by Paul Dale
Chapter 14 Hunted
When all hope is gone, then the war is half won.
The Dark Lord’s Handbook
Edwin was tired of being hunted. The howls were getting closer, the hounds baying as they sensed they were cornering their prey. He had been running for weeks, but no matter how far he went, word of his so-called crime followed him. He’d had no rest since dispatching the Dark Lord Morden’s evil mother from the world. He thought he would have been hailed a hero, as often he had been in the past. Instead, a bounty had been put on his head and he’d been harried and hounded, quite literally, ever since.
He was at the edge of exhaustion. He knew he had to stand or else face capture when he collapsed. Better to turn now while he had some energy left. If he could deal with the dogs, he may elude their owners. He stopped on the far side of a thicket through which he knew the dogs would burst. The first came, a big brute, leading the others. It died on Edwin’s sword before it had time to yelp. Three other dogs jumped to either side, snarling and going back on their haunches. They could see this was no easy kill. They bared their teeth at Edwin and growled. They were well-trained. As hunting dogs, undoubtedly they had cornered and kept at bay bears, and other beasts too big to handle themselves.
Edwin, too, was well practised. He leapt forward and slashed at one, catching it across the shoulder as it writhed away from the blade. A flesh wound was more than enough to prevent it chasing him further. One braver dog snapped in from behind, trying to hamstring him, but he was quicker. His sword took the dog in the throat. He didn’t want to kill such fine hunters, but he had no choice. It was them or him. The remaining two backed off to either side, low against the ground. Their tails told Edwin there was no fight in them. The wounded one licked the blood coming from its shoulder and would be of no concern. Edwin turned his back on them and jogged off, confident their pursuit was done.
Two hours later, Edwin was sure he was no longer being hunted. At least for now. He’d reached the northern borders of the Western Reaches and his options were limited. His homeland was closed to him and no matter where he went, he would not find peace. Not that peace was an option while there was still evil in the world. Evil that he could do nothing about. His days as a hero were behind him. His soul-sucking sword was lost, his sister was taken and turned to darkness, and the tyrant, Morden, was beyond reach in the east.
Edwin told himself it was no use dwelling on such matters. Dusk was upon him and he began to gather dry wood in the quickly descending gloom. He would build a fire to warm himself before sleep took him. A day on the run had brought him low; a fire, though a risk, would lift his spirits. He spotted a copse on a hillock, in an otherwise flat land, that would provide shelter from the chill breeze that came from the northwest. Approaching the copse, a glow warned him he was not the only one with such a thought. He wondered who it could be. Experience, as well as instinct, told him chance meetings in the wilderness around a fire rarely had a good outcome. It had been around such a fire in the wilderness he had sold his soul to the devil with wings to get to Morden so he could rescue Griselda, and for what? To fall into madness and wander deranged for years before finally returning to his senses.
He was about to turn around and go the other way when he was gripped by a power that was impossible to resist. More powerful even than the will of a Dark Lord, it compelled him towards the fire. His stomach knotted and his mouth filled with saliva. The smell was stronger than any drug, more compelling than any torture, more seductive than any woman. He could not resist.
He could smell bacon.
One thing was immediately certain: whoever had this bacon would either share it or die at Edwin’s sword. Some would condemn him for thinking life was as cheap as rashers of crisp bacon but they were not here, right now, with its fatty smell. No newborn babe or Sunday roast dinner smelled as good as this.
He picked up his pace, breaking into a run. He drew his sword and crashed through the undergrowth. He burst into a small clearing. A man held a flat pan over a fire, with sizzling bacon turning up at its edges. Edwin halted, sword raised and a battle cry on his lips. He would have bacon and he would have it now.
“Welcome, stranger,” said the man. “I can see you’ve smelled the bacon. Why don’t you come and join me?”
Edwin had half-expected to see the slim, dark frame of the dragon sitting at the fire, but this was a convivial looking old man with dirty, grey hair, in need of a comb, dressed in dark, burgundy robes with hints of mustard-yellow cloth wrapped beneath. His features were off, though. They were precise and elongated, and, though Edwin couldn’t be sure, he thought there were pointy ears poking out from the man’s hair.
“Are you a man?” asked Edwin, still unsure, bacon or not, he should be sharing a fire, or food, with this person. He looked harmless but there was definitely something not right here. Not least of which being, what was he doing out in the wilds by himself?
“What else would I be?” asked the man, clearly taken aback by Edwin’s question.
“A dragon? A wizard? A god?”
“What a strange imagination you have. I assure you I am not a dragon. My name is Nuriel.”
“A wizard?”
“Not a wizard. I think this bacon is almost done. Would you like it?”
Nuriel took a tin plate from a pack at his side and forked pieces of bacon onto it until there were none left in the pan. He handed it to Edwin.
“Aren’t you having any?” asked Edwin. It was generous of Nuriel, and he was sufficiently hungry to eat all he was given, but he still had manners.
“Oh, no. I don’t eat bacon,” said Nuriel.
“You don’t—”
“Eat bacon. No. I’m a vegetarian. The smell though. I like the smell.”
“A what? Vegetarian? Is that a cult? Is this poisoned? How can I trust you?”
“A vegetarian. I eat neither fish nor fowl, nor flesh of the beast, nor anything with a face for that matter. And no, it’s not a cult. The bacon is absolutely fine. As for trust. You are young and strong and well-armed. I am at your disposal. It is I who shouldn’t trust you, but I do. I can see you’re hungry. Eat.”
With the bacon on a plate under his nose, Edwin couldn’t resist any longer. Poisoned or not, he gobbled the first piece. It was heaven. He almost swooned with pleasure. A second piece joined the first before he had finished it. Nuriel had managed to crisp up the bacon without making it too brittle. It was the best bacon Edwin had ever eaten.
“How is it?” asked Nuriel, after Edwin had taken a third piece.
“Fantastic,” said Edwin between mouthfuls. “Are you sure you don’t want some?”
“No, thank you.”
Edwin thought he detected strain in Nuriel’s reply and in the tautness of his lips.
“It’s really very good.”
“I’m glad,” said Nuriel, with a weak smile.
Edwin had eaten so little in the last few weeks he made short work of the plate of bacon. He was just thinking how good it would have been to have a crust of bread to wipe up the grease when Nuriel produced a small loaf, broke off a piece, and tossed it to Edwin. It was stale but that mattered little when Edwin had scraped the plate clean with it. Once done, he tossed the plate aside and sat back. He was bordering on satisfied for the first time in years. His ills and torments of the mind were diminished by a full stomach and fingers covered in grease, which he licked individually while examining his host once more. For his part, Nuriel slowly chewed on a crust, dipping it occasionally into a mug to soften it.
Edwin took his own water skin and drank. The saltiness of the bacon had given him a thirst.
“I am hunted for crimes more imagined than real, and can find no peace in town or village. That is why I am here in the wilds,” said Edwin, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “What brings you out here? I would say well met, but from experience that is rarely the case.”
“Crimes? What charges are there against you?” asked Nuriel.
�
��I killed a woman. I do not deny I did, for that is the truth of it, but I do deny it is a crime. I also think it unlikely I would be tried fairly, and so I flee.”
“And why would murder not be a crime?”
“It is not murder when you are at war with evil and you kill the source of that evil,” said Edwin. “In war, there is no murder. There is you and your enemy, and either they kill you, or you kill them.”
“And what is this great evil?”
Edwin took a moment before answering. Nuriel was asking a lot of questions and offering nothing about himself. The last question was a peculiar one. It was clear to all in the civilised world who the enemy was: the Dark Lord Morden.
“Where have you come from that you cannot answer your own question?” asked Edwin. He moved his hand as casually as he could to the hilt of his sword. Being ready to act had kept him alive on numerous occasions. While Nuriel looked harmless enough, and his questions did have the tone of genuine curiosity and ignorance, Edwin still felt he was not all that he seemed.
“The far north,” answered Nuriel, “where the sun fears to come but yet there is the light of knowledge.”
“You speak in riddles,” said Edwin, his hand tightening its grip. Those who could not speak plainly and directly to simple questions were often up to no good.
“I cannot give a name, as the place has none, though some do call it Solitude. I do not wish to confuse. It’s a far place where those who seek truth, comfort, and to face death without fear or qualm, reside, free of the world’s concerns.”
“So why are you here? What man would not wish to live somewhere free from fear and concern?”
“Good questions. For a start, all that peace and harmony is dull beyond belief. There’s nothing like bacon, or wine, or pain, or suffering. It’s idyllically boring. I’m a young man at heart and want to see the world.”
“You don’t look young. You can’t be much under fifty years old.”
“I am old in body, but I am young in spirit, and that is young. While life is short for many, where I come from, life is a horrible drag. What’s the point of bliss if it’s so dull? I want to see the world and what it has to offer. It must have changed so much since I saw it last.”
“The world is full of evil and pain. Why would you seek that?”
Nuriel shrugged. “You keep mentioning evil. What evil?”
“The Dark Lord Morden has risen and is in the east. Soon, that evil will be abroad and cast its shadow across the world.”
“Is that a prophecy?”
“No prophecy is needed while the weak make feeble preparation and lack the will to do what must be done.”
“Like murdering that woman.”
“I see you understand.”
“And you said Dark Lord? Tell me about this Dark Lord.”
Edwin thought Nuriel was no idiot or simpleton from the manner of his speech and demeanour, but he was interested in the strangest things.
“A Dark Lord, Nuriel, is all that is evil in the world. A Dark Lord seeks dominion over all lands and peoples. A Dark Lord rules by fear to impose his will. He brings war and destruction, laying waste to cities and lands that oppose him, enslaving those he conquers to live out their lives in subjugation. A Dark Lord tolerates no course for the world other than his own. There is no debate. A Dark Lord is overlord, tyrant, despot, dictator. Under his rule, there is no freedom. He is the bringer of death and despair for all who treasure good and right. He cannot be bargained with, placated, or appeased. Any weakness will be exploited for gain and to quicken his victory. Only by virtue of strength can he be opposed. Only by having an equal will to do what must be done can he be beaten. Only by determination and sacrifice can those who seek peace expect to enjoy it with the knowledge it has been hard-earned with the blood of martyrs. And so it was with the last Dark Lord, Zoon the Reviled, when the valiant few brought his evil to an end. And so I had hoped it would be with the Dark Lord Morden, but it seems the world has forgotten over the centuries what a Dark Lord truly is and it lacks the will to oppose him in the only way he can be opposed, in blood and fire. I tried and failed. I now turn my back on the world that has turned its back on me. I will find my solace in a lonely life.”
Edwin stared into the fire. In its flames, he saw the world burning. He saw women tear their clothes and hair as their children were snatched from their arms and their men enslaved. He saw cities laid to ruin and darkness blot out the sun. He saw a future with no hope. No love nor life for those of free spirit. He saw a world devoid of beauty and poetry. It was a world he had tried to save and, in his weakness, failed. He had been driven mad and driven out. Though he mourned its future, it was his world no longer. He would become a hermit and live out his pathetic life in some small cave, living off berries and the odd rabbit he could snare. He would find what peace he could in the sunrise of each day that told him he still lived. The world be damned to the ruin it brought upon itself.
He looked over at Nuriel, who had remained quiet, and found him looking back intently. Nuriel’s eyes seemed to be taking him apart.
“You spoke of Zoon the Reviled?” asked Nuriel, breaking the silence between them. “What do you know of him?”
“Only what all know,” replied Edwin. “He was the last Dark Lord to walk the earth, centuries back. He was an undead Lich King, who sought to do what Dark Lords do, but was opposed by Theo the Marvellous and Uther the Merciless. It was Uther who cut Zoon down and broke the hold he had on his armies.”
“Undead Lich?” asked Nuriel.
There was something about the way Nuriel asked the question that suggested he knew the answer before it was given.
“It was said Zoon had defeated death. He walked undead, or more dead, or some-kind-of-dead, in the world. All that is certain, he was no man.”
“Oh, he was a man,” said Nuriel. “Or, at least, was once a man. I remember him well enough. Zoon. So that’s what became of you. Interesting. And what of this Morden? What of him? Is he like Zoon?”
“Morden is half-man, half-dragon. Though he does spend most of his time dressed in a black robe and grasping a book, much like Zoon did. He must also have a decoy to stand in his place. I cut one black-robed man down only to be faced by another. The second was Morden, without doubt. It was then I was driven mad by a truth that would have been best left unknown, and I fled in shame. But how can you have known Zoon? Did you lie to me, old man? Are you a wizard? Am I to be betrayed with words once again? If so, then have at me, for I shall fight you.”
Edwin grasped his sword and half unsheathed it to emphasise his point. As he did so, Nuriel waved a hand at him.
“You have no need for that. I am no wizard, and will cause you no harm. In truth, I am old, but the passage of time is strange where I have come from, where each day passes much as the one before, and soon it seems fruitless to keep count. Even the tally of years becomes wearisome. It doesn’t matter. I’m old. You’re young. You could kill me where I sit and the world would be unchanged. But what you tell me of Zoon and Morden is interesting. I need to find out more. As for you, I can see you are almost spent, not in strength but will. The best I can do for you is to tell you to go north, beyond the frozen wastes, beyond where men go. If you don’t die, and you probably will, then you may find the solace you seek. And perhaps answers and wisdom. Both of which you seem to need. Wisdom, certainly. You have a strange view of the world and how it works. You could do well to learn otherwise.”
Chapter 15 Handbook: Death Traps
Death trap. The clue is in the name.
The Dark Lord’s Handbook
The death trap is a staple of a Dark Lord in residence. It is a cornerstone of your defence and, simultaneously, a source of much amusement. While the death trap seems an obvious thing—to capture and kill—the design, implementation and deployment of this notionally simplest of things does seem to be beyond the ability of many. Frequently the death trap fails to trap or kill, or both. It’s not called ‘an inconvenient tra
p’ (a mere speed bump in the way of a higher goal), or a ‘mild injury trap’ (one that may cause a scratch, or, at worst, a minor break or sprain), but a ‘death trap’. Any result other than capture and death and it is not fit for purpose; it should be returned and a refund demanded.
The one caveat is that the death trap will never work against a genuine hero—who is your nemesis—though it’s fine for those who think themselves heroes but are not. As has been previously discussed, the hero is not going to fall to such a simple means of disposal. You may have designed the most remarkable death trap in existence, but it will fail in the most unbelievable fashion should a hero fall into it. Don’t be disheartened. The death trap has served an important function, and that is to confirm your worst suspicions in regards to the identity of the hero. Take care, though, that they have genuinely escaped inescapable death and not that your trap is terrible.
The death trap’s true victims are those who will try to kill you but are not heroes. They are fools who do not appreciate what you are trying to achieve, or realise the futility of their attempt. Nevertheless, they should be afforded the same consideration they are showing you, and you should kill them. The death trap is also for those who seek to steal treasure from you. While their motives may be pure, and to a degree respected, they should be dealt with in the same way as the heroic assassin. Lastly, and the most threatening, are the smarter thieves of heroic bent who seek to steal your power from you. They realise that assassination is too hard, as you have unsurpassed levels of paranoia, and that the marginally easier way to neuter you is to sneak in and steal the source of your power, whether it be a ring, sword, tome, crystal, lucky rabbit’s foot, or whatever. The trick is to catch all these sneak thieves and assassins, and efficiently combine their capture with their death—thus the death trap.