by Paul Dale
It wasn’t what Morden had been expecting, but he never knew what to expect from his father other than his constant pursuit of women to sate his insatiable libido.
“If you think it will help. I can do that.”
“Really?”
“Of course. You’re surprised? You’re my father. Besides, it’s not often you get a chance to set your stepmother straight. I can make her like me at the same time. She did try to get me killed.”
“That’s true. But you can understand why she did. You are my—”
“—bastard son, yes. But let’s not dwell on that. Let’s do this.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now. It’s a good idea. The quicker she’s fixed, the quicker I get my dragons, and the quicker you can … resume marital relations. Guards! We’re going to the Tower of Despair.”
*****
They found Lady Deathwing splayed across the floor of her room, arms and legs at all angles, like a black spider who’d had four legs pulled off. Her dress was torn in a way that only she could have done, exposing pale, grimy flesh. Her hair was wild and tangled, her nails broken, her feet bare and filthy, and she smelled. Apart from that, Morden thought she was one of the most fixating women he had ever seen. (She came in at number two, in fact, behind Griselda, but ahead of Rosemary Cathcart, the Belle of Bostokov.) It was obvious how she could seduce anyone, even an orc guard (orcs tended to find women who were not orcs repulsive). Her body tapped directly into the male libido and caused a pang Morden had not felt for some time. He had to remind himself she was his stepmother and carnal pleasure was strictly off the table.
“Hey,” said his father, slapping his arm. “Less of that.”
No one struck a Dark Lord and got away with it, but Morden’s guilt for his lusty thoughts about his father’s wife excused the transgression.
“Less of what?”
His father’s expression told him he couldn’t out-lech a lecher. “Let’s get this done.”
“All right. Help me get her into that chair.”
It was easier said than done. Lady Deathwing wasn’t being moved without a fight, and although she thought she was a distressed damsel in a dark tower, she was in fact a dragon in human form, and astonishingly strong. The two of them took a beating before they managed to get her into the chair and bound with strips torn off the bed sheets. She could have ripped herself free with ease, but Morden suspected the fantasy her mind had locked her in told her it was impossible for a frail woman such as herself to do.
Lord Deathwing sat on the bed and gingerly examined scratches across his face with his fingertips. Morden, leaning against a cabinet that was now worse for wear, did likewise with a rib he thought he’d heard crack when Lady Deathwing had connected with a wild kick. Finding his ribcage intact, Morden lifted a chair from where it had been thrown in the fracas and placed it in front of Lady Deathwing. He sat and instinctively let his arms rest and hands grip, as any Dark Lord should do when seated. His cowl was up and he could see the terrifying effect he was having on Lady Deathwing. It was unsurprising she was terrified by a black-cowled figure sitting opposite her, with the hint of death and decay about them. She screamed and pulled her head back as he leaned forward. It was soul-wrenching in its intensity.
Morden had, on occasion, dwelt upon the notion of a soul and what it must mean to have one. He was still undecided on the matter of a transcendent identity that persisted beyond death, which also signified the goodness, or humanity, of whoever had one. The idea of a soul was one Griselda had been very keen on, but in a more artistic way. She had often berated him for having no soul in that she thought him incapable of appreciating the art she created. His own opinion was if art could reveal the soul then she had a way to go. As for his own lack of soul, it was of no concern. Lacking either a spiritual or artistic soul was of no consequence for a Dark Lord. A soul was no good to him. Rather, being declared soulless was a back-handed compliment.
Hearing Lady Deathwing scream in the way she did made him wonder whether she, and perhaps even his father, had a soul. The possession of a soul was inextricably linked to the notion of suffering. It was the one part of a person, or dragon, that could suffer more than any physical part. Physical pain could be deadened. The body could switch it off. Suffering of the soul was a torment that could not so easily be ignored. It explained why alcohol and drugs were so popular. You could not amputate or remove the soul, but you could silence it if you drank enough, or took enough drugs. To witness Lady Deathwing’s suffering was how he imagined only a person with an existential soul could suffer. Prior to her addiction, she had been a cold-hearted, calculating, scheming, murderous paragon of evil who none would have said had a soul. And yet, did she? Even if she did, Morden didn’t care too much. He needed the cold-hearted, murdering bitch back to do his bidding. If what he was about to do also buried her tormented soul, then maybe he was doing her a favour of sorts. Either way, he wished she would stop screaming. It was pissing him off. Time for the voice.
“SILENCE.”
*****
Morden was mentally exhausted from his time with Lady Deathwing. His father hadn’t been able to stay and witness the ordeal Morden had put his wife through. She had fought hard to resist him—or perhaps it had been the drug. Regardless, her will had been the strongest he had ever battled. Stronger even than Zoon. But he had won. She was broken. He had bound her to him and left her a wreck to be nursed by Lord Deathwing, as no orc would go near the tower after the sounds of torment that had washed from it over the hours. When she was back to full strength, he would start on the next step—release the dragon inside her. For now, she retained her human form. She was no use to him unless she could birth her offspring.
He, too, needed to recover. It had been several years since he had slept or had need for real rest. There had been times when he needed a break from Griselda, but that was different. That was emotional drain. This was different. It had taken an enormous effort of will to bend Lady Deathwing to him. It had also taken the reawakening part of him he had thought lost, the dragon. He suspected it had in fact won the day, one dragon against another in a battle of will. As the conflict of minds had progressed, Morden had felt this part of him grow stronger. A long time asleep, and curiously awoken by recent events, it was as though meeting a like mind invigorated it. He wondered if he could once again bring about the change and assume his dragon form as he once had. He would try, but not now. Now he needed rest.
“My lord.”
It was Ironfist. He’d given orders not to be disturbed, so this must be important. He raised a hand from where it gripped his throne, indicating Ironfist should continue his report.
“News from the H-Squad, my lord. We have the location of the three intruders and have them under observation. Should we bring them in?”
With everything that was going on, Morden had forgotten about his odd encounter in the dungeon. And yet, it had been this encounter that had first got the attention of his inner dragon. He would have to move carefully on this. He sensed there was genuine peril. The Handbook was very clear when it came to these matters. Brute force never worked. It took cunning to deal with heroes. They needed to be baited and tied in knots so they defeated themselves. Direct confrontation may come, but it would be on his terms.
“Very good, Ironfist. That didn’t take as long as I imagined. Where are they?”
“We have one of our best on it, my lord. It was more a case of him finding us. They are in the mercenary quarter. It’s become a bit … disorganised in there, but we have eyes on them.”
“Good work. Let them run free for now. Keep the noose loose but be ready to tighten it if need be. Find out everything you can about them and report back when you have more details. If any of them are a hero, I want to know.”
“Our first information suggests the man may be a hero, but he hasn’t managed anything particularly heroic yet.”
That was the trouble with heroes. Morden knew they could be seemingly harmles
s when they were the most dangerous thing he faced. Waging war across oceans and continents worried him far less than knowing his nemesis may well be a mile or so away, plotting his demise over a beer in his fortress. The sooner he knew what he was dealing with the better.
“There was a woman with them? What’s the relationship between her and our hero?”
“It’s not clear, my lord. Apparently she has him doing domestic chores.”
“Interesting.”
A love interest would be ideal. It would be trivial to manipulate. He only had to think of how he had been with Griselda. It was true he missed her, but it was also true he had been weak. The Handbook was right: a Dark Lord had no business seeking happiness, let alone happiness in a relationship. The only pleasure in his life would come when he saw his plans come to fruition and he had Penbury, and the spineless aristocracy of the west, knelt at his feet, begging for their lives. The orc nation would once more be proud and strong, for he had not forgotten his promise to Grimtooth, and the world would be a better place with him in charge.
“A test, I think, Ironfist. Arrange something … nasty … to happen to the woman with the man around—what are their names, anyway?”
Ironfist pulled out a scrap and glanced down at it. “Hal and Zara. Hal’s the man.”
Hal. That didn’t sound heroic. You could never tell though. And never be too careful. Best be sure.
“Very good. Capture them, and let me know what happens. If there’s the slightest sign of heroism, I want to know immediately.”
Ironfist brought his gloved hand to his chest in a salute and left. One of the things Morden had insisted on when he had first established himself was that no orc should bow to him. Men could bow. Orcs, no. He’d even stopped calling them ‘minions’, which went down even better.
The orcs were loyal. Men were a different matter. He had mercenaries from all over flock to him and he didn’t trust them. None were allowed in his personal guard. In fact, he had a standing order than none get within fifty yards of him. When the fighting started, they would be in the front ranks, soaking up the damage. If this man, Hal, was a hero, then he would have to be treated carefully. If he was not, then he could die less carefully.
Chapter 26 Teachings
Food for the soul doesn’t help the starving.
The Dark Lord’s Handbook
Edwin had reluctantly agreed to meet Kezef for a lesson a week after his arrival. He had spent that week recovering as best he could on a diet of mushrooms and by getting as much sleep as he could. In his waking hours, he had explored his surroundings to the point of boredom. There were three main sections: the living quarters, which included the kitchens and bathing rooms; the contemplation quarter, where Kezef and his fellows spent most of their time; and the mushroom caves. There were other sections, but they were unused. Kezef had explained that in the past many more had lived here, but now they were so few it seemed pointless to maintain more than they needed.
Edwin found Kezef in a contemplation chamber off the main hall. He was sitting on a small cushion with his legs in a knotted position impressive for such an old man. It didn’t look comfortable. Kezef had his eyes closed to a slit and his breathing was slow and regular. There was a second cushion in front of Kezef that Edwin presumed he should use. He sat himself down and tried to assume the same position. Although a pale shadow of his former self, Edwin found his legs too muscular to bend in the same way Kezef had managed and so he made do with crossing his ankles. All the while, as Edwin fidgeted into a comfortable position, Kezef remained silent.
Edwin waited and let his attention drift around the room. There wasn’t much to see. The dim light was provided by candles whose flickering had been lessened by translucent crystal shades. There was a single tapestry hung behind Kezef that depicted a fat man with a self-satisfied look on his face dressed much like Kezef, in a loose white robe, sitting on a cushion on top of a rock with a mountain behind, whose summit had the rising sun crowning it. It looked suspiciously religious. Despite what Kezef had said, Edwin had begun to think this place was indeed a religious refuge, though he had found no gods skulking in any of the trappings that decorated the walls, or in the books that lined the shelves. Despite that, there was still a monastic feel about life here. Kezef called this place Solitude, which, combined with their frugal existence, was in keeping with the life of a religious ascetic.
Since Chancellor Huffenhoff’s secular revolution, which had thrown down the churches and temples, ploughed the stone circles and hallowed groves, and defrocked druids, priests, nuns, holy men and preachers, the only vaguely religious organisations left in the west had gone into more traditional lines of business, like needlework, brewing, and crime. The festivals had been retained, purely as an excuse for a well-earned holiday at particular times of the year, such as harvest, and while many of the rituals remained intact, there was no overt worshipping going on.
Edwin had enjoyed the festivals in Wellow. There were a few who still whispered to the Lord of Oak, or Bejesus the Profane, and there seemed little harm in the odd statuette, but generally they were good fun without some monk, priest, or zealot making them feel bad about it. Edwin was still unsure about Solitude and Kezef. It was true he had been under no pressure to do anything, not even help with the preparation of food, or any kind of domestic chore. And that bothered him. He was completely free to do what he liked. Kezef would go about his business and leave Edwin alone. He had played along for this first week, but now it had got to the point where he needed to know what was going on. He had been played for a fool before and he wasn’t going to be played in the same way again. Kezef, who was growing more infuriating by the day, had smiled in that way that made Edwin want to gouge out his eye, and told him to come see him when he was ready.
And so here he was.
Kezef picked up a small bowl at his side and offered it to Edwin.
“Candied mushroom?”
“No, thank you.”
Kezef put the bowl down and resumed his serene contemplation of Edwin. Edwin waited. Kezef seemed to be dozing off and Edwin coughed. Kezef’s eyes widened into wakefulness.
“Why are you here?” asked Kezef.
It was a question Edwin had asked himself many times in the last few days. Why was he here? He had come to the point where he had no place in the world he had lived in and decided to leave it behind. But how had he come to that point? What had happened to the blacksmith’s son who had sat by a lake in the sun, who had dreamed of a future with a beautiful woman and tried to capture that day, and her beauty, in verse? That day had been the day his world had changed. He had seen blood and death, and afterwards nothing had been the same.
“It is a long tale. One filled with death, of love lost, and madness.”
Kezef visibly brightened. “Do tell.”
Edwin hadn’t told his full story to anyone. He found it hard enough to think about it himself. Much of it still haunted his sleep. Perhaps in the telling, he could leave it behind and find the peace he craved. And so he started to talk. He started on that fateful day when he had taken the sword and it had spoken to him. The Duchess of Umbria had lost her head and his path had been set. As he spoke, a part of him listened, horrified by the death of the innocent Edwin at the lakeside, and the blood and death which had made up his path thereafter.
All the while, Kezef kept his silence and was impassive. Edwin was used to being judged, and judged ill, but he felt no such judgement from Kezef. The old man sat and listened, unmoving. He told of his frantic pursuit of the woman he loved and how she was snatched from his grasp by the black dragon when he found her. He remembered nothing from then until he had been found by Count Vladovitch and Black Orchid, as she had called herself. His triumph at Bostokov had been sweet, but once more his love had eluded him and he had struck off by himself. A pact with the devil had allowed him to finally confront his foe, high on a temple. But he had been too late. His love was lost to the Dark Lord.
He stopped talk
ing and sat in silence. Madness had come next. Kezef sat patiently for Edwin to resume. His story ended in a truth he could not bear, madness, death, pursuit, and finally exile.
“And here I am.”
“A good story,” said Kezef. “But you haven’t answered my question. I asked, why are you here? But I still do not know why.”
“I had no choice.”
“Why?”
“There is evil in the world and no one cares. I could not fight it alone.”
“But why are you here? What do you want?”
Kezef was starting to become annoying. Edwin could feel his anger rising. Not long ago, with his sword at his side, Kezef would be dead. But that was the past and he was soaked in blood. He wanted to become clean again. He wanted to be free of death.
“Peace. I want peace. And freedom from death. I am sick of the killing. I cannot help who I am or what I do. It’s not safe around me. I had to leave or I would keep on killing. Death and I are close companions. I am blood-soaked and I want to be clean. Nuriel said I may find what I was after if I came north. I had no idea what I might find except my own death. And that’s what I sought. Release from all this and eternal rest. I have loved and lost, fought and lost, given all and lost. I have nothing left. I am empty except for the death I bring. Either I will find peace here or you’ll all die by my hand. There’s no escape from the fate I bring. That’s why I am here.”
Kezef maintained a calm exterior. Edwin was used to people being more fearful when he spoke.
“Nuriel was right,” said Kezef, breaking the silence. “If there is anywhere you can find the peace you seek it will be here, but it will not be easy. I think next time you should talk to Af. He has more experience than I do in the torments that plague you.”