by Paul Dale
“Griselda, isn’t it?” asked Zara. “I heard she’s beautiful.”
“If you like that kind of thing,” sniffed Ferg. “Not to my taste. A bit obvious, all that blonde hair and heaving bosom. As for her temper, not a fan. The kind of thing I imagine Hal would go for.”
Hal, as anyone did, knew all the talk about Morden and his queen. The Dark Queen Griselda’s beauty was legendary in the west. It was said that no man could stand before her and not be consumed by it, becoming a hapless slave to her enchantments. “I would not,” said Hal. “Beauty is not about what is on show.”
“So you prefer the plainer woman?” asked Ferg.
Though he was staring at the orc’s back, Hal didn’t have to try hard to imagine the orc was grinning at his mischief. It took even less imagination to see the thinning of Zara’s lips at Ferg’s jibe.
Ferg raised his arm to signal a stop. They had come to another splitting of the paths, with tunnels heading off perpendicular to each other. Hal could imagine how easy it would be to get lost down here, and with that disorientation, mistakes were bound to be made. He was glad Ferg was here to lead the way.
“Which way now?” asked Hal, grabbing the chance to change the subject.
“Let me consult the map,” said Ferg. “Here, hold my torch.”
Hal and Zara gathered around the sewer intersection, holding the torches as best they could to illuminate the parchment that Ferg was unfolding. Ferg’s story had sounded fanciful until he had produced the map and shown it to them. While Hal had made some sense of it, the markings and legend had been indecipherable—the shapes on certain sections, and the orc runes, meant nothing to him—but it did look like the authentic plan of the way into Morden’s fortress. Ferg had said it was a supervisor’s map used to navigate the warren of sewers that ran under the fortress.
“We’re here,” said Ferg, indicating a point at the bottom end of the map. It gave Hal a good sense of how big the system was. They had come some way but it was less than an inch on the map. “And we want to get to here. That’s where it comes up under the barracks. That’s probably the safest. I can pass us off as a punishment detail if we’re spotted.”
“What are those markings?” asked Zara, pointing at strange symbols dotted all over the map.
On closer inspection, it was impossible to cross the sewers without coming across several of these symbols along key passages or junctions.
“Those are the traps,” said Ferg. “So you see, we know where they are, and I can read the symbols so we can tell what they are. See that one? We call that a ‘Drop and Splat’. A simple enough drop hole. A very deep drop hole. There’s no getting out of that one. Easily avoided though. You see, you use this here to go round to there, through there, and round to that side and you’ve bypassed it. But if you didn’t have a map, you’d be buggered.”
“Excellent, Ferg,” said Hal. He hoped Zara would see now that Hal’s faith in the orc was warranted.
“You’d better be right, orc,” said Zara. “You’ll be going first, so any plunging will be done by you.”
Ferg sighed. “You’ll thank me later. I know you’re not the ungrateful cow you seem to be.”
“Hey,” said Hal. “Do either of you think now is the time or place? Can’t you try to be civil? We need to get through this together. I need both of you if I’m going to get to Morden. Now, which way, Ferg?”
“This way. We’ll do the swinging axes. That one’s good for a laugh. There’s always one who can’t count.”
Chapter 17 Outmanoeuvred
If you didn’t see it coming then you were looking in the wrong direction.
The Dark Lord’s Handbook
Morden tried stalking to Kristoff’s room but his heart wasn’t in it. In truth, he preferred striding to stalking; it got him where he wanted to be faster while maintaining Dark Lord gravitas. Consequently, he strode purposefully through his fortress to Kristoff’s room. After the excitement of the eruption, his minions were scurrying around with equal purpose. As he passed, they made way and bowed, some saluted after a fashion, while others managed a weak cheer. Still others cowered, trembling, as his shadow passed them by. His mood couldn’t have helped. When he was in this kind of foul mood, those around him would often feel it as well, reducing them to a quivering wreck of fear.
If it hadn’t been his fortress, he would have got lost. He’d learnt a lot from both the Handbook and Zoon when it came to fortress design. When he’d started rebuilding, he’d had a solid foundation from Zoon’s previous fortress, which the forces of good had failed to fully destroy. In building, there had been guiding principles. That it all looked the same when wandering around inside was at the top of the list. In a place so vast, it would have been hard enough to find your way around, even if there had been signposts. As there were none, and the corridors were all jet-black basalt, hard and shiny with no easy means to be marked, unless you knew the fortress well, you had no chance of finding your way. There were rumours of orc recruits getting lost and not being seen for days. In typical military fashion, this was punished severely, otherwise it would have given every malingering orc in the army, which was most of them, the perfect excuse to skive. Morden had even heard of a few unfortunates who had managed to wander off the beaten track entirely and starve to death, their rat-nibbled remains being found weeks after they had been sent on the simple task of mopping corridors. It was unfortunate, but there were always casualties in war, or in preparation thereof.
Besides, he could afford the casualties. His army had swollen to an immense size in the last three years, and its size had raised problems. Logistics was a new concept for him; an area that he had only the slightest knowledge of from his days of brewing. That had been small beer compared to the scale of his operations now. In the fortress alone, he had tens of thousands of orcs, men, and other creatures. They all needed daily rations and a place to lay their heads. That required the movement of enormous amounts of provisions to the fortress, and for that he needed good lines of supply and communication. There were few navigable rivers that stretched this far east, so he built a road to where his barges could sail down to Deathcropolis. He’d then extended the roads north and south to the other orcish cities so men and materials could move quickly and efficiently to the army camps and stores where they were needed. While the biggest army by far was here in his fortress, there were several smaller armies at strategic locations, chief of which was Deathcropolis, where his fleet was being finalised under Stonearm.
Morden wished the big orc were here instead of being so distant. After Grimtooth’s death, Stonearm had proved to be a dependable and capable minion. It was his competency that set him apart from the bountiful supply of enthusiastic, dim-witted orcs who would willingly die for him. The eastern orcs were more capable than those from the west, having had to run their own affairs for centuries, unlike the western orcs who had lived indentured lives, performing the lowliest jobs that propped up their civilisation.
The upside of having so many orcs that were used to scrubbing and cleaning was that Morden’s fortress was in top condition. As he strode along, it was clear the corridors were swept daily. The orcs’ uniforms were spotless, the black armour gleamed, the collars were stiff, weapons shone, beds were made, toilets cleaned. It was no accident that the poshest hotels in the west had an army of orcs running them. The hotels’ standards must have been slipping these days now that many orcs had fled east to join Morden. The idea that Penbury’s comfort may suffer as a result, even in so trivial a manner, was a pleasing thought to Morden. Anything that made life uncomfortable for his adversary was something to be welcomed. His loss, Morden’s gain.
Morden strode down the last corridor to Kristoff’s room. With the poet’s door in sight, he caught sight of a man leaving.
“Kristoff. Wait.”
As soon as he had spoken, Morden realised his error. Whomever it was, they were too tall and too upright. Kristoff had a depressed slouch about him. Then Morden’s brai
n kicked in and recognition hit.
“Father?” he asked, as Lord Deathwing stopped and turned.
“Morden,” said his father. “What are you doing here?”
That’s odd, thought Morden, closing the distance between them fast. His father and Kristoff had never been on good terms. “Hello, Father. I might ask you the same. Is Kristoff here?”
“… no. Well, yes. Ah, not exactly.”
In his time with Griselda, Morden had become familiar with the idea that women had a special intuition men, or undead lich bastards, as she put it, didn’t have. It wasn’t true, of course. Morden had intuition, only it was tuned to different things, things that were less emotional than those of his Dark Queen’s, like when something insanely bad had happened and he was about to find out. Now was one of those moments. Though, in reality, he had little need for great intuition; he could not remember his father ever looking so flustered or embarrassed. It was like he had been caught doing something he shouldn’t. Now what could that be?
“What have you done to Kristoff?” His father didn’t answer immediately and Morden stretched out his will to coerce an answer. “Father?”
“Let’s step inside. I had hoped to talk to you later, but seeing as you are here …”
Morden followed his father into Kristoff’s room. He had kept his visits to the bare minimum in the past, and with good reason. It was a glum room in a fortress which was already pretty glum. Kristoff was not here. Morden cast his eyes around the room. Everything looked in place, from the discarded clothes, to the unmade bed, and the disorganised desk full of writing bits and pieces.
“He’s not here?” said Morden.
Lord Deathwing had walked over to the open window, its shutters back against the wall on their catches. “Not now he isn’t.”
Morden joined his father at the window and looked down. There was a body being heaved onto a barrow and an orc with a mop swishing water over a patch of the courtyard, resulting in a muddy red roux of blood and ash.
“I don’t suppose he jumped?” asked Morden. Though he knew Kristoff was a miserable bugger, it was far too much to expect he had committed suicide. He knew without doubt his father was responsible. Besides, Kristoff was a poet. His life had been devoted to making people who would read, or listen, to his work as miserable as he was. He was a sharer. He may have talked the talk, but Morden couldn’t imagine Kristoff ever walking the walk. Especially as he still had Griselda. The whole thing with Edwin had been something for him to focus his angst on. If it hadn’t been that, it would have been something else, like being trapped in a Dark Lord’s fortress, or the lamentable quality of the food. Morden was sure he would always have found something to moan about and use as his muse.
“Griselda is going to be so pissed at you,” said Morden. “I would seriously think about being elsewhere when this gets out.”
As if on cue, there was a stampede of feet from the corridor. Morden’s first thought was how he was going to convince Griselda he’d had nothing to do with this, but as the feet came to a sudden halt, he realised their tread was far too heavy for Griselda, even if she had put on a few pounds recently.
“Lord Morden, sir,” said an orc from the door. “There seems to have been an accident. The Poet in Residence, Kristoff, seems to have slipped and fallen.”
Morden had been forced to give his father-in-law the title Poet in Residence by Griselda when she had suggested her father needed some respect. Morden hadn’t seen the harm in it.
“You may go,” said Morden, by way of acknowledgement. The orc turned to leave but a thought occurred to Morden that had him stop the orc mid-step. “Wait. Has anyone gone to tell the Dark Queen Griselda?”
The orc was paralysed by Morden’s will, one foot held six inches off the ground. Morden had to relax his control to allow the orc to stumble forward and make an answer.
“Yes, my lord,” said the orc, trembling.
Not much time to get our story straight, thought Morden.
“Go,” he ordered the orc, who scampered away.
Morden scanned the room. He didn’t know why. It was in a vain hope there was something he could use to help explain to Griselda how his father had murdered her father for no apparently good reason. “Why in all the hells did you have to do this?” he asked at last.
His father seemed strangely relaxed and unconcerned. Morden may even have gone as far as describing him as smug. There was something going on here and he had a nasty suspicion his father had planned it. Was he trying to get him killed? Griselda would be pissed off. She might well have a crack at him.
Lord Deathwing had ignored his son’s question and instead picked up a piece of paper from the desk. “Oh, look. I wonder what this is?”
“Give that here.”
Morden strode over, in a commanding Dark Lord manner, to snatch the paper from his father’s loose grip. His suspicion of smugness was confirmed by the glint in his father’s eye as he released the paper. Morden read the paper and immediately recognised Kristoff’s handwriting, and his father’s influence.
‘What is life but suffering,
Under a Dark Lord’s shadow?
No hope.
No peace.
Only in death,
Can be found release.’
A suicide note? Not possible. His father must have coerced Kristoff. And yet, it read like a suicide note, the last lament of a tortured soul. Griselda wouldn’t have to bring her poetic analysis to bear to read between the lines and place the blame for her father’s suicide squarely at his feet. Under a Dark Lord’s shadow, couldn’t be clearer. This was not good.
“You’ve set me up,” said Morden. “She’s going to be livid. If she doesn’t try to kill me, which she will, she won’t stick around after this. What have you done?”
“I’ve done you a huge favour,” said Lord Deathwing. “I’ve given you a way out of your relationship with Griselda. It makes the break clean, allows me to get my wife back, and, with that, for you to get your Black Dragon Flight. You do still want to lay waste the world and, through ruin, rule it, don’t you? Of course you do. And now, you are one step closer. No need to thank me. I’m your father. And what are fathers for?”
“Throwing people out of windows?” Morden was aghast. It made absolutely no sense. How could faking Kristoff’s suicide and ruining his relationship help in any way?
“I can see you’re having difficulty following,” said Lord Deathwing. “I need Griselda to come with me so I can use her to trade for my wife, who I believe Chancellor Penbury has holed up somewhere. How he’s managed that for all this time is beyond me, but that’s the only explanation for her not giving me a hard time for the last three years. There’s no way she wouldn’t have come straight here and started bossing us both around. Now, I know you wouldn’t let Griselda go and, despite how she acts, she wouldn’t leave you. It beggars belief but there it is. So I needed to drive a wedge, an irreconcilable one, and Kristoff was it. There’s no way she’ll stay with you now.”
“But I didn’t do anything,” said Morden. “Who do you think she’ll believe? Me or you?”
“Why, me of course. Why shouldn’t she? She always tries to think the worst of you, even though she loves you. And then there’s the note. It’s as plain as day that Kristoff, in a fit of depression—brought on by you refusing him, once again, to go and find Edwin—can no longer bear living in the shadow of a Dark Lord and tops himself. Easy, really.”
“But you threw him out of the window. Not me.”
“I did. But that’s not the point. The point is, I will offer her a way out that she won’t refuse. I’m the only one who can get her away from here and back to the west. I’ll tell her, we’ll go and find Edwin, but happen across Penbury first. If I say so myself, it’s genius.”
Letting his father’s words sink in, there was a diabolical logic to it. The only thing was, it involved Griselda hating him and him losing her.
“What if I tear the note up?” asked Morden,
buying time to think.
“It’s a mere garnish. If it wasn’t suicide, then she’ll presume you just threw him out. Which would you prefer?”
“You’re a bastard, you know that?” A smug bastard at that. Morden couldn’t see a way out. He could call his father’s bluff, but he wasn’t so sure Griselda would side with him. Things hadn’t been going so well for some time. In frustration more than anger, he reached out his will and gripped his father. “I could force you to tell the truth.”
His father was held rigid, unable to answer; though his eyes seemed to show some amusement. Morden relaxed his grip, but not enough that his father could move. Laughter escaped his father’s lips.
“You think that would work?” asked Lord Deathwing, bringing his mirth under control. “You could make me dance a jig and sing The Six Maidens called Maisey, and Griselda knows this. She’ll still assume it was you.”
Morden’s father was right, of course. It was by sheer will he commanded all around him. It was by his will and presence this fortress had been built on Zoon’s ruins. It was by his will the army he had assembled would issue forth and claim the world for him, Morden the Dark Lord. Under his banner, his will, his name, they would do whatever he commanded. And yet for all that, his father had trapped him. He could crush his father, choke the life out of him with his will, but that would accomplish nothing. He needed his father because without him, he wouldn’t get the dragons he needed. Also, he couldn’t ignore the sheer evilness of the plan. It was genius. It was the kind of plan he would have been proud of.
“Go on, son. You know it makes sense. Play along and it will all work out. You’re lucky as it is; you rumbled me and found out the plan. It would have been a lot worse otherwise. I want my wife. You want our dragons. You did say whatever it takes.”