The Dark Lord's Handbook (44 page)

Gathering clouds, outlook stormy. Advise: Severe weather imminent
.

The serendipity of events in two places coming to a climax at the same time was not lost on the Chancellor. But rather than good fortune, accident, or luck, he preferred the notion of good planning.

“Not bad news I hope,” said Lady Deathwing.

“Touch of bad weather,” said Penbury smoothly. “It’s touch and go at this time of year with the Tempranillo grape.”

“Of course it is,” said Lady Deathwing.

Penbury took the second sheet that backed the message and scratched a reply. He hoped he was not too late.

Offer every assistance to avoid disaster
.

Chidwick, ever efficient, wheeled in a large silver covered platter on a trolley. Chidwick positioned the trolley mid table and removed the hood with a flourish. On the platter was a cage fashioned from pork ribs dripping with a velouté sauce.

Inside, flopping around in a sea of purée, were two spriggles. Penbury’s gourmet eye could tell immediately they were the highest quality. Not quite adult, their eye stalks were not too full of length which would make their eating easier, because to eat spriggle properly they had to be swallowed whole. If they were too young, however, they would not have developed the slightly crusty skin across their back which not only gave textural contrast to their scallop-like flesh but, through some extraordinary contrivance of nature, added a seasoned, crispy bacon flavouring. It was this skin that also was one of the eight deadly elements of the little critter. It was commonly thought that there were only seven ways to die eating a spriggle but that was not so. The skill that the chef had to employ was to lightly brush the back with a perfectly balanced sauce that acted to neutralise the burning acid that no poison antidote could counter while leaving the base flavours intact.

“Ah, spriggle,” said the Chancellor. “A particular favourite of mine. Have you ever had the pleasure?”

“Live food,” said Lady Deathwing. “How interesting.” Lady Deathwing fixed Penbury with her eyes and smiled to reveal her full set of razor teeth. “You wouldn’t be trying to poison me now, would you, Chancellor?”

Chapter 49 Wedding

It’s a nice day for a Dark Lord’s wedding.

The Dark Lord’s Handbook (Idol edition.)

Edwin was woken by someone stepping on him where he lay. It was night again, though bright with a full moon. He had only lain down for a minute to gather his strength but he must have slept all day. How he had fallen asleep with the riotous party that was going on around him was a mystery. The square around the base of the temple was heaving with revelling orcs, with a smattering of humans (mostly pirates) mixed in. There was a heavy driving beat of drums that had the mass moving as one in a rhythmic bounce.

Edwin got up slowly. He was sore and stiff from sleeping in his armour. He must have been exhausted. At least he would be well rested for the butchery that was soon to follow. Under his rough shawl he could feel the comforting presence of his sword. Already he could sense its anticipation and excitement. It would drink heavily this night.

Edwin looked around to regain his bearings. He had found cover under bushes on the left front side of the square close to the bottom of the ziggurat stairs that climbed into the night. Columns of torches lit either side of the stair. Massive orcs, bare to the waist and muscled like rhinos, beat huge drums positioned either side at the bottom.

The throng had been allowed part way up the stair but then there was a line of orcs that looked different from the rest. They were armoured and carried large axes, but there was something else that set them apart from the others. They barely moved and, in the flickering flame, what little skin was exposed seemed to glisten as though oiled. They seemed to exert a repulsion over the revellers below them because instead of being pushed up against the line of guards the partying orcs maintained a distance of several yards.

There was no sign of Morden at the top of the ziggurat. Preparations were being made, centred on a stone altar that ran sideways across the top of the stair. At this distance, it was hard to see clearly so Edwin started forward. It would take a while to press through the crowd.

At first, Edwin tried to slip between the bodies that were thrashing around to the music, falling over drunk, and singing strangled orc ballads, but it was taking too long. The moon was creeping higher and Edwin had a strong sense that something was going to happen soon. He barged his way through, throwing friendly punches to knock belligerent orcs to the ground as he went. His armour helped him tank his way through much faster.

He was nearing the line of hulking orcs when Morden appeared from the back of the platform at the top and raised his arms. A wave of silence swept across the square and suddenly everyone was still and staring up at the robed figure. It took Edwin every ounce of will to force his legs into moving again but he began to climb. He had no time to lose.

He put his head down and started to push upward. He had taken only a few steps when there was a roar from around him that stopped him in his tracks and he looked up.

Morden stood, his left arm outstretched and holding the hand of a woman.

“I present to you my Dread Queen, Griselda!”

The words came from the grave, laden with death and decay. They shrivelled Edwin’s heart. It was his love as he had seen her a thousand times in his dreams. She was terrifying and beautiful, her body stiff, her smile a rictus.

“Griselda!” he shouted and pushed forward.

His cry was taken up by those around him and soon there were thousands of voices calling her name. He pushed through the last revellers but hesitated at the line of armoured orcs. They were much bigger up close. Four of them were arrayed across the width of the stair, blocking it. They were more than twice the size of a normal orc and had heavy plated armour. Dead eyes stared out from their helms. There was no mistaking the work of the Dark Lord. There was no other choice but to fight his way through. Edwin reached for his sword.

It was half way out of its sheath when a blur swept across the stair behind the orc guard. There was a flash of silver from behind each as it passed and a thin line appeared across the thick necks just below the helmet line and above the pauldrons. The first orc toppled slowly forward, its head parting company with its body as it did so; the others followed in a macabre line. Edwin had to sidestep the heads and bodies as they clattered past him and into the orcs behind. An avalanche of orcs rolled down the steep ziggurat and swept into the crowd, flattening all before it.

Edwin looked up the stair. This was his chance. Pulling his sword free, he bounded up the stair. He almost didn’t see the figure in black, a sword in each hand, flipping nimbly over the stone balustrade.

He took the stairs two at a time. He was ablaze with energy and fury. At first, it seemed his assault would go unanswered but then from either side of Morden orcs poured forward and down. They were not brutish guards in plate but were wearing vestments adorned in skulls and strange sigils. They waved wickedly curved knives in slashing arcs. He cut through them. Their corpses rained down the ziggurat as he hacked a bloody path up.

He could hear a woman’s laughter. Sparing a glance from the slaughter he could see Griselda laughing hysterically. Next to her, Morden’s cowled figure had let her hand drop and was moving to meet him.

Edwin brushed aside the last of the orcs and raised his sword into a guard. The Dark Lord was a mere few paces away.

“Griselda!” shouted Edwin.

Then the Dark Lord spoke. It was as though Edwin had been physically hit. Darkness and fear filled Edwin’s mind. Despair gripped him. Griselda was pointing at him and laughing. He was covered in blood and the stench of death surrounded him. He was too late. She was lost. The Dark Lord had his Queen and her hatred and derision washed over him, mixed in with the contempt of his rival’s words:

“You are too late. She is mine.”

Chapter 50 Poison

It’s not a question of Good and Evil. It’s a matter of self interest.

The Dark Lord’s Handbook

If there was one thing that spriggle did
not
taste like it was chicken. It didn’t taste like anything else for that matter. It was spriggle. It was an exquisite ensemble of texture and flavours so powerful that it needed a host of ways to kill you to avoid total extinction; for surely once tasted no man could do anything else other than go out and hunt spriggle until there were no more.

To prevent it struggling too much, Penbury liked to wrap his in a thin pancake. Many could not stomach the notion of eating a spriggle alive. To Penbury it was no different than eating an oyster. In fact, eating anything alive was to him the ultimate test of any gastronome. If you could not eat a creature alive then you may as well just eat vegetables. The only reason he did not eat more things alive was because it was often too inconvenient and did not taste nearly as good as having been sealed, slow roasted and served with greens.

It had been a while since he had had spriggle but as soon as he popped the little critter in his mouth and crunched into it he was transported on a wave of gastronomic pleasure to the first time he had risked the treat. Now, as then, a complex series of high and low notes created a symphony of flavour that played out in his mouth. And just as he thought it was over and had swallowed, the inevitable belch as spriggle hit his stomach was a welcome encore.

When Lady Deathwing belched she set fire to the tablecloth and Chidwick had to hurriedly beat the flames out.

“Delicious,” said Lady Deathwing. “I can see what all the fuss is about now. Quite extraordinary.”

“Indeed,” said Penbury, trying to ladle as much disappointment into his voice as possible without being melodramatic. Penbury hadn’t expected the spriggle to prove fatal to the dragon. If it had that would have been a bonus. “I’m so glad you enjoyed it.”

Lady Deathwing smiled again. “Any more? I seem to have quite the stomach for it.”

“Regrettably not,” said Penbury.

He reached for one of the ribs that had caged the spriggles. The savoury ribs with their sticky sweet sauce were just the ticket after such a complex taste experience. Lady Deathwing took a rib and picked her teeth with it.

“So where were we?” she asked.

“We were talking about war,” said Penbury. “You must know that a war is of no consequence to me and those I represent.”

“There’s profit in war,” said Lady Deathwing.

“Indeed,” said Penbury. “But there is more profit in peace. We prefer the latter but if a war cannot be avoided then we do not meddle. Can this be avoided?”

Lady Deathwing looked thoughtful.

“I think not,” she said at last. “Now, don’t look so disappointed. I shall have my war, the world will be ruined and then I shall save it.”

“But only after it has burned and we, and by that I mean me in particular, have been ruined with it?”

“Collateral damage,” said Lady Deathwing. “Is there dessert?”

“Chidwick!” said Penbury. “We’ll take dessert now.”

The Chancellor could feel the smugness that emanated from the other end of the table. That was good. He hoped his silence while Chidwick brought in cream filled meringues, strawberries (out of season to all but himself) and cream, with crystallised basil twills, would reinforce her triumphant air. She had come to gloat. His pathetic attempt to poison her had failed and there was nothing he could do.

Chidwick served them both and filled their glasses with a syrupy sweet dessert wine before retiring.

“To war and all that it brings,” said Lady Deathwing, raising her glass in a toast.

“I hope you’ll forgive me if I lack your enthusiasm,” said Penbury.

“Suit yourself. These meringues look delicious. I must say, Chancellor, your reputation after this meal can only be enhanced.”

Chapter 51 A Dark Lord Dies – Again

Bad guys finish first.

The Dark Lord’s Handbook

If they were going to escape then time was running out. Zoon had been true to his word and they were on the top of the temple ziggurat. The statue of Zoon towered above them and straddled the ceremonial altar. There were chains, grooves in the stone that waited for their blood, priests with wickedly sharp knives, smoking oil lamps, and more priests with more knives.

“This doesn’t look good, boss,” said Stonearm.

Morden could barely hear his faithful minion above the noise of the crowd and drums; it was a party he wished he hadn’t been invited to. Kristoff had become a gibbering wreck and Griselda seemed to have become a kind of living dead that had her mechanically moving at Zoon’s behest with a terrible fixed grin. Whatever Zoon had done to her, the real Griselda was still in there. Morden could see it in her eyes. They were screaming at him to do something but he was powerless. There were far too many orcs to fight their way out. Stonearm could probably have taken a few before they were skewered but Morden’s own talents were more at the strategic level. He tried exerting his will but it seemed to slide off the orc priests. Zoon’s power held them in thrall.