He was bound into the cot. Then the pain came flooding in. His head felt like the time when he had been running in the smithy as a boy and had slipped and smacked it on the anvil.

“He’s awake,” said a man’s voice. It was an old voice that had a touch of weariness about it.

Edwin kept his eyes closed and tried to feign sleep. What was going on? It all made no sense. Why was he still alive? Who had tried to kill him and why was he being kept alive now? Did they mean to torture him further? Perhaps the Dark Lord wanted to gloat over him before he was dispatched.

“So he is. Edwin?”

The voice was a woman’s. Not Griselda though. This voice was sibilant but also hard. There was something in it that chilled his heart. Whoever they were, they obviously knew he was awake. He opened his eyes.

Peering down at him were an old man with a bearded and scarred face, and a woman who was both beautiful and terrible. It was her eyes. They were like ovals of fire as they burned into him. She had a slender face and high cheekbones. Her hair was black and straight. She reached for his forehead to rest the back of her hand against it. Her touch was like cold stone. She pinched his cheek; her nails were like talons.

“He’s got a fever,” she said. “But he’ll live.”

She whispered something in his ear and sleep rushed in on him.

When he woke it felt like he had slept for a week. He couldn’t remember dreaming at all and it took a moment to remember where he was and what had happened. His head should be hurting but it wasn’t. He could feel where he had been shot but the wound itched like it had healed and caused no pain.

He was still bound though, so he was a prisoner. Rage welled up and he fought to keep it down. He needed to save it for when he could make his escape and punish those who had done this.

Looking around, another thing that had changed were his surroundings. He was in a much smaller tent and alone. There was a plain wood table and chair. Clothes were draped over the chair and his sword was leant against it in its scabbard. On the table was a stoup and bowl. Through an open awning he could see two guards.

A head dipped in through the awning, a young woman with a plain but warm face. She smiled when she saw him look up at her and immediately disappeared.

Edwin heard the sound of leather heels snapping together and the awning was thrown back; the old man and woman swept in.

“Bring me two chairs,” said the man over his shoulder.

The two looked at him impassively. He in return examined each in more detail.

The man was obviously military and, from his scars and attire, experienced. Edwin was not sure how he knew, but there were little things, like how he wore his dagger there, across his front rather than at his side, and how his attire was tied and strapped, that only came from seasons of campaigning and represented years of hard won victory. Edwin couldn’t help but feel respect for what this man represented. He may be his enemy but he gave every impression of being a solid, grim, determined foe who would neither give nor expect quarter. That was fine with Edwin for mercy encouraged only weakness. Strength was what he respected and this man was strong.

The woman was entirely different. Her clothes were not quite right, as though from a bygone era. She wore a mixture of leather and cloth, that served to both show off a feminine figure and yet was subtly functional in a practical way. She could ride a horse or even fight with those clothes. Certainly she was no soft noblewoman, but there was an air of aristocracy about her. She held her nose slightly up, as though offended by the smell (which had to be said was a ripe mixture of horse, mud and men).

Her straight black hair framed a slender face with thin lips and oval eyes that still had fire in them. As he scrutinized her, she held his stare, cupped her chin and tapped her talon-like fingernails against her cheek.

“He’s not all brawn then,” she said. “Good.”

Two soldiers with chairs for his captors appeared and were then dismissed. It seemed they didn’t need guards, especially given he was bound.

“You are wondering who we are and why you are bound,” said the woman. “I am required to be a woman of discretion so who I am must remain my secret but you may call me Black Orchid. This is Count Vladovitch. Together, we represent a group that is most worried about certain things and we would like you to help us.”

Edwin was puzzled. He wasn’t sure what he had expected – he should be dead – but conspiratorial introductions was not what had sprung to mind.

“There is a darkness rising,” continued Black Orchid, “that will bring ruin to the world and it must be stopped. The Count here has been building an army to that end.”

“The Dark Lord,” said Edwin. So they knew of him but he was their enemy? It made no sense. They were playing with him like some fool. This time he could not keep the fury down. From across the room he could hear his sword whispering. It wanted blood.

“You must forgive me, madam,” he started quietly, “but what in all that is sacred is happening here?” His voice rose as he spoke, his anger getting the better of him. “Why am I bound? Where is Griselda? Where are you keeping HER?”

He strained against his bonds but they were thick and well tied. His shout brought in the guards but the Count, if that was indeed what he was, waved them away.

Black Orchid was shaking her head. “Edwin, Edwin. I’m so sorry. Of course, I should have said. Morden, the Dark Lord, has Griselda. Even as we speak he takes her east.”

Edwin listened with disbelief.

“Bastards!” he spat at them.

Then the rage took him again. He shook and strained, managing to topple the cot. It took four men to set him straight. All the while, Black Orchid watched with amusement that made him angrier. He wanted to smash that smile from those lips. And yet, her beauty was terrible and roused him in ways that made him hate himself. He wanted to taste her lips, to feel that body.

He shook his head to force the images out and focussed on Griselda. She was his love and he hers. He would be with no other woman. This he swore to himself and to her.

Black Orchid laughed and blew him a kiss. Could she read his mind?

Eventually he had no more energy. They had moved him to a chair and bound his legs to it so he could not kick, and hitched his arms behind him.

“You say you want my help and yet you bind me like an animal,” said Edwin, glaring at them.

Black Orchid laughed again. “It’s for your own good, my dear boy. We can’t have you tearing this place up and getting hurt. What good would you be to Griselda if you did that? Or to us, for that matter. If you would calm down and listen, then perhaps you might realise that we are here to help you.”

Part of him wanted to believe but there were so many things that told him not to. “So who tried to kill me?” said Edwin.

“Morden’s assassins,” said Black Orchid. “Now, are you ready to listen? We have a lot to go through, and the Count here is a busy man.”

What she said made sense. If they had wanted him dead, he would be. And although he was bound, he did see that maybe it was for their safety. He had to admit that had he not been tied he would have hacked them into chunks and fed them to swine. Maybe they were telling the truth. If they were and this Morden had Griselda, and was taking her away east, then he would need a new horse at the very least. If the Count had an army he could use, then that would be even better.

“I’m listening,” he said.

“Good,” said Black Orchid smiling. “If you’re willing to lend us that strapping sword arm of yours then here’s what we can do for you.”

For the first time in months, Edwin felt his spirits rise. If it was his sword arm they wanted then he was sure he could oblige them.

“There’s going to be a war, Edwin,” continued Black Orchid. “Morden is a Dark Lord and he seeks dominion over the world. As I speak, he raises an army and heads east to his fortress. From there he will gather to him all the evil in the world before coming forth in an apocalyptic fashion. It’s going to be messy.”