by Paul Dale
There were seven cells arranged around a circular central area, like the points on a compass. The levers that opened the dead bolts to each cell were well out of reach on the wall next to the entrance. Morden noted the octagonal room dipped in its centre to a solid cover with drainage holes drilled in it.
“What’s that?” he enquired of Jung.
“It drains to the sewers, my lord,” replied the orc. “So the cells can be washed out from the outside by tossing water through the bars and then letting the muck run to the centre. No reason to open the cell and offer an opportunity for shenanigans.”
It seemed in order. So why did he feel strangely uneasy about this cover? Prisoners were unlikely able to get out through it, but what about getting in? True, the sewers beneath were full of death traps and pit falls, but he had his doubts as to their true worth. Morden walked over to it to get a closer look. As he did, the feeling of discomfort grew to the point of recognition. A spark he’d thought dead flickered inside him. Not strangely undead-dead, like the rest of him, but dead as in gone-forever-dead. It was the dragon within that opened one eye from a deep sleep to see what was going on. Something was disturbing it from its slumber. Morden was both shocked and excited. He thought that part of him a thing of the past. He thought he had become something else entirely, but now it seemed that he remained part dragon.
He came to a stop next to the drain cover and the dragon now had two eyes open. It was more than curious. There was something here. Something not right. Something dangerous. He almost felt afraid. Or rather, wary of a danger that part of him knew, like a child might know fire without understanding it fully, knowing it would get burnt if it got too close to the flame.
“There’s something wrong. Open that drain.”
Morden was used to his commands being acted upon immediately, but Jung managed nothing more than an embarrassed—possibly condescending—smile. “Certainly, my lord.”
Jung barked an order in orcish with such a heavy eastern accent Morden took a second to translate it. Something to do with irons. A minute later, an orc returned with three hook-ended iron bars. Three orcs took a bar each and slotted the hooks into holes in the drain cover. Their arm muscles bunched as they took the strain.
*****
As Hal climbed the rungs, he could see the cover above him was solid iron. It must weigh several hundred pounds. It had a series of holes drilled in it, but was otherwise solid. The alarm going off in his head had become a clamour. He reached out a hand to touch the underside of the cover and froze.
“Hal?” hissed Zara from below.
There was someone, or something, up there. A fog dampened the clamour, replacing it with dread. His hand, resting on the underside of the cover, began to shake. It was as though he had woken from a nightmare in a sweat. He was terrified and paralysed. And yet, part of him was urging him on. He climbed another rung so his head was bent over and his shoulder came into contact with the cover. He was going to have to use as much leverage as he could to shift the iron.
“Hal!” called Zara again. “Hal, come down.”
Hal’s ear was pressed against the underside of the cover. He could hear movement and voices. Though he couldn’t clearly make out what was being said, there was one voice he recognised. He didn’t know how he knew, but above him was a dragon. The urge to launch himself upwards was held in check by a wave of fear. ‘Open that drain.’ The words were clear. And without doubt, Hal knew a few feet above him stood Morden the Dark Lord. Morden. He knew that was the Dark Lord’s name but now it seemed wrong, as though it wasn’t his real name. His real name was—
“HAL!”
Ferg’s voice had joined Zara’s. Through holes in the drain, iron hooks dropped and twisted. In panic, Hal took a step down and let go of the rung at the same time. He half slipped, half fell, landing heavily in the crap below, winding himself. A sharp pain ran up his back. Above him, there was a grating sound and the sewer cover was dragged aside. Light flooded down. Hal didn’t even try to get up; he was frozen in place. Zara and Ferg had no such problem and had scrambled away.
“Hal! Move!” urged Zara.
He couldn’t move. It was as if he was gripped. A cowled head appeared in the disk of light above his head. The Dark Lord, Morden, stared down at him and then was gone. Hal’s muscles were suddenly free and he crawled as fast as he could after his friends. With Ferg leading the way, they fled with the sound of orcs coming down into the sewer behind them.
*****
Morden peered down into the sewer, unsure what he was hoping to see. The dragon in him was now wide awake and keenly attentive to the smallest of details, like the smears on the iron rungs of the ladder that led up to the cover. From their freshness, someone had been there. Peering into the darkness, he could see nothing. He could make out the culvert below with sewage in it, but no one was there. That was odd. He was sure he’d felt something, or someone. His instinct was to go down, but the dragon urged caution. There was an ancient foe at work here. A foe the dragon was blind to.
“You,” ordered Morden, indicating first an orc guard and then the hole.
The orc scampered to the sewer cover, took a quick look to ascertain where the ladder was, and disappeared down. Morden followed his progress as the orc reached the bottom and took a quick look around.
“Well?” asked Morden.
“Someone has been here, my lord,” said the orc. “They went that way.”
Morden decided it was safe enough to go down himself and take a look. Having climbed down without slipping and making a spectacle of himself, Morden took a look at the marks around the bottom of the ladder. It was dark in the sewer, but with his freshly awoken dragon-sight it was clear there had been several people down here. He played through what he thought must have happened. Someone had been on the rungs of the ladder. They had slipped and fallen. There had been two others—one there, the other to the side here. The three of them had then scrambled away up the sewer—separate sets of boot marks and hand prints confirming there had been three of them. From the nail marks from one set of hand prints, one was an orc. Two humans. One set of footprints was smaller. A woman? So three of them. A man, a woman, perhaps a smaller man, and an orc. Curious.
Had they been down here while he was right above them? Yes. He thought so. Something had woken the dragon in him—and for that he was hugely grateful—but whatever it was, it was also dangerous. From the freshness of the marks, they couldn’t have got far. He had to act quickly. He stretched his senses out but couldn’t feel anything. They must have been so close when he first felt them.
“Get down here,” ordered Morden.
Ironfist barked orders. In short order, six guards and Ironfist had joined Morden in the sewer. One orc slipped on his way down—confirming Morden’s suspicion that the ladder was treacherous and the interloper who had been on it had certainly slipped as well.
“Organise a search down here, Ironfist. You are looking for three people. One orc, a man and possibly a woman. They went that way and couldn’t have got far. Take them alive if possible and take care. One of them might be a hero.”
At the mention of the ‘H’ word, the orcs visibly stiffened. It was part of basic training to be educated in the dire peril a genuine hero represented. No one liked to think a hero would turn up, but they had to be ready if one did.
That it looked like the potential hero had two companions was a good thing. The companions would be captured first and put under peril of death whereupon the hero would be forced to lay down his arms and surrender, with the hope of engineering their combined escape at a later time. It was a predictable heroic behaviour—escape was always thought possible—and the safest way to capture a hero.
“Nets and bill-hooks,” ordered Ironfist. An orc disappeared up the ladder in response. “You, go and get the H-Squad. On the double.”
The H-Squad had been one of Morden’s better ideas—or so he thought. They were a sneaky bunch of bastards who knew all the tricks to foil
the most ardent hero without doing anything as foolish as trying to take them head on, or engage in combat. Along with all manner of means to ensnare, they had gas bombs (made from the gasses taken from Firerock Mountain) that would render the most resilient hero insensate. They had powerful toxins in darts that could be delivered with accuracy to exposed flesh. They had black powder grenades that went off with such a bang as to daze and confuse, while rendering the target almost deaf. If there was a hero down here, the H-Squad would get him.
Morden left the orcs to it. If there was one thing he had learnt about heroes, it was not to go after them yourself. It would only encourage them. He had to play the long game and be patient. Either the hero would be captured and brought before him, or the hero would find a way to get to him for a final showdown. Either way, there was little he could do except be prepared. He would need a good monologue for starters. He’d also have to ensure he had a worst case escape of his own in place, in case he was forced to beat a hasty retreat, seemingly defeated only to rise again. It wasn’t just heroes who could escape impossible situations to live to fight another day; Dark Lords had more than their fair share of tricks up their sleeves, as Morden knew from the Handbook. It was hard to keep a good Dark Lord down, as Zoon had proven.
With what he realised was a spring in his step, Morden strode purposefully through his fortress to make ready for the challenges that lay ahead.
Chapter 22 Making Deals
A Dark Lord does not negotiate. He dictates.
The Dark Lord’s Handbook
The afternoon nap was something that bookended Penbury’s life. As a child, he had been sent to his room after lunch to ostensibly ‘nap’. Some of the time he had. Other times he had lost himself in the books he learnt to read with, classics like Beginner’s Accountancy, Business Basics, and the series of Billy’s Great Adventures (the latter being, in hindsight, the one story, retold over and over, of how Billy overcame all manner of trials and tribulations to successfully found a business and save his poor, widowed mother from penury).
In these later days of life, Penbury used his afternoon nap to get an extra hour of rest. Today, he was especially tired after the trying journey back from Xanthos. It was good to be back at his estate in Firena and in his own bed, swaddled in familiar sheets and cushioned by the softest of down pillows. Though he did not always manage to sleep for the entire hour, he would manage a good doze. It had become a ritual he jealously guarded. Chidwick was under strict orders not to disturb him short of a Dark Lord banging on the door. Unfortunately, with the way things were looking, that could become a distinct possibility at some point in the near future. What he might do about the imminent arrival of a Dark Lord intent upon rampaging across the civilised world was something that took up much of Penbury’s thinking time, and the afternoon nap suffered as a consequence as it made nodding off difficult.
Today was no different. Penbury knew, despite all the preparations being made, the world was not ready for Morden and his host. The West’s fleet may hold him off for a while, even manage a victory of sorts, but Penbury suspected it would be to no avail. The demonstration at Xanthos only served to convince him there was a disaster in the making, now black powder was being used. It didn’t look much better on land. Thanks to Lady Deathwing, and her premature nurturing of a potential hero that had gone catastrophically wrong, the West, hero-less, was effectively at Morden’s mercy. The only saving grace, as Penbury saw it, was Morden seemed not to be aware how weak they were militarily. With Count Vladovitch retired, there had been no natural successor. Three years on, generals spent more time in political in-fighting than preparing for the holocaust that was to come.
It wasn’t a shortage of men or materials that was the problem—Penbury and the Council had deep pockets—but rather one of ability. And it was to be expected. There hadn’t been a major war for five hundred years. The skirmishes that had made up Morden’s ventures across the west as he headed east had never resulted in an all-out confrontation. Bostokov had been a one-sided affair involving overwhelming forces against a doomed rear guard. Notionally a victory, Penbury thought it a disaster as it had imbued the military with a false sense of superiority and accomplishment. Count Vladovitch’s subsequent clean-up campaign had not helped matters as he had retaken each of the cities Morden had passed through with ease. This hubris wasn’t the count’s fault. He had been a simple man doing his job, and doing it well. The problem lay with the preening idiots who basked in his reflected glory and were now in charge, having let the years since then blow their modest accomplishments out of proportion. If Morden were to turn up, they were sure they would give him a jolly good thrashing and send him packing. Penbury did not share that belief.
In recent months, the question of how bad a Dark Lord was had been posed at Council and not been answered. Penbury was the one used to executing the hostile takeovers. He’d never been on the receiving end, and, in many respects, what Morden represented was a hostile takeover on an unprecedented scale. As he saw it, he had two choices: he could fight it, or he could secure his position in the new regime. The second option was looking increasingly attractive. The more he thought about it, the more he thought it an entirely viable option. Morden knew nothing about running things economically. Sure, he’d done well in cornering a market and establishing himself, albeit briefly, in the beer industry, but beyond that, he lacked experience. Morden would be fine with all the obvious Dark Lord stuff, like spreading his shadow across the world and such-like. But when it all settled down and he was in charge, he was less sure of Morden’s abilities. He’d learn pretty quickly the threat of imprisonment, torture, and death wouldn’t solve a wheat shortage or help with pork futures. There were intangibles in life that a Dark Will would have no purchase on.
It was this complete lack of economic acumen that worried Penbury the most about any Dark Lord taking over. He wasn’t concerned about the politics unless they impinged on business. Whoever was notionally in charge was of little concern as long as he—and to some extent the Council—was left to run the things that mattered and he could keep the world working in the way it should. He had to ensure there was a loaf on the table of the working man, beer in his flagon, a wife and babe at home, and a job to support himself and his family. He looked after the working man so the working man could make him money. He thought it an equitable arrangement. Penbury’s greatest concern was Morden would upset the hard work that he, and the chancellors before him, had done to ensure business was the lubricant that kept society working smoothly.
The problem was, from all the research Penbury had done, Dark Lords were not known for entering into any kind of power sharing or convivial working relationship. They had one way of doing things, and that was their way. It kind of worked, being basically how Penbury did things himself. He may on occasion give the impression an opinion, or an idea other than his own, may hold weight, but it was generally only when he had already thought of it and was happy to throw someone a bone. For any decision of real importance, he had always made it himself—after due consideration of all the facts, naturally. But overall, the groat stopped with him. He was the chancellor. While, strictly speaking, his word was not actual law, it was rarely ignored. If it were, whether by king, prince, or chief executive, unfortunate things like frozen accounts and withdrawal of credit lines would quickly show them the error of their ways.
He doubted the same measures would work with Morden. Financial strangulation was hardly an option. From the rumours coming out of the east, physical strangulation wasn’t an option either, as Morden was assuming Zoon-like undead characteristics. Becoming undead was common to many Dark Lords as the abeyance of dying was core to the objective of eternal rule. If Morden were to succeed, he would be around far beyond Penbury’s remaining years.
Always one who liked to have options, Penbury felt there was currently not much of a Plan A, if that was to oppose Morden, and Plan B was little more than meek surrender, with the hope Morden would see the sense
in leaving the Council to continue much in the way it had for centuries. If Plan A was poor, then Plan B was little better. Penbury was used to dealing with things he had a lifetime of experience with, like interest rates, the movement of goods, and the provision of services. He was a master of international economics and not the last best hope of all that was good in the world to oppose an impending darkness. In short, he was no hero. Not that another hero like Edwin would be a good thing.
He was going round in circles and getting nowhere. His sense of nap time told him his hour was nearly up and Chidwick would shortly be knocking on the door with tea and crumpets. As if on cue, Chidwick’s unmistakable rap sounded on the bedroom door. While Penbury didn’t feel rested, the prospect of tea and crumpets was good, perhaps with blackcurrant jam rather than his normal raspberry for a change.
The bedroom door swung open and Chidwick wheeled in afternoon tea on a trolley. Penbury had tried on numerous occasions to tell Chidwick he did not have to serve him personally—they had an army of staff on the estate—but Chidwick always managed a smile and a nod and ignored him. He may have been Penbury’s personal private secretary, wielding an enormous amount of power in his own right, and had a range of talents that far exceeded those of a butler, but he still insisted on performing these duties along with all his others. Penbury wondered on occasion where Chidwick found time to do anything else.
Chidwick went to the veranda windows and swung them open. The smell of late autumn breezed in from the gardens below. Penbury had designed the garden to be both a visual splendour and one that afforded the most subtle and delicate array of aromas which conjured beauty in the mind, sight unseen. Penbury followed Chidwick out and sat himself at the tea table while Chidwick arrayed the plates, cups, butter dish, jams, and crumpets from the trolley. As he did, there was something Penbury could hardly fail to notice.