by Paul Dale
Karl Dragonslayer shook his head. “No. Nothing like that. All I have are my recipes.”
“Any of them mention killing dragons?”
“Sorry, no.”
“Very well. What to do?” Chidwick went back to his chin-tapping routine. “The last time I had this feeling was in a brewery, and I was right that time. So why not a bakery? Stranger things have happened.”
Mr. Chidwick was making no sense to Hal. It was true, he was probably the least likely dragon slayer to be found. He was a baker’s son, and was happy with his life. And yet, opportunities like this only came along once in a lifetime. Though he didn’t know where this path would take him, or how it would turn out, he did know he wanted this chance more than anything.
“I know I can do it,” said Hal. “I’m not sure the where of it, or the how, but I know it.”
Chidwick varied his chin tapping with some thumb strokes down one side of his perfectly shaved jaw. “You know, Hal, I believe you. I hate to do this twice, and I had much better cause the last time, but I think you’re what I’ve been looking for. I trust you. I trust your father.” He turned to Zara. “You, I don’t trust. You’re trouble. But that may be part of it. Perhaps you should go with him.”
Hal expected bluster and protest from Zara, and so was surprised when a smile spread across her face.
“Try and stop me. He’s hopeless enough as it is. I’ll look after him.” She put an arm around Hal’s shoulders and squeezed hard. “Now, where exactly is this dragon?”
Chapter 2 Good and Evil
Victory should be expected but not presumed.
The Dark Lord’s Handbook
In the eternal battle between Good and Evil, things were not going badly for Team Evil. From his vantage point on the lip of the smouldering volcano, Evil could see Morden’s fortress was making impressive progress. Orcs busied themselves around the near-complete walls and towers, like ants over a nest, their activity directed by Morden’s will. The orcs had been building the fortress for three years and it was finally looking as it should. Sharp-edged bastions punctuated crenellated battlements, with shard-like towers and buttresses reinforcing an overwhelming sense of unassailable strength. The wall loomed over the plain that stretched away from the fortress, and was anchored at each end by steep-sided mountains. The fortress’s main towers stood on the lower slopes of a third mountain, dominating a mass of buildings and barracks that lived in the shadow beneath the battlements. The volcano provided a backdrop some miles distant, its belching smoke giving a suitably gloomy air to the whole vista. Any who approached would be in no doubt that this was a Dark Lord’s residence. Discounting the army that lived behind the walls, it was ridiculously massive for just one Dark Lord and his queen, and spoke volumes regarding the ego behind it.
Evil could feel his protégé. He was growing strong. Things were indeed going well. At this rate, it wouldn’t be long before Morden issued forth to lay waste the world, bring it under his dark dominion and, after so many defeats at the hands of his great adversary, Evil would finally triumph. Victory would be his, made sweeter by those past defeats and the millennium of crowing he had endured after each failure. And to think, all it had taken was a simple Handbook to guide and direct this Dark Lord.
Evil’s patience was beginning to run low when he sensed his great adversary, late as always.
“Finally,” said Evil. “Are you ever on time? It’s not as though I haven’t got better things to be doing.”
“Punctuality is a compliment you pay to the intelligent and a rebuke you pay to the stupid,” said Good.
“I’m not sure I understand what that means, but there’s no need for insults.”
“None intended. Besides, the clock may be ticking but I am the master of the last-minute win. It makes beating you so delicious.” Good joined Evil to look down at the fortress. “I say, he has been a busy little Dark Lord. What’s his name? I lose track. There have been so many.”
“You know perfectly well his name is Morden, and don’t pretend you’re not worried.”
“Still plenty of time,” said Good. “Openings have always been your strength. It’s the endgame where you mess it up.”
“Not this time. Even by your weak standards, your early game has been pathetic. Your hero is a nutcase. The sword is lost to you. You have nothing.”
Good shrugged his incorporeal shoulders. “If you say so.”
“I do. No hero. No weapon. No Forces for Good to speak of. I’ll happily accept a concession now. Admit you are beaten.”
Good laughed. It was a laugh that, if heard, would kill a man with joy. The air could hardly contain such sweet tones, a complex harmony of hope which uplifted and gave strength. To Evil, it sounded like the shriek of a banshee, one suffering from the severest of stomach pains.
“How can I possibly admit defeat when we haven’t got started yet? You are far too hasty in your assessment, my strategically-challenged friend. We can stand here and see Morden with his mighty fortress, his ever-increasing army, his strengthening will, but it doesn’t matter. The stronger the better. I’ll enjoy his humbling that much more. Your ability to snatch defeat from the cusp of victory should never be underestimated. You may not be good at many things, but that is one where I admit you are my unrivalled master. Do you remember that time when—?”
“Enough,” said Evil. “You can gloat all you like on past victories, but they are gone. Your bravado is as transparent as your recent failure. If you are not worried, then why did you resort to such underhanded tactics?”
“I have no idea what you mean.”
“Oh, come on. Resurrecting Zoon? Using one of my own pieces against me? Too bad you had no idea how to play him correctly.”
“You used Edwin.”
“To counter Zoon. I’ll admit, your plan wasn’t bad. It was evil. Use an ex-Dark Lord to get rid of mine and then, in time, have him dealt with by your hero. Only you didn’t anticipate me bringing that last bit forward, did you? You think me stupid, but it is your hubris that will bring your ruin. You think yourself so smart.”
“No need to get nasty,” said Good. “It’s just a game.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you’d lost as much as I have. Anyway, I am meant to be nasty. It’s what I do.”
“True enough. Now, why did you want to see me? There’s this thing I need to be doing …”
“Laundry?”
“Very funny. Get to the point.”
Evil was enjoying himself. His adversary was rattled. The volcano rumbled and coughed a plume of smoke into the air. “Two things. First, I thought you’d like to see the progress that’s being made. It’s only fair. I’d hate you to claim you were sucker-punched when Morden issues forth with his considerable army and conquers the world.”
“Have I ever told you how tiresome you can be?” asked Good.
“You have, but let’s not spoil my moment. So, one: my Dark Lord has got his act together and before long will issue forth and lay waste. And two—”
“Are you sure about that?” interrupted Good.
“Of course, I’m sure.”
“If you say so. Go on.”
“And two …” Damn it. “Why did you have to ask that?”
“Ask what?”
“Am I sure?”
“Don’t worry. I’m just playing the game. Sowing seeds of doubt.”
Good always did this. Got under his skin. This was meant to be an opportunity to gloat, to heighten the anticipation of the victories that would follow. The volcano shuddered as though it, too, could feel the anticipation. The bulge in the centre of the crater, pregnant with fiery promise, visibly swelled.
“I have no doubt,” said Evil. “I will win this time. And if I do, then you know what that means. I win and it’s over. Forever. No more games. It was a careless boast you made, saying I could never win. To bet it all for eternity thereafter was foolish. I will win and your overconfidence will have cost you everything.”
“You s
till haven’t got round to the second thing,” said Good. “I didn’t come here to be monologued to death.”
“Second—”
The volcano exploded. Chunks of rock, the size of a small keep, were blown into the sky under an explosion of grey ash. The cloud grew in an instant to darken the day into night, lit only by a river of magma rushing from a split in the crater’s lip. The noise would have deafened any mortal, had they survived the storm of molten rock that thundered around Good and Evil. The fury of explosions continued unabated and violent tremors shook the mountain.
“Oh dear,” said Good. “How unfortunate.”
Evil was too transfixed by the violence of the eruption to pay his adversary much notice.
“Why do you always have them build fortresses in such stupid places?” asked Good.
The crater was now a lake of lava with explosions blowing fountains of magma hundreds of feet into the air. The force of the explosions was many times greater than anything Evil had seen before—and volcanoes were a speciality of his. Their heat was often the forge for blacksmithing and crafting of the most evil kind; most despicable works often resulted. It was beautiful. Evil wished Good would shut up and enjoy the moment. Destruction on this scale was rarely seen.
Oh crap.
Evil turned from the glorious display with half an idea of what he would see. He was wrong. It was much worse than he had anticipated. Morden’s fortress was being pummelled by a rain of rock that smashed walls, towers, and orcs into pulp. Where mere moments before a bastion of darkness and evil portent had stood, now there was a basalt demolition site. Only Morden’s tower seemed relatively unscathed, but, even as Evil watched, a rock the size of a small cottage, trailing smoke as it arched from the mountain, demolished the topmost spire. For a split second, Evil panicked. Had Morden been in there? No. He could still feel the Dark Lord, lower in the tower, moving hastily downward. Total disaster had been avoided. It was a setback, but that was all. Morden was alive and could rebuild.
“That wasn’t me,” Good said.
“Oh, piss off,” said Evil.
Chapter 3 Volcano
Brooding is like sulking, only cooler.
The Dark Lord’s Handbook
High up in his Tower of Doom, Morden sat brooding on his Throne of Torment. The names had seemed appropriate when he’d thought them up but now he was less certain, even if the throne did give him chronic back pain. ‘Juvenile’ was a word Griselda threw around frequently when it came to what he called things and, although he didn’t like to admit it, she might have a point. He was still struggling with what he should call the dungeons beneath the fortress. Dank, deadly, and despair were words that, when coupled with dungeon, were accurate but lacked gravitas.
Names aside, he was pleased with the fortress’s progress. The Tower of Doom rose sharply into the sky, dominating everything, which was impressive considering the size of the fortress itself. Its melancholy architecture depressed Morden, let alone those of lesser will who looked upon it. Dark spires jabbed into the sky and long, forlorn arches stretched up the tower, recesses of inky sadness that sucked hope from those who gazed on them. His throne room was towards the top of the tower, reached only by a single staircase. It had been carefully designed so that to any who climbed the stair, trepidation doubtless in their heart, the room would gradually reveal itself until at last they would see Morden, sitting on his throne, robed and shrouded in gloom.
The throne was a twisted mass of demonic body parts, screaming heads frozen in basalt, gaping wounds, and sharp edges. It looked like it had been pulled from the morass of hell, and was even more uncomfortable to sit on as it was to look at. A cushion would have helped. But a Dark Lord couldn’t be seen sitting on a comfy chair. Griselda had overseen his first throne. It was comfortable and had two carved cats sitting upright on their haunches for his hands to rest on. (So he could scratch them, she said). He had humoured her for a month before commissioning this more suitable replacement. While better suited for a Dark Lord, he did regret having gone so overboard on the looks and the spiky bits. He had to remind himself his discomfort was just another burden, added to the many he bore as a Dark Lord with worldly ambition.
It was not surprising, therefore, living in this tower, Morden was often in a bad mood. The same could also be said for Griselda. After three years together, he still endured her foul language and grumpiness. While some things hadn’t changed, others had—his brooding for one. When he had brooded on his first throne in the Bindelburg School for Young Masters and Prospective Brewers, he had thought himself adept. But he had been wrong. He now knew, as a more experienced Dark Lord, that he had many years of brooding ahead of him and he was still learning. Many, many, years. Without end. Brooding upon brooding sent him into deep melancholy.
Distant rumbling matched the deepening gloom surrounding him, which was quite literal these days. When he was in a melancholy mood like this, even light avoided him. His minions had long ago learnt to leave him alone unless summoned. It wasn’t that he lashed out, but their bodies would start to atrophy if they got too close. Being caught in a bad mood had a whole new meaning when it was somebody else’s.
Through the arches that let in what dim light there was, Morden could see smoke rising from the top of the volcano he had privately dubbed Mount Griselda (both being temperamental and prone to explode). Its true name, Firerock Mountain, was a direct translation of the Orcish and devoid of imagination in his opinion. He was still working on a better name. The mountain had grumbled and had occasional minor fits for years. Very much like Griselda. Occasionally, the earth moved. Again, very much like the time he spent with his queen.
Morden smiled to himself and the gloom around him lifted slightly. He could have used his will to control Griselda’s tantrums but they were part of her. She was the most infuriating thing in his life by far—worse than the most incompetent of his minions—but he adored her more than ever. He knew it was wrong, that it was weakness, but the power she had over him was stronger than even his own formidable power over the host that did nothing other than await his bidding. There were times, in the dead of night, when all that could be heard was the distant rumbling of the volcano and Griselda’s snoring, he wished he had not taken her as his queen.
Not that Morden ever slept. He knew no rest or respite from wakefulness. No wonder he was in a bad mood so much of the time. His mostly dead condition was to blame. But while there were the downsides, like the continuing degradation of his physical body—and of course the smell—there were benefits as well. His ability to induce paralysing fear and compulsion was approaching that of his old adversary, Zoon. He had also gained a number of mental powers, like being able to change his appearance in the minds of those who saw him. While the trick did not apply to himself, and he made his own stomach turn, thankfully it worked with Griselda. If she could ever see or smell him, as he did, she would without doubt run screaming. As it was, while he occasionally revealed his true self to minions to reinforce his image, she didn’t know the full extent of his decay.
On the downside, he could still not assume his dragon form. Since that fateful night on the ziggurat in Deathcropolis, when Zoon had been brought down by Edwin and he had taken Griselda as his queen, he had learnt the dragon inside him had a lich counterpart which was dominant. He could only assume that death had tried to claim him when he had been shot, and since then it had become part of him. His inner being was locked in a life and death struggle, with death taking the upper hand. As the years had passed, the two seemed to have woven together and he was, in many respects, more powerful than ever. In time, he hoped he would once again be able to assume his Deathwing form and fly. It was something he missed. There were times he wished he could leap into the air and get away, even for a short time, to enjoy the thrill and exhilaration of flight. But being a Dark Lord was a full time job. All day and all night.
Griselda complained they did not spend enough time together, just the two of them. Morden thought th
is was unreasonable. He was a Dark Lord, with a world to conquer, and that took a massive amount of planning and preparation. Not to mention there were those who would try to ruin his plans and have him killed by whatever means. Assassins could be anywhere. He had to take precautions. It wasn’t as if he enjoyed having ironclad orcs follow him everywhere. She had to realise the moments of intimacy he shared with her were also the times he was most vulnerable. He was as unhappy as her that they had to express their feelings in whispers, and strangle the cries of passion to save embarrassment. She had to understand history was littered with the corpses of would-be Dark Lords who had been taken unawares in the throes of passion. Having guards present while lovemaking was just another precaution he had to take. Not that lovemaking was in the cards these days. Sometimes, he wondered why he bothered with her. It wasn’t easy being a Dark Lord, and even harder being married.
Footfalls coming up the staircase broke Morden’s reverie. The combination of obsidian stone and an echoing, cavernous space meant each step was clear. Morden had learnt to identify who was coming up from the sound of their footfalls. Stonearm made a noise like hammers on an anvil. Griselda was staccato in her step. Iron-booted orcs had a metallic note in their approach. These footfalls were none of those. These steps were more a shuffle that mirrored the despondency of the man. Kristoff. Sure enough, he came into view, dressed in his favourite jacket—so worn and stitched that patchwork seemed insufficient a description. What little hair Kristoff had left clung to his scalp like patches of moss. Morden wished he would shave it off and embrace baldness. It would be more dignified for the father of the queen. As Kristoff came closer, Morden could see the familiar lines of age and worry on the poet’s face. He had come to the conclusion poets were intrinsically miserable. Kristoff and Griselda both had an eye for the tragedy of existence that, even for a Dark Lord, Morden found depressing. His father-in-law came to a halt at the foot of the dais. None were allowed even to the first step, except Griselda, Stonearm, and his own father. The Handbook had warned him about letting anyone get too close, even if it was a harmless poet.