by Paul Dale
“That can’t be good,” observed Zara.
“Where is that, Ferg?” asked Hal. “Anywhere near Morden’s fortress?”
“Close enough,” said Ferg. “Wow. Did you see that one? That must be Firerock blowing.”
The orc sat up. There followed brilliant flashes of lightning, thunder marking their passing. Apocalyptic was a thought that came easily to mind as the cloud grew impossibly huge, blanking out the sky. The ground beneath them trembled with aftershocks. It was an odd sensation, like a boat on a gently rolling swell.
“Maybe he’s dead already,” said Zara.
She could be right. The eruption could have killed Morden before Hal even got there. Strangely, he hoped it hadn’t. The idea they had come all this way for nothing was oddly unbearable. He was a dragon slayer. If there were dragons to be slain, then he would do the slaying. He wasn’t going to be usurped by some volcano getting lucky with a rock or lava. No earthquake could do the job he was born to do.
“I doubt it,” said Ferg. “His fortress is pretty strong. That and he’s a Dark Lord.”
“What do you mean?” asked Hal.
“Dark Lords don’t die easily,” said Ferg. “He probably caused all this for a bit of show. To impress us minions. That’s what they’re like, Dark Lords. Always showing off.”
“Us minions?” said Zara. “There’s no ‘us’ here, orc. In fact, let’s be clear. Are you saying you’re his minion?”
“A figure of speech, darling,” said Ferg. “All I’m saying is, we should be so lucky he gets a scratch.”
Hal ignored the bickering. If he thought there would be violence he would step in, but otherwise it was a useful release. He watched the continuing eruption in awe of its scale and ferocity. It was a thing of terrifying beauty. He doubted the world had ever seen such force and it was madness they had to head towards it.
“Let us not tarry,” he said.
“Let us not tarry?” echoed Zara. “You’re getting weirder by the day, Hal. Is there something I should know?”
Hal didn’t know what she was going on about. Delay was unnecessary. “Let’s go,” he said. “Happy now?”
Surprisingly, Zara and Ferg fell in behind without argument as he set off to fulfil what he hoped was his destiny: to kill a dragon. Or two.
Chapter 7 Homebound
A Dark Lord has no nightmares. Rather, he is the stuff of nightmares.
The Dark Lord’s Handbook
In three years, memories had become confused. There were times when Edwin wondered whether they were shadows of nightmares rather than the real torment of his life. These days, he could sleep undisturbed more often than not. Some nights, however, he would wake screaming with the memory of what had happened that dreadful night far across the sea, that night when the lie that was his life was brought into painful relief by the truth. He had been driven mad. His mind had not been able to contain the revelation that the love he had pursued was his sister. How that could be was still a mystery, but he had known the truth when his father had told him. Griselda was his sister, and now she was a Dark Lord’s queen. While that truth remained, other things had changed for him. He was no longer a hero, and the Dark Lord was no longer his particular foe. Morden was the world’s problem, not his. His sanity and Griselda were the things he cared for most. She was a wound in his heart but whatever path she had gone down, she would always be his sister and he would love her, wherever she may be, and whomever she was with, even a Dark Lord bent on world domination.
His memories of the time he had spent in madness were even vaguer than when he had been a hero in pursuit of his love. What he did know was that he had fled Deathcropolis and let fate take him where it would; his madness was all that was left to him. Washed ashore and wandering as a wild man, he had scavenged as he went. He had fought with beasts over carrion to survive and let his humanity fall off him, like the armour he had once worn, to be discarded as a forgotten vestige of who he had been in a previous life.
He was better now but he could still feel lunacy in his mind, waiting to take him. The cursed sword had left its mark. There were still times when he craved battle, to fight the righteous fight, to see a foe split from shoulder to groin and feel the warmth of their defeat as he was covered in gore. In his wandering, he had been set upon by footpads and thugs. Unarmed, they had thought him easy prey, but they had learnt the folly of their attack. Edwin had needed only a fallen branch to beat them. He had crushed their skulls and spilt their brains on the earth. Taking their weapons, he no longer walked unarmed and only the desperate and foolhardy ever bothered him, and in doing so they met a similar fate.
He took no pride in remembering what he had done as a hero, or after. As a hero, he had been living a lie and possessed by an evil stronger than he opposed. The sword was surely a demon. After, he was mad, and fought as any animal would to survive. He had sunk as low as he could and it had taken all the time since to get to where he was today, sane once more and within a few leagues from where it had all started. Home.
As dusk approached, ahead he could see a hamlet. He’d done work for a farmer who lived here when he had been a blacksmith in Wellow, before his hero days. More painful memories to dredge up. His now-dead grandfather had raised him well and he had abandoned him, unburied, to run off on a crazy quest. He should never have picked up that demon sword, never have left Wellow. He should have been a blacksmith and a poet. They were the things he loved most, though he had only done occasional blacksmith work for money on his travels, unable to write a line of verse. Recently, when he had bought ink and quill and tried to commit into words the agony of his being, he had managed only a scratch on the paper. It was still too soon. The day would come when he could express his feelings, but that day had not yet dawned.
It was Little Wassop ahead. That was the name of the hamlet. There was an inn there, The Fat Lamb. The beer was good if he remembered correctly. There was something odd about it as well. He couldn’t recall what but he did remember there was a time when people travelled specifically to the inn for curiosity’s sake. It had been around the time he had started on his ill-fated path, but it was no matter. It would afford him a meal, good beer, and a bed for the night. These parts weren’t as safe as they had been when he had lived here before. The whole of the Western Reaches had turned ugly as a result of the Dark Lord rising and a traveller was best advised to be indoors at night. The Fat Lamb would be an ideal stop. He could rest and gather himself for the emotional torment that awaited tomorrow when he would return home to Wellow.
The Fat Lamb was not as he remembered it. It had always been rough around the edges but delivered a good pint. As he approached, he noticed it had been painted a garish duck-egg blue, and had new highly stylised signs. The patch of grass in front, which a farmer may once have left a sheep to graze on, was now trimmed and surrounded by a short, white picket fence which served no purpose, given it could be stepped over with ease. Beds of primroses lay to either side of the doorway, to one side of which was a board with a chalked menu. It offered quail breasts on a balsamic bed of greens, poached rabbit, turned new potatoes, braised shallots and julienne carrots. For dessert there was stewed rhubarb with vanilla crème. ‘Full wine list’ was written in smaller writing at the foot of the menu. This was a far cry from rabbit and veg with a pint, as would have been on offer when he was last here.
On entering, instead of a raucous assemblage of hard working and thirsty farmers and tradesmen, he found a room of intimate tables sitting groups of two to four, engaged in quiet conversation. Plates of food were being carried in that looked like they wouldn’t satisfy a moderately hungry man, let alone one who had worked up an appetite in the fields. Looking around, Edwin was unsure where he could sit when off to the back he spotted a single large table with benches, not chairs, around which were sitting rustic old folk, as opposed to the best dressed at the front of the inn. As he tried to make up his mind whether he was better off spending the night under a hedge somewhere, a wo
man approached. She was as full-bodied as the wines listed at the bar and had eyes that sparkled welcome.
“Good evening, sir. I am Jesobel, your hostess. Will you be dining with us?”
“Just beer, some bread if you have it. Perhaps some cheese and a room, if there is one free?” asked Edwin, and immediately wondered if he had the coin for such extravagance.
“Would that be white or granary bread? We also now have wonderful crusty rolls with poppy seeds, or you may prefer a more savoury onion bread? To accompany that, we offer a wide selection of cheeses, including softer cheeses specially brought in from Pointelle.”
“Just bread and cheese.” She was starting to annoy him. He took a deep breath to calm himself.
“For beer, we can offer you a light pale ale, an extremely pleasant hoppy beer, Spotted Goose, and our speciality, a stronger beer, the Dark Lord.”
Had he misheard? “Dark Lord?” Edwin felt his pulse quicken. What den of iniquity had he stumbled into? “What are you talking about? What Dark Lord?”
“Dark Lord,” said Jesobel. “It’s a dark beer that packs a real punch. Very popular.”
Edwin looked over to the bar. On one of the pumps he could see a painted shield, with a cowled figure on it, labelled Dark Lord. Now that he was looking, behind the bar, partially hidden behind the curly-haired barman, was a portrait of a black-cowled figure, with a dragon flying above and behind it.
“Spotted Goose,” said Edwin, now uncertain he should be staying, but the smell of food won out. He was starving and even bread and cheese was better than a knotted stomach under a bush in the chill of night. “I’ll be over there.” He pointed to the table at the back. There was free space on the benches and from the dour looks those who sat there were giving the rest of the inn, they looked like more his kind of people. One, with a moustache as unkempt as the inn was prim, glowered as Edwin approached.
“Edwin,” said Edwin, as he sat in an open spot.
“Jurgen,” grunted the man with the moustache.
“Tibault,” squeaked the mousy man sitting next to him.
The two others ignored him, one taking a swig from his flagon and putting it down with sufficient force to imply Edwin was not welcome. The man stood.
“I’ll be off.”
He barged past Edwin as he left.
“Don’t mind him,” said Jurgen. “We don’t get many strangers come sit with us. Most come here for the fine food these days.” Jurgen nodded to the other tables. “Mutton dressed as lamb.”
“Ben in the kitchens says it sometimes is, what they serve,” sniggered Tibault.
That brought a laugh and Edwin relaxed. The Fat Lamb may not be what it was, but there was good company still to be had. His beer and food appeared in front of him. The cheese was in carefully cut chunks and the bread was sliced. A tiny dish held the smallest portion of butter and had a pattern etched over its surface. He was starving and this didn’t look like it would feed a sparrow. There was another laugh from those around him.
“Your face,” chuckled Jurgen. “Not much, is it? And wait until you pay. Criminal, it is.”
“It is that,” said the one remaining who had not introduced himself. “I’m Gregor, by the way. What’s your story, stranger?”
It was harmless enough a question, but it gave Edwin pause. What was his story? It was a long answer and one that would be painful in the telling. All he wanted to do was eat his meagre meal, enjoy a pint or two of beer, and sleep. “I’m a blacksmith on my way home.”
The heads around the table nodded acceptance of his simple explanation. The brief silence was broken once more by Jurgen, who Edwin divined was the spokesman here.
“And home would be? Round here?”
“Wellow.” Saying the name of the village where he was born brought home how close he was. These people were his people. They spoke with an accent that made him feel comfortable, reminding him of happier times when he was growing up in the smithy.
There was another pause as the latest of Edwin’s replies was digested. Edwin decided to pre-empt further prying with a question of his own. “What’s this Dark Lord business about? Seems a strange name to give a beer with all that’s happened. Is it a joke? If it is, it’s in poor taste.”
“You’ve been gone a while then,” said Jurgen. “Things have changed round here. This pub for one. They don’t even like that name much, these posh ones. They wouldn’t be seen eating in a pub. Food’s still food. Beer’s still beer. Look there. Mrs. Dunster in her best frock just for a bite to eat down the local. Ridiculous.”
“Mr. Dunster don’t look happy,” observed Gregor. “Where are we when it’s got to the point where a man can’t come in for a drink with his friends after work? What’s he to do?”
“Go home and talk to the wife. That’s what,” said Jurgen. “I don’t know what the world’s coming to when a man can’t get drunk after work.”
“Can’t afford to,” said Tibault. “Not with things being so expensive and money hard to come by.”
Gregor finished his beer and put the mug down with a significance that said it wasn’t his round. Jurgen looked down at his own beer, and then at Edwin. Tibault examined the ceiling. Edwin didn’t have much money left, but he wanted answers and it looked like more beer was expected if he was going to get them. He attracted the attention of the serving lass.
“Three more of whatever my friends are drinking, and the Spotted Goose for me,” said Edwin.
“Three Dark Lords and a Spotted Goose. Coming right up.”
Edwin’s eye couldn’t help but be drawn to Jesobel’s bottom when she leaned over to collect the empties. She was a good looking woman.
“Harold’s wife,” said Jurgen when she had gone. “He’s the landlord.”
The tone of his statement was clear to Edwin.
“What’s this Dark Lord beer all about?” asked Edwin, trying to direct Jurgen back to the matter on his mind.
“Stronger than the other beers,” said Tibault.
“Good flavour,” said Gregor. “Does leave a sore head on you the day after, and you wouldn’t want to be using the outhouse after me, if you catch my drift.”
“I’ll bear that in mind, but how did it get its name?” asked Edwin, his ire rising.
Jesobel returned with the beers. She brushed past Edwin as she laid them down and he was certain it was on purpose. There was a smell of rosewater about her. Edwin judged she was getting on in years, but they had been kinder to her than most and she remained attractive.
“You said you wanted a room for the night?” she asked, once the tray was emptied.
“Yes,” said Edwin. “If there is one available.” Was that a faint smile on her lips? It may be his imagination, but she was being inappropriately forward for a married woman.
“Plenty of room,” said Jesobel. “I’ll go and turn down the bed now.”
When Edwin turned back to his newly acquired friends he was greeted with tight lips and stern expressions.
“The portrait,” said Edwin. “Behind the bar. An odd picture to have, given what happened off east.” The three of them gave no answer, fixing him with their glares. “Married woman. I understand.”
“Just make sure you do,” said Jurgen. “Harold’s not so bright but he’s a good fellow, and no cuckold.”
“Leave him be,” said Gregor. “We all know how Jesobel can be. And you’re an honourable man, aren’t you Edwin?”
Strictly speaking he was Sir Edwin, Hero of Bostokov, but that was in another lifetime. He would wake with cold sweats when he dreamed of those days and the ‘honourable’ actions that had driven him. He had so much blood on his hands. He had tried to defeat the Dark Lord Morden and those who had stood in his way had paid a terrible price. It wasn’t his problem now, though. His hero days were over. “I’m just on my way home.”
“To Wellow,” said Jurgen. “And a blacksmith? You must have worked for Petor. Died a few years back.”
Hearing his grandfather’s name
sent a shock through Edwin. His memory of what exactly had happened was dim, as all things were from the time the sword had come into his possession, but he did remember his boyhood. He’d learnt everything he knew in those years. Grandpa had been stern but fair. It had been sad to see him age so quickly and become a shadow of his former self.
“Wasn’t he murdered?” asked Tibault. “By his own grandson?”
“Heart attack,” said Jurgen. “Everyone knows that.”
“I heard it was murder,” said Gregor. “Breath squeezed out of him.”
“And I was over there the next day, and it was a heart attack,” said Jurgen, with a finality that brooked no argument.
Tibault was looking at Edwin, a strange expression on his face. “If you come from Wellow—”
“You wanted to know about that picture,” interrupted Jurgen. “It’s simple. That Dark Lord, Morden Deathwing, he came from here. Right in this pub. He was born upstairs. ’Course, we were all a lot younger then.” Jurgen coughed as though to emphasise advanced years. There was plenty of grey in Jurgen’s moustache, and Tibault had few teeth left, but a life of country living and hard work seemed to have left them fit enough for old men.
“Terrible night,” said Tibault. “A blood moon and a storm like none we’ve had since.”
“And the demon,” said Gregor. “Don’t forget him. He cursed the child.”
Edwin could hardly believe what he was hearing. He’d travelled across an ocean and a continent to get away from Morden Deathwing only to end up in the place of his birth. What cruel fate. However much he struggled, it seemed it was his doom to be forever haunted by Morden bloody Deathwing. Evil incarnate, self-proclaimed would-be Dark Lord, master of the world, and he came from Little Wassop, not five miles from his own place of birth. And if what Tibault said about the moon was true, on near enough the same night. He must be the victim of a wicked joke being played out. He’d been trying so hard. All he wanted was to leave the past behind and yet here it was, thrust in his face. A whisper in his mind said he should kill them all. He had lost the sword years ago but he still heard it. In the dead of night, when all was bleak, it would say things to him he found both abhorrent and compelling.