by Paul Dale
Morden sighed. He would start tomorrow. His listless gaze went to the ceiling, a finely crafted mass of slithering snakes and demons writhing around the naked forms of screaming, tormented souls. For the person strapped to the table in the centre of the room, with their eyelids missing, all they would be able to see would be this depiction of the hell they were being sent to. The table currently had no occupant. In fact, it had never been occupied. The restraints were open and had never been used. They had the sheen of new leather about them—unspoilt by blood and bodily fluids. Under the fortress, he had a dungeon and only orcs for prisoners (locked up for minor misdemeanours—like orc-slaughter after a drunken brawl). There were no screams from torture victims to be heard. He had no cause to stand over hapless creatures and gloat at their failure and suffering. All-in-all, he felt his time as a Dark Lord had not lived up to its promise. He guessed that would change once they went to war and he had some actual captives.
Maybe another hero would come along, risen from the mire of humanity, of humble origins but with a burning desire to face down and defeat the terrible Dark Lord. Strangely, this thought was appealing. From all he knew, heroes were not to be encouraged, but the thought of real peril brought a tingling thrill he had not felt for several years. Life in his fortress had become dull. Not that he lacked things to do. The trouble was none of them were particularly exciting. Most of it was logistics and delegation. His day-to-day business was how he imagined his arch rival, Penbury, might operate. While he had enjoyed getting his criminal enterprise in brewing off the ground, that had been new to him. Now it was all organising orcs to build his fortress and training an army—which he didn’t actually do, seeing as he no idea how to use a sword let alone teach an orc to use one. His delegated training to his generals and they got on with it.
Even Stonearm wasn’t around to entertain him. Morden had sent him off to supervise his navy at Deathcropolis. He missed the big lumbering orc. It seemed an age since Stonearm had come busting into his lair at the school. Their subsequent flight and adventures had been exciting. They had gone from nothing to raising an army of orcs and conquering cities—albeit briefly. Those were the days.
Morden sighed. The only one who was miserable in the aptly named tower was himself. In Bindelburg, when such moods took him, he would have had a beer, or five, and got drunk. Not now though. Even if there were a half decent pint to be had in his fortress, and there wasn’t, his drinking days were over—the memory of that wonderful bitter taste just that, a memory.
He had to snap out of it. Griselda was gone. It had been good while it lasted. Now he had to get down to business. One day they might be together again, but for now he had to press on. If his father’s plan worked, he would have his dragons, his horde of orcs, and his conquests could begin. The sooner the better. This fortress was getting him down. It would be good to get out more. A far-reaching campaign of laying waste and looting would be good for him. He would get to see distant lands he had only ever seen on the maps in his war room. He looked forward to the day when he entered Firena and took Penbury’s estate as his own. He relished the thought of kings, princes, and chief executives of industry bowed down at his feet in fearful supplication with their fate in his bony hands.
None of that would happen if he didn’t get himself together and get over Griselda. She was gone and had taken a small part of him with her—she kept the end of his little finger that had dropped off one night on a chain around her neck—and he had to move on.
“My lord.”
With one last sigh and a look to the west, Morden turned to address his guard captain. “Ironfist. What is it?”
“Your eleven o’clock?”
Morden didn’t know how his guard captain always seemed to know what time it was. The sun was not often out over his Dark Fortress, even when there hadn’t been a recent volcanic eruption.
“Remind me, Ironfist.”
“The new wing in the dungeon is finished. The high security section. You were going to inspect it.”
Morden had forgotten this crucial task. Why a dungeon wasn’t all high security was beyond him. The idea of a lower security prison was plain stupid. It was an oversight he would have to rectify before the dungeons had their first serious use. But it could wait. It wasn’t as though he had need for a dungeon right now.
“We’ll do it tomorrow, Ironfist. I have …” He was going to say ‘plans to make’ when in fact all he wanted to do was sit and brood about Griselda. “… other, more important matters to deal with.”
Chapter 21 Dark Lord and Dragonslayer
If something smells fishy, it’s likely a fish.
The Dark Lord’s Handbook
Hal felt like he was at one of the dances he used to go to back home. He had no natural rhythm and so when it came to dancing, he counted. After a while he managed to do it without moving his lips, other than to smile at his partner to give the impression he knew what he was doing.
One, two, three. Step to the left to avoid the spikes on the floor. One, two, three. Step to the right to avoid the spikes on that side. One, two, three. Jump forward through the space made in the swinging axes and … step to the right for the spikes.
A minute later, he had joined Zara and Ferg at the end of the corridor. Behind him, the axes swung back and forth. Spikes poked up in the spaces between each set of axes, accompanied by a metal-against-stone melody that helped to get the count right and defeat the trap. Not that it was much of a trap. It was true that if they hadn’t been paying attention, and been moving in the corridor in a line when it had been triggered, they may have been caught. But realistically, if you were trying to infiltrate the fortress of a Dark Lord with assassination on your mind, then care and attention were something you would have in plentiful supply.
“That has to be the most stupid thing I have ever seen,” Zara said, giving voice to Hal’s thoughts.
“Morden was of the same mind when he first saw it,” said Ferg. “Those scattered bones halfway down?”
Hal had almost slipped on a leg bone when he had made a jump at that point. “Yes?”
“The designer.”
“A bit harsh,” said Hal.
“Really?” asked Ferg. “This is a Dark Lord’s fortress. I think harsh is exactly what you’d expect. Besides, he’d been told to make a death trap and look at it. Useless.”
“Can we move on?” asked Zara. “We’re not here to argue the merits of a good trap. And the quicker we get out of these sewers the better I’ll feel. What I wouldn’t do for a bath right now.”
A short while later, having avoided trip wires, dead drops, pressure plates, pits, sprays, darts, spikes, ravenous giant rats, gas, oil, poison, drowning, and a flaming barbecue, Ferg called a halt and consulted his map.
“Are we lost?” asked Zara. “I bet we’re lost.”
“No. We’re not lost,” replied Ferg, looking up from the map and tucking it away. “In fact, we’re here.”
“Where?”
“Here. We’ve arrived.” The orc pointed at the ceiling. “Up there is the Dark Lord Morden’s fortress.”
Hal looked up, half expecting to see something different about the ceiling, but it was the same damp, slimy ceiling that had been there all the while. “No more traps?”
“We’ve cleared the traps,” said Ferg. “They are layered around the core of the fortress. Once inside the ring, you’re safe.”
“So now what?” asked Zara.
Hal was still trying to get to grips with the realisation they had made it rather than work out what their next move would be. In truth, it seemed a miracle they had survived. They all had scratches, scrapes, and the odd sprain from their passage through the death traps. If Ferg hadn’t been there, the traps would certainly have earned their name. Even with Ferg, there had been a few close calls. The gas, in particular, had been a near death experience Hal couldn’t imagine facing again without dying the second time around. But they had survived and here they were. Ferg had delivered
as promised. That in itself was a minor miracle. In hindsight, Zara’s doubts aside, Hal had warmed to the orc to the point of putting his life in their guide’s hands, and his faith had been rewarded. Perhaps Zara would cut Ferg more slack.
“I’m not sure,” said Hal. “Any ideas, Ferg?”
The orc pulled a face. “No idea. The deal was I got you in. You’re the dragon slayer. Up there, there’s a couple of dragons that need slaying. It’s all yours.”
“Well, yes,” said Hal. “But how do we get out of this sewer?”
“Ah,” said Ferg. “That’s easy. There’s access covers all over. We need to find one and sneak up. Then the rest is up to you.”
The orc made it sound simple enough, but Hal had a nagging suspicion there would be more to it than that.
“Great,” said Zara. “We’ll just mosey into the fortress, ask directions to the Dark Lord, trot off and kill him. Sounds like a great plan.”
Before Ferg could voice a rebuttal, which Hal could see turning quickly into a shouting match, he thought it best he took the initiative.
“That’s not quite what he said,” said Hal, quickly, with evident ire emanating from Zara as he defended the orc. “Let’s find one of these covers and take a look. Ferg, get your map out and show us where we are.”
With sullen looks shooting from both Ferg and Zara, Hal consulted the orc’s map.
“We’re here,” said Ferg. “They’ve not marked the ways up, but they’re easy enough to find. We wander around and we’re bound to come across one.”
“And what’s above us?” asked Hal. If they were about to pop up into the fortress then he wanted to do it somewhere quiet.
“Here’s the main barrack areas, and the armouries, catering, training grounds, defensive towers. Right now, we’re under the main dungeon.”
Hal stared at the map. None of those places sounded like a good idea. His eye was drawn to the spaces between the main areas. “What about here?” he asked, at one small space on the map next to the main dungeon where it abutted a barracks area.
“Good a place as any?” suggested the orc.
“Great,” muttered Zara. “The blind leading the blind.”
“Unless you have a better idea?” asked Hal. He was growing a little tired of Zara’s dourness. “Let’s head that way and see what we come across.”
Now that they were clear of traps, Hal took the lead and they headed farther into the sewer. Towards what, he was not sure. It was as though none of them had expected to get this far. Now, faced with the reality of penetrating the upper levels of the fortress in secret, it seemed an impossible task. Somehow they needed to get into the upper levels unseen and then blend in. For Ferg, that would be easy. He was an orc. While apparently there were also plenty of humans who had rallied to Morden, Hal was unsure how well he and Zara could blend in. Zara may well manage it with her natural martial temperament, but he was a baker’s son. Surely he would be seen as the fake he was in no time. As for being a dragon slayer, he was no nearer being that than he had been when they had set off those months past.
They trudged in silence. Soon enough, they came to a ladder in the sewer wall that climbed up to a disk of iron in the ceiling. Hal consulted the map. According to that, it was under the dungeon. That seemed like a bad place to pop up. A little further on though looked promising, as there was nothing marked above that section of the sewer. If they could find something there.
“Not this one,” he pronounced, and they continued on.
As they did so, a strange feeling started to come over Hal. It started as one of those thoughts, like he had forgotten something. It nagged at him, at the edge of his mind, trying to get attention. It was like the times he would have bread baking and a part of him would know when it had had its time and was ready to be pulled from the oven. It was a sense that he needed to do something, or be somewhere. And it was getting stronger. They came to another iron ladder. Hal stopped. He looked up at the cover and his mind was screaming. It was telling him he should go up here. He stretched his hand out to grip a rung and the feeling blazed in his mind. Up. He had to go up. Now.
“Here,” he said, in a daze. He set his foot on the lowest rung, reached up, and began to climb.
*****
After a late start the next day, Morden reluctantly went to inspect his new dungeon. He could have wallowed in misery all morning but instead shook himself out of it. Besides, as dungeons went, Morden was pleased with the one he had in his fortress. Granted, his experience with dungeons only extended to the one under Deathcropolis where he had been held by Zoon, but he was sure his was up to standard. He had forgone the slimy walls in favour of practically impervious black basalt. Heroes wouldn’t be scraping their way out with a dessert spoon in any reasonable amount of time—it would take decades.
The cell bars were steel. None of this prone-to-rusting iron that was commonly used. Even the burliest prisoner would not be able to bend these bars. While each cell had a lock, it also had a dead-bolt whose release was beyond the reach of the stretchiest of heroes. Among the minor details were the small apothecary chests in each cell that held medicines for a range of minor ailments, in particular stomach complaints. There would be no need for the gaoler to open a cell to tend to a prisoner doubled up and clutching their stomachs when they could be directed to the powders that would alleviate cramps. Each cell also had a single wooden spoon and bowl. No other cutlery was allowed. It was more than sufficient for the slops the prisoners would be fed. In addition, each cell had a narrow pipe that delivered drinking water much like a child might water a rodent kept as a pet.
The underlying philosophy was clear: there should be no reason for the gaoler to open a cell unless it was for the transport of a prisoner, at which point there would be a heavy guard in attendance. Morden had even gone to the lengths of making sure the gaoler did not have the keys for the cells so if, by subterfuge, befriending, or guile, the prisoners had convinced the gaoler to open the cell, they could not.
Around the corridors padded blind dogs. More wolves, really. They were blinded from birth so their sense of smell was even more acute than normal. So acute, in fact, it was said they could smell the walls themselves, and judging by the way they confidently trotted around, sniffing the ground as they went, and taking any turn in their stride, and never hitting any obstruction, it wasn’t hard to believe. Their sense of hearing had also been heightened to the point where they could be trained to recognise footfalls so light that the sneakiest of sneaky orcs failed to pass them when tested.
They had been trained to react to any smell that was not normal, so when Morden arrived at the torture chamber with his guard captain, they started barking and howling. Letting them sniff Morden and his retinue, while feeding them a specific treat, put them on the all-clear list, much to Morden’s relief. He wasn’t fond of dogs. With the way he was turning skeletal, he felt like a packed lunch.
The torture chamber—an integral part of the prisoner experience—had been placed so that prisoners had to be led through it to reach the cells. All manner of devices and instruments, red hot braziers, bins filled with squealing rats, cages, and racks foreshadowed what the prisoner may expect sometime in the future. Morden took it in with a practised eye for detail. He stopped at a post with a slate hung next it.
“What’s this for?” he asked of the dungeon keeper—a black-leather clad eastern orc who had a business-like air about him. His hair was neatly trimmed, as were his nails. He looked washed and more like a maître d’ than a torturer, which Morden supposed he was in some ways.
“A squealing slate, my lord,” answered the orc. “If I might demonstrate.”
The orc took something from his pocket and pressed it into both ears. Then he grabbed a metal claw hung to one side of the slate and dragged it across the slate’s surface. Morden was glad he essentially had no nervous system, though his retinue was not so lucky. The screeching slate hit such high and discordant notes that Ironfist and the guards grabbed
first their ears and then their mouths, presumably to stop their teeth falling out. Morden waved a hand as if he were conducting a symphony of pain while the orc continued to scrape and scratch.
“Excellent,” said Morden, once he was sure his retinue had suffered enough. Sometimes it was important to remind those around him what fate may befall them should they fall out of favour or cock-up in some monstrous fashion. The one orc unaffected was the dungeon keeper himself.
“And your name is?” enquired Morden.
The orcs hands went to his ears. “I beg your pardon, my lord?” he asked.
“Your name?”
“Gaoler Jung, my lord. And may I take this opportunity to say how happy I am to serve you, my lord.”
“Very good, Jung. Carry on.”
Morden waved Ironfist on so they may continue to the new so-called high security section beyond the torture chamber. As it turned out, the high security section was much like the other sections, but with more barriers to escape. There was an additional double gate, where the inner and outer gates could not be opened at the same time, being linked by dead bolts, meaning it took the cooperation of guards on either side to allow passage. It was effectively impossible for a prisoner to leave by the way they had entered unassisted. Morden was impressed with the design as he passed through it, the doors clanking open and shut with metallic certainty in the way that any good prison door should.