by Paul Dale
Keeping an eye open for rocks from above, he hurried across the yard to the gate. From there, he could see the full extent of the damage. Huang had built a series of buildings to support his work: a forge to cast the trial weapons, a workshop for carpentry to make the carriages he needed, and a flat building surrounded by large earthen banks where he had the black powder made. They were in ruins. There was nothing left of the black powder building. It must have been hit and exploded. Huge rents had been torn in the earth banks. Whether it had been this explosion or the volcano that had destroyed the other buildings was moot. Orc corpses and body parts were scattered among the wreckage. If Huang was dead, there was a chance they wouldn’t be able to identify his corpse given the carnage.
What a disaster. Morden shuffled forward through the ash, kicking at a head to see if it was Huang. There weren’t even any cries from the wounded. There seemed to be no survivors. He made his way beyond the wrecked buildings to the demonstration ground. A glance told him his worst fears had been realised. A massive brass cylinder lay next to its carriage. The huge, iron-bound wheels had been blown off the carriage and lay cracked and splintered to one side. There were many more orc bodies here, along with a dozen dead mules attached to harnesses that ran off the front of the carriage remains.
Morden went to take a closer look at the brass cylinder. It was simple enough to see the intention. At one end there was a hole, out of which Morden presumed the projectile would come, the other end being sealed with a rounded cap. A depression at the rear of the cylinder, with a small hole at its centre, must be the means for igniting the powder. The workings were simple enough in theory. The difficulty Huang had reported was the casting of the cannon, as he called it, and the mixture of powder and other agents needed as a charge to fire the stone balls being used as missiles. Walking around to the other side of the cannon, Morden found Huang. He was not in a good way. He was missing an arm and his jaw was at a weird angle. There was a distinct depression in the orc’s skull where he had been hit by something, probably a rock. Morden didn’t need to check to know he was dead.
He looked up at the volcano to curse it, and as he did so he saw his father rising from the mountain. That was odd. He couldn’t have anything to do with the volcano exploding, could he? It seemed unlikely, but when it came to his father, he never knew. He watched as his father spiralled up before diving towards the fortress. Morden considered sending a wave of compulsion upwards to draw his attention but it looked like it was unnecessary as his father was arrowing towards him. He remembered with some sadness what it had been like to fly. He missed the freedom and thrill of soaring over the land. He missed his keen dragon senses as well. His father would be able to see him clearly. For the first time in a long time, Morden looked in on himself and willed a change. He wanted to leap into the air and sail away for a few hours. He wanted to get away from the disaster that surrounded him. But he could not. When he had first become a demi-lich, he had been able to feel the battle inside between the mostly dead part of him and the dragon, but now there was only the smallest spark of that dragon left, an impotent part of what he had once been.
His father arrived with typical panache, assuming his human form as he alighted to the ground in front of his son.
“That wasn’t you, was it?” asked Morden, indicating the volcano. He thought it a ridiculous notion, as ridiculous as Griselda having accused him of blowing up a volcano, but there was a smidgen of doubt.
“Good to see you too, son,” said his father.
Even after three years, Morden was not used to being called son, nor was he comfortable with it. Though he could not deny his parentage, there was something about his father that grated. Maybe it was his unrelenting pursuit of pleasure ahead of all other things. Perhaps it was the fact he was still a dragon proper and could fly while Morden was grounded. It may be either of these things, and more, but, above all else, he thought it was because his father was so good with women, even without having to exert his dragon powers. He had resisted all his father’s attempts to coach him, though. While he would have liked to have some of his father’s obvious charm, he had a world to conquer. Besides, even if he was charming, Griselda wouldn’t tolerate any harmless flirting he may engage in.
“What can I do for you, Father?” asked Morden. He had no time to be dallying. He needed to get back to the fortress and start pulling things back together. He needed to show the orcs he was still in control and that, beyond a few deaths and some destruction, everything was on track.
“I’ve been remiss, son. We need to talk …”
Talk? Father to son? It was a bit late for that. “Father, I’ve been with Griselda for three years. I know all about that stuff.”
His father arched an eyebrow. “Really? Anyway, that’s not what we need to talk about, though remind me to do so at a later date. It’s about time you spread your interests further in that regard. Get a mistress or something.”
“Will you get to the point? I have minions to organise and an evil empire to manage. These things don’t look after themselves.”
“No need for that tone, son. I am your father.”
Morden didn’t believe for a second the hurt expression his father had assumed. Sincerity was something he was sure his father had never suffered. “Why is it always a game with you? Can’t you be serious, just once?” Every conversation they had seemed to be a joust. His father was impossible to get to grips with, being both evasive and elusive. Morden never knew where he was, or what he was up to, and thought it best he didn’t, given some of the more personal details of his father’s exploits that had reached his ear. “What do you want?”
His father straightened from his normal relaxed stance and the twitch of a smile that always played around his lips vanished. “You need to come with me. Now.”
Morden was taken aback. In a moment his father had become deadly serious. He’d never seen his father like this. It was thrilling. Morden could feel the tremendous strength of will coming from his father. A normal person would have had no choice but to obey. Morden, though, had felt real compulsion when he had faced Zoon, and his own will was considerable. He resisted the immediate urge to obey with ease. He would go with his father to see what was so important, but on his terms. He could see in his father’s eyes recognition of this as his compulsion slid off his son. An unspoken battle had been won and Morden was the victor.
“Very well,” said Morden. “Lead on.”
His father made no immediate reply. Was that pride Morden could see? It was the first time their wills had really clashed; all matters had been trivial between them until now. Whatever it was that concerned his father was clearly important enough for him to exert his power, and Morden had resisted it with ease.
“Permission to carry you, my lord?” asked his father, with a hint of a deferential bow and an insouciant curl of the lip returning.
“Carry away,” said Morden.
*****
Morden had to take a moment to let it all sink in. He was standing in a cave, under the lower slopes of a volcano that was still rumbling away, with what his father was telling him were dragon eggs. Lots of dragon eggs. They were the biggest eggs he had ever seen. Unbidden, the image of a large omelette came to mind; not that these eggs could be cracked. Their shells were stone and they were fused to the cave floor. Inside each, he was led to believe, was a fully formed, dormant dragon, ready to be hatched.
“And these have been here for five hundred years?” asked Morden. He had been told once, but it was hard to believe or understand. The mating habits of true dragons had clearly eluded him, especially when it came to progeny.
“The first ones, yes,” said Lord Deathwing. “I think those over there are the oldest.”
“One egg, every twenty years?”
Morden’s father pursed his lips. “Something like that. There were a few decades when we weren’t getting on. You know how it is. Marriage. Not easy.”
“You’re telling me,” said Mord
en. His marriage with Griselda was certainly not without friction. Fortunately, the subject of children was one that had never cropped up with Griselda. Perhaps living in a Dark Lord’s fortress had suppressed any maternal instincts she had, or maybe her poetry was too important to her. Whichever, Morden had no inclination to have children. He couldn’t impose his will on the world if he was tied up raising a child, though from the parents he knew, he thought he may have the easier task. It wasn’t as if he had the slightest hint of paternal feelings. He dreamt of world domination, not bouncing a baby on his knee. “And Lady Deathwing is the only one who can hatch these eggs?”
“Precisely. The eggs are temperature sensitive, and only the female of our species can breathe fire hot enough for the job.”
Morden had never met his stepmother—his exact relationship to his father’s wife was hard to work out—and he had no inclination to complicate matters further by involving her if it could be avoided. “What if we light a fire under them?” asked Morden, more as an aloud musing than a serious consideration. No man-made fire would be as hot as dragon breath. “Never mind. So why tell me now? I didn’t think you wanted more children.”
Morden glanced sideways at his father to try to read a response to his question. Lord Deathwing had assumed his human-ish form when they had arrived at the cave; his skin was black, smooth, and unreadable. His eyes burned with inner fire, and equally gave no hint of what was going on behind them. It was more than suspicious his father chose now to reveal that there was a flight of dragons held in stasis. If they could be hatched, he would have his Black Dragon Flight, just as Zoon had had all those centuries ago. He would have his power. In no time, they would mature into young dragons and he could bend them to his will. He would have the power he needed to issue forth and could begin in earnest laying waste the world. It had to be too good to be true. The last three years had done a good job of wringing his youthful optimism out of him. It had been nothing but a hard slog. He had never imagined how much effort was involved in being a Dark Lord. There had to be a catch.
“Well …”
Morden didn’t need to be able to read his father’s face to know the catch was about to make its appearance. And without doubt it would be a good one. “Yes?”
“Well. It’s the wife. She’s disappeared.”
“Ah.” Here it was. No Lady Deathwing. No dragon births.
“Normally, that would be fine. Like I said, there were decades when we barely talked, and others when we didn’t see each other at all. She did her thing, and I did mine.”
“Like a marriage break?”
“I don’t think she would have put it like that, but yes. This time though, it’s different. We were getting on, by our standards. She seemed very happy with her conspiracy and schemes. It was all going so well.”
“So what happened?”
“I have no idea. I was following you around for the most part. And then there was that last mad dash to get that hero to take care of Zoon. It was hectic.”
“She didn’t tell you her plans?”
“She may have, but it’s not like I paid much attention to what she said. Our twenty years was coming up and I was trying to stay on her good side. I was doing what she told me to, which was largely to keep an eye on you and Edwin.”
“Twenty years? The mating thing.”
“Exactly. I wasn’t going to mess that up.”
Morden was aghast. He thought he understood the depths to which his father’s libido drove him, but this was insane. “You’re unbelievable. All that trouble just to have sex?”
Lord Deathwing laughed. Its condescension made Morden feel like a boy once more. “You’ve never had dragon sex, have you?”
“Clearly not,” said Morden, trying to keep his anger in check.
“If you had, you’d understand.”
“Yes. All right.”
“Amazing doesn’t begin—”
“I get it. Best sex ever. I understand. Now, what about Lady Deathwing?”
“No need to get worked up. I was only saying—”
Morden gripped his father with his will. “Will you drop it and concentrate on the matter at hand.”
Lord Deathwing shuddered as Morden eased off the compulsion to let him speak.
“You’re so uptight. When was the last time you—”
“Lady Deathwing. Where is she?”
“I don’t know,” said Lord Deathwing. “But I’ll find her. I have my suspicions.”
“Good.”
Even though they were in a cave under an erupting volcano, Morden felt a chill in the air between his father and himself. While they had never enjoyed a typical father/son relationship—he had never been one to call his father ‘dad’—Morden had never exerted his power over his father like this before. But if he was to be the Dark Lord Morden then everyone, including his father, had to have no doubt he was in control. They were now both father and son, and Dark Lord and minion. Morden relaxed his will entirely.
His father shook himself and looked at Morden with a curious expression. “That was impressive. It’s been a long time since I have felt a will so strong.”
Morden considered an apology but thought better of it. He was a Dark Lord and could do what he wanted with whomever he wanted, and if that meant imposing his will on his father then that was fine. “Go and find Lady Deathwing and bring her here. Whatever it takes. I need the Dragon Flight reborn.”
“As you command. But you should get laid more often,” continued his father, a smile of razor-sharp white teeth spreading as he spoke. “It would help relax you.”
“Father …”
“All right. I’m going.”
Morden watched his father leave and then turned his attention back to the eggs in the cavern. Here was the power he needed. The world had not seen the Black Dragon Flight for five hundred years. With these dragons at his command, even young ones, he would be unstoppable. No city wall could stop them. No army could stand in their way. He felt like he had taken a big step towards seeing his dreams of conquest realised. The only missing piece of the puzzle was Lady Deathwing. He would have to tread carefully with her. He was sure she would be made of sterner stuff than his father, and brute force may not be sufficient to win her over. In the meantime, he would get a team of orcs in here to add shoring to the cavern ceiling. It looked solid enough, but it was best to be sure. As he left the cavern, the floor shook and the volcano rumbled, perhaps reminding him there were forces at work that were bigger even than him. No matter. Cataclysmic eruption and furious row with Griselda aside, it had been a good day to be a Dark Lord.
Chapter 9 Handbook: War
There is no sweeter sound than the lamentation of your enemies.
The Dark Lord’s Handbook
A Dark Lord has but one goal and that is to rule. Everything. No exceptions. All else is a consequence of this goal. Many would say that a Dark Lord is only interested in war, death, and destruction. This couldn’t be further from the truth. While a Dark Lord will not shy away from a fight, and is not squeamish when it comes to death and destruction, these are the undesirable side effects of being opposed when in the pursuit of bringing the world under his dominion.
The most wasteful pursuit for a Dark Lord is that of war. War should be the last resort, not the first. This may seem at odds with the reputation of Dark Lords, but it isn’t. War is wasteful and costly. A Dark Lord should not seek war but be prepared for it, to the extent that those who may oppose him are left with little doubt as to the consequences of resistance. It is this preparation and readiness that confuses so many. A Dark Lord must assemble the biggest, most terrifying instrument of destruction possible in the hope that none are stupid enough to test this instrument.
When a Dark Lord issues forth, he must have an army at his back. It is there to prevent war, not start it. It is there to keep those who are to be brought under the Dark Lord’s will and dominion safe from harm. It may seem like occupation, but that is one of the common misconce
ptions of those about to be put in thrall. A Dark Lord’s army should be welcomed, not opposed. It will guarantee there will be no future wars by its mere presence. It is a force for peace, not conflict. Through strength comes peace.
Sadly, those who are not keen on being looked after and cared for by a Dark Lord will take to arms and seek battle. This is sad. While it is true that a Dark Lord will brook no opposition, when it comes to power sharing, it is for a good reason: a Dark Lord knows best. It’s that simple. All a Dark Lord ever wants is to bend the world to his will for its own good. Freedom is misunderstood and overrated. Who is ever free? The wage slave is not free. It is an illusion. The religious man is not free; he is a slave to his god. The democrat is not free; he is slave to the popular vote. The family man is not free; he is a slave to his wife and children. Love is his master. All are slaves to one thing or another. The Dark Lord is the only one of these masters who is honest and open. Yes, you will be bound to the will of the Dark Lord, but otherwise things will be better. A Dark Lord brings peace and order. A Dark Lord tolerates no crime, as every crime committed is against him, and punishable by death. A thief who steals from the shopkeeper is stealing from the Dark Lord, for everything that shopkeeper has can be called upon by the Dark Lord on whim. The man who despoils another man’s wife commits a crime against the Dark Lord; those he holds under subjugation are his alone to treat in any way he sees fit. A crime against society is a crime against the Dark Lord and will not be tolerated.