The Dark Lord's Handbook (26 page)

Now for the show stopper. Words and magic could do so much, but so far all they had seen was Morden, a man in black.

Morden centred himself and willed the Change.

It was much like the first time, the difference being that he knew what was happening. He felt his body fill up with energy. His skin felt like it was going to explode and then in an instant he was no longer man shaped but a dragon.

The crowd froze as one, paralysed with terror. Morden reared up on massive legs and spread his wings.

“I am Morden Deathwing.”

Morden knew that this was the critical moment. The mob had a choice. Either he was a terrible black dragon that was about to consume them and they had better get the hell away as fast as possible, or he was indeed their leader, the one to lead them into a future that promised much more than being a dragon snack. Morden was sure that most people wanted to believe that they were more than an appetiser. He was not wrong. The first to break were the orcs. They began to chant his name.

“Morden. Morden. Morden.”

Morden took a deep breath and exhaled a blast of fire into the sky. The humans had joined the orcs and the chant grew louder. And now it was time for his exit.

Morden brought his wings down and leapt into the air. As he rose there was momentary doubt. He’d never flown before. For a dreadful second he seemed to hang there above the crowd. He was so big. How was it possible that something so large could fly? It was impossible. He was going to belly flop to the ground and squash a bunch of people into dragon burger. Looking down he could see similar thoughts pass rapidly through the crowd as they looked up at him. Eyes widened and some started to push violently backwards.

He beat his wings hard and the down rush of air forced the front of the crowd onto their knees.

But he rose.

He wasn’t sure how it worked. He beat his wings slowly but powerfully and he stayed aloft. All heads were upturned to look at him. The panic had gone and the chant had died; the crowd stared in open amazement. Morden could only imagine what they were thinking. Their astonishment was evident. Who could blame them? Dragons were the stuff of myth and legend and yet here was one, hanging in the air above them. It had breathed fire, just like they were meant to.

But this one was also a man. Or had been a mere second beforehand. One that had been saying a lot of stuff about freedom, working rights, fighting together and stuff, and they had played along hoping he would go away if they did. But it was real. He wasn’t kidding around. Maybe he was telling the truth. After all, it wasn’t every day a city was sacked by a Deathwing dragon that promised to set them free.

As one the crowd broke from their paralysis and went wild. From the streets around, more people flooded in and stopped in awe before joining the call.

“Morden!”

Morden felt the ever more familiar tingle of power as once more his name was called. They were his to do his bidding. The death and destruction of the last few days was cast aside by his power over them. Their city had been burned, and in places was still smouldering, but all they could see was an amazing thing: a man, a dragon, one and the same with a message of liberation.

Morden turned and rose higher until the crowd were like maggots. Then, tucking his wings in, he dove. As he did he let The Fear come again. The crowd flattened themselves and the cheers turned to shrieks of terror. Morden released a blast of fire above them hot enough to singe eyebrows but not actually burn anyone. As he snapped up into the air, he let The Fear go and hovered above them, beating his wings slowly to keep his place.

From below there was a palpable release of tension and applause; cheers rang out. It had only been a bit of fun, a demonstration, but one that Morden knew would stick indelibly in their minds. The stuff of legend was real. They had the singed hair to prove it. There was a new power in the world and Morden Deathwing was it.

As planned, Morden could see a small flotilla of skiffs leaving the dock, orchestrated by Stonearm. They were the last of his Guard heading for his ship. In the boat with Stonearm, Morden could see Kristoff and Griselda. Kristoff was looking back and up at Morden. To Morden’s disappointment, Griselda was sitting facing forward, her arms folded. The show had been as much for her as anyone and it seemed she had ignored it all. A gut wrenching pang gripped Morden. He tried hard not to sigh. That would not look good.

It was time to leave, join his fleet and sail east.

With a few strong beats of his wings, Morden was soon over his flagship. The speed with which he flew was at first a surprise – he could easily have outpaced a galloping horse – but, in consideration of his size, it was not that surprising. There was tremendous power in his dragon form.

He hovered over the ship and immediately spotted a problem. He had nowhere to land. The ship’s rigging obscured the deck, and even if it had been one of the slave driven oar-ships from the east, he was far too big to land on it.

The orcs who were manning the ship were little help. They were standing on the deck cheering, oblivious to his predicament.

It was frustrating. It looked like he was going to have to land in the sea, change back into a man and get fished out of the sea. Hardly befitting a Dark Lord.

Then he had an idea that would save him not only a soaking but also get Griselda’s attention. The skiffs were about half way out to the fleet and making good progress. The sea was calm and the orcs were pulling hard on their oars.

Morden flew back to hover over the skiff that held Griselda. He kept his wing beats to a minimum to hold position, but even so he could see that the skiff was taking a buffeting and the sea was being chopped up. Everyone in the skiff was looking up at him. Fear was written on many of their faces but it was fury written on Griselda’s.

“What the hell are you doing?” she screamed.

Hoping he had got his aim correct, Morden came down as low as he dared without overturning the skiff and changed. Fortunately his aim was good, but his height judgement was not. He was suddenly a man hanging fifteen feet in the air.

Gravity considered his predicament and acted accordingly.

Morden tensed as he fell. For a dreadful second it occurred to him that he might even fall right through the bottom of the skiff and sink it. He needn’t have worried.

“Gotcha,” said Stonearm, as Morden thumped into the orc’s massive arms. The skiff rocked but stayed afloat.

At the stern end, Kristoff was sitting looking morose next to Griselda, who was now standing, hands on hips and glaring. Morden was suddenly aware that he was being held in the arms of a giant orc much like a baby.

“You moron,” said Griselda, her face screwed up with contempt. “You could have killed us all. Twat.”

“You can put me down now,” whispered Morden to Stonearm.

The orc let him go and Morden thumped to the bottom of the skiff that was awash with a couple of inches of sea water.

Trying his hardest to salvage even a mote of credibility, Morden thought it best to ignore Griselda. She was obviously not in the mood to be impressed.

“Row!” commanded Morden, indicating the Black Ship as their destination.

The orcs at the oars looked at each other with confused expressions.

“You heard Lord Deathwing. Stroke you miserable lot,” ordered Stonearm, cuffing the nearest oarsmen.

Morden struck what he hoped was a suitably dramatic pose as the skiff ploughed towards his flagship. He dare not look to the stern where all he could hear were the continued curses from a pissed off Griselda. So much for making an impression.

Soon they were at the fleet and he had no time to wallow in his depression. Orders were given, sails were set and signals were made. From the main mast a flag was unfurled – a black dragon on a white hand, resplendent on a field of red.

The flag lifted Morden’s spirits. Stonearm must have been using his ever increasing initiative as it was a detail he had overlooked.

“Excellent flag, Stonearm,” said Morden with some pride.

“The White Hand is an old orcish symbol,” said Stonearm.

“It goes rather well,” said Morden. He was aware of heraldry but he had no notion what much of it meant. “What does the hand represent? Strength?”

“Close. It means that whoever bears this flag is going to give you a good slapping,” said the big orc.

“I like it,” said Morden. “Good job,
General
Stonearm.”

The emphasis was not lost on the big orc. “Thank you, my Lord,” said Stonearm, puffing his chest out.

Standing on the poop, the black canvas sails stiff in the wind and the fleet following, Morden felt calm come to his mind. Though Griselda was still a pain, and even now he could feel the tug at his loins, he was happy to savour the moment. They were on their way east. Who knew what lay ahead?

For Morden, it didn’t matter. He had an army and destiny lay ahead of him. Conquest, riches and power beckoned. He would head east, gather an even bigger army as he went, and rally orcs to his banner. He would keep his promise to Grimtooth and give them back their pride. In return they would fight for him against all those that may oppose him, because Morden was aware that Penbury was still out there. What had happened at Bostokov – or Mordengrad as he had to keep reminding himself – could not have gone unmarked or be left unanswered. It would be interesting to see what the Chancellor did. If it were him, Morden would use his exceptional resources to raise an army and squash Morden like a bug. That was why he had to keep moving. He wasn’t ready yet to face that challenge. A few thousand orcs and himself was not enough to go up against the kind of army Penbury could raise.

He had to prepare. Taking Bostokov had been a gamble. He was still rising and the Handbook warned him against premature battles. He needed to find Zoon’s old fortress, rebuild it, gather his strength and rally all the orcs of the world to his banner, along with anyone else that would follow a Dark Lord. He was proof positive that creatures of myth were in fact real, so who knew what else from the old tales was still out there? Trolls, giants, ogres, demons, harpies, gryphons, vampires, zombies, mammoths, manticores, goblins, killer whales, sabre tooth cats, werewolves, witches, troglodytes.

Anything was possible.

Chapter 31 Intelligence

The best laid plans of mice and men fail, therefore you must be neither mouse nor man.

The Dark Lord’s Handbook

It had been twenty years since Penbury had been to Al-Frahzi. It had been to aggressively negotiate trade from the spice route that ran from Al-Frahzi to the east. The city was ancient and smelled of camels. The city streets were narrow and lined either side with mud brick buildings that were pleasantly cool in the midday sun.

These narrow streets were also notoriously not the place to be with the moon full in the sky, as it was now. They were home to the infamous kari-kari wielding street thieves of Al-Frahzi. The kari-kari was a knife that was famous for two things: the first for being made in Al-Frahzi where it originated, and the second for being the knife most likely to be found in someone’s back. The reason for the latter was that once it had been plunged in it was ridiculously difficult to remove due to its curved shape and the razor teeth that lined the back edge. While more modern designs overcame this problem, the knife remained popular, particularly among the footpad population where it was seen as the traditional weapon that separated the proud Al-Frahzi thieves from common muggers. If you were to be robbed and murdered then it was their solemn duty to ensure they provided the most authentic cultural experience they could.

Twenty years ago, Penbury had been out in these streets on a night not dissimilar to this, celebrating his successful cornering of the peppercorn market. He had been young, and in hindsight careless, but fortunately for him he was already a keen duellist and his rapier had seen off the one attempt made on his purse.

Hooded and moving from shadow to shadow so as to avoid the bright beams of moonlight that pierced the alleyways, Penbury was beginning to think that insisting he go alone to meet Snort and Snort was a mistake. His heart was beating far too fast a rhythm and he was sure he had picked up a tail. It wasn’t far now though, so perhaps he had nothing to worry about. Maybe it was Chidwick ignoring his orders.

He ducked into a doorway and stood still, looking back the way he had come. The contrast of dark and light that the full moon created made it hard to see much. Instead he looked for movement. If he spotted something it was unlikely to be anything but trouble; Al-Frahzi was not known for stray cats since the Great Famine a century past when a taste for a wide range of foods had been developed, and in fact was one of the reasons Penbury came to the city in pursuit of his gastronomic interests.

Relieved that he saw nothing, he carried his bulk as lightly as he could further down the alley. He had memorised the route in his mind and it was down to the end, a left, then first right, second door on the right.

Perhaps it was because he was going over the knocking sequence that he would have to perform on the door once he reached it that he let slip an old saying in Al-Frahzi:

‘One never knows what is around the next corner, but one should make sure it is not a kari-kari.’