by Paul Dale
“Impressive, don’t you think?” said Griselda. “My first lesson. By the time I face Morden on the field of battle, I’ll be the best swordswoman in Firena, if not the city-states.”
Penbury thought it likely, bad as she was, she would have no competition for that title given the ladies of Firena were more interested in sword play of a different kind. On the positive side, it gave her something to do other than mope around and write prose that would depress an undertaker.
“Very good,” said Penbury. “I can see you’re a natural.”
Penbury delivered the compliment, if not the truth, and received a frown instead of the appreciative smile he had expected. Griselda put her hand to the wooden hilt at her side.
“That wouldn’t be sarcasm, would it, Chancellor? Morden was pretty big on sarcasm and I have an ear for it.”
Penbury feigned what he hoped was sufficient shock without going over the top and confirming his insincerity. “No, no. You show great promise. I hardly knew one end of a sword from the other when I started out.”
“You fenced?”
“In my misspent youth, yes. I was known to partake of the occasional duel.”
This time, Griselda gave a delighted smile. She jumped back and whipped out her sword. “En guarde.”
She gave a playful lunge and would have had his eye out if he hadn’t shifted three inches to his left and used his trowel to deflect the lunge enough for it to whiff.
“I yield,” he said, raising his free hand before she could do real damage.
Laughing, Griselda sheathed her weapon and pulled her shoulders back like a street bravo might when trying to impress his friends. “It wouldn’t be a fair fight,” she said. “Nor will it be when I chop my husband into dog food. If you’ll excuse me, my exertions have worked up a sweat. I think I should take a bath.”
Penbury thought it an excellent idea. “Before you do, my dear. Tonight we shall be welcoming an old friend of mine to dinner, Baron Pierre de Fanfaron. Do you like shellfish? Seafood?”
Griselda wrinkled her nose. “You mean, like oysters and crabs? Never had it.”
At her reaction, Penbury made a mental note to instruct the chef to prepare an alternative set of dishes should she not. “Yes. Oysters, crabs, langoustine, and perhaps a flat fish.”
Griselda shrugged. “I’ll try most things once. Morden wasn’t big on food.” She lifted an arm and smelt under it. “Eww. I need that bath.”
And so saying, off she went, maintaining the swagger she had adopted as Firena’s latest street fighter.
Penbury watched her go. He wasn’t sure what to make of her, or what to do. On the one hand, she was a charming, if naive, beautiful young woman with an artist’s eye, and on the other, she was as barking mad as her brother had been. He couldn’t imagine what the Dark Lord Morden had been doing by getting mixed up in her father’s death. It seemed unlikely and misjudged. Morden didn’t seem the kind of Dark Lord to make such a rash move. But then again, he was only starting out on the job and was young. He was bound to make mistakes. His loss, and Penbury’s gain. While he thought it unlikely Griselda represented any genuine threat to Morden, she was leverage, and when it came to leverage, Penbury was a master. No matter. Looking at where the sun was, he had an hour or so of weeding to do.
The time passed quickly. Too quickly when Chidwick came to keep him on schedule. On his way back to his private quarters, he passed the kitchen to check on dinner preparations. All was well. Pierre would be arriving in time for aperitifs, which was a shame as it meant he would not be cooking this evening’s dinner. Penbury left his more than capable chefs to it and spent time dressing for dinner.
The aperitif and canapés were to be served in the conservatory, which afforded a fine view of the gardens, and access to the veranda, weather permitting. It was here Penbury found Griselda. Since her show in the garden, she’d thrown herself into the heroine role to the extent that she was wearing light chainmail. Her sword, Dark Lord’s Bane, hung at her side in a bejewelled scabbard. The chainmail was delicately wrought and worn over paper-thin leather that had been embroidered in rose motifs. The ensemble was finished with silk ruffed highlights at the collar and wrists. She looked fabulous, if not well-protected. The armour didn’t look like it would stop a sharp stab with a dinner fork, let alone a hearty cut from an orc’s axe.
“A fine evening,” observed Penbury, a duck egg canapé in one hand and a dry sherry in the other.
Griselda had neither canapé nor aperitif in hand and was striking a pose against the finely crafted balustrade that ringed the veranda. Her eyes were half closed and she was swaying her head gently from side to side. Penbury wondered if she was ill.
“Can you hear that?” she asked, raising a hand and waving a finger as though conducting a melody.
Given her recent displays, and what he knew of her brother, Penbury had come to the conclusion Griselda, indisputably a lovely girl, was a few entries short of a well-kept balance sheet.
“The lark song is one of my favourites,” replied Penbury, hoping it was indeed the birdsong she heard.
“The sound of battle is one of life’s great melodies,” she said, and sighed.
Definitely a few members short of a quorum. Struggling to make a reply, Penbury was saved by Chidwick.
“Your guests have arrived,” announced his secretary.
The plural was not lost on Penbury and it was with interest that he greeted his old friend and his companion. “Pierre! Good to see you. You are looking well. We have a fabulous dinner being prepared. And you’ve brought a guest.”
“My dear Chancellor,” said Pierre. He grabbed the chancellor by the shoulders and pecked at each cheek several times, like a chicken at feed. “May I present to you a most interesting person, whom I recently met, Nuriel.”
Penbury had known Pierre for many years. Gastronomy was not a wide circle and it was inevitable those who practised it would naturally become friends, or enemies. Pierre was an excellent friend, and if he said something, or someone, was interesting, in the understated way he sometimes had, then the chancellor had learnt to trust his friend’s opinion. It had been Pierre who had introduced Penbury to the fermented bean in a curd form that came from across the eastern ocean. Both in texture and taste it had been peculiar. Not something he would crave, but it was appreciated as a new experience. If Pierre had picked up a companion along the way then this person was not going to be ordinary.
Going by looks alone, this was indeed the case. The man standing to Pierre’s side looked like, if met with a glance, a man you may toss a coin to as they begged in the street. He didn’t wear clothes common in the west: a burgundy robe with mustard underclothes. His hair was grey and unkempt. After that first glance, the peculiarities came to the fore. He looked like an old man, in his eyes in particular, but his sharp, almost aquiline features suggested youth. Penbury was familiar enough with his own turtle neck to know how a person’s age could not be hidden in the wrinkles around the throat. Here again, rather than age, there was youth. And still, the man felt ancient. It was bemusing and peculiar. And were those pointy ears which poked out through thick grey hair?
Nuriel was also a curious name. Penbury was at a loss to work out the roots of such a name. This evening was going to be even more enjoyable than he had first anticipated. Pierre would doubtless have quite the story of how the two met. Penbury was even more curious why Pierre had brought him to his dinner table. An undiscovered cuisine, perhaps?
“A friend of Pierre’s is always welcome,” said Penbury, and he proffered a hand.
Which was ignored. Nuriel seemed less intent upon Penbury, the most powerful, rich, and influential man in the western world, renowned for impeccable taste, manner, and conversation, and more interested in Griselda. Penbury thought her beautiful, but not that beautiful. And Nuriel was a bit old to be chasing after a woman of Griselda’s age. Not to mention the appalling manners. Penbury was on the verge of being annoyed when he noticed Pierre raise
a subtle palm, and nod his head oh-so-slightly, as if to say, ‘Watch’. Had Pierre brought Nuriel here for Griselda rather than himself? Penbury was immediately as focussed as he would be at the negotiation table. Penbury let his hand drop.
“Allow me to introduce Griselda, former Dark Queen to Morden, the Dark Lord,” said Penbury, making an introduction he thought unnecessary.
“Griselda,” said Nuriel. “Edwin told me something of you, but not enough. I am happy to meet you at last.”
Speechless was not an adjective Penbury would ever have thought he would use when it came to Griselda, and yet here it was, attaching itself limpet-like to her. Her mouth moved as though trying to make some reply but whatever thoughts she had could not be voiced. She tried again, this time with hand gestures, fingers splayed wide, but whatever moggy had her tongue, it was not letting go. All the while, Nuriel stood patiently with a serene smile Penbury found both disturbing and annoying. Smug would be a good word for it. And whoever he was, he knew Edwin. How was that possible? That lunatic, much to the relief of Penbury, had disappeared off the face of the earth.
Penbury exchanged glances with Pierre, who looked both amused and curious. He too had never met Griselda, and Penbury knew only too well his friend’s taste for all good things in life, and that included female company. When he had the chance, he would warn his friend off this delicacy. Spriggle was nothing as compared to Griselda should Pierre decide to indulge himself, or at least try.
“Isn’t this a lucky coincidence?” said Pierre. “Who would have thought it?”
“Yes, very lucky,” said Penbury, while Nuriel and Griselda remained locked together, the old man waiting patiently while Griselda struggled to utter a word.
“Who the fuck are you?” she managed at last. “And how the fuck do you know my brother, and where the fuck is he? Wipe that fucking stupid smile off your face before I chop it off. And what the fuck are you wearing? Are you some kind of fucking monk? And what kind of fucking name is Nuriel? You’d better start fucking talking or I’m going to fucking rip your head off.”
The air had turned blue around Griselda as she raged, which was impressive to start with, and then scary as Penbury realised her hand had gone to her sword, which was half out of the scabbard, and the blue fire spreading around her was coming from the blade and not her mouth. This was not lost on Nuriel, or Pierre, who took a big step backwards. After the display in the garden, Penbury did likewise.
Nuriel’s eyes were also drawn to Griselda’s sword and the smile left his face. “Ah, Soulbane,” said Nuriel. “So that’s where it ended up. I should have known. You have no need for that.”
Penbury noted that Pierre’s hand had also drifted to the pommel of the duelling rapier at his side. It was a much lighter weapon than Soulbane but Penbury knew in skilled hands, such as Pierre’s, it could disarm someone of lesser skill. What made Penbury anxious was Pierre did not know Griselda had no skill and, with a wild swing, she could cause them all serious injury, or worse.
Griselda’s hand did not leave the sword. Her gander was fully up. “What do you know of my brother?”
“We met by chance, shared a meal, and a fire. He had a long, terrible tale to tell and he seemed to sleep better that night for telling it. The following day, we went our separate ways, mine to the south and his to the north, where he sought peace. I do not know whether he found it, though I suspect he found something. Men like him do not succumb easily. That is all I know.”
“He’s alive?”
“As best I know it, yes.”
All at once, the energy left Griselda, and she crumpled into a heap, the sword sliding back into its scabbard, much to the relief of Penbury. Pierre moved quickly to catch her, but not quickly enough and she hit the ground with a thump.
“Chidwick! Bring smelling salts,” ordered Penbury, as he, Pierre and Nuriel gathered around her.
Chapter 33 Torture and Death
When opportunity comes knocking, don’t leave it waiting at the door.
The Dark Lord’s Handbook
Hal’s whole body was tense with the prospect of finally facing a dragon. This was it. He would fulfil his true destiny and slay a dragon. He’d imagined it may have involved him sneaking into the dragon’s lair and catching it asleep on top of pile of gold, or facing it in open battle, dodging gouts of flaming breath while shooting it with magical arrows.
None of this matched reality and that was fortunate. He would be facing his dragon while it was in human form, which suited him just fine. Hal wondered if it had been part of Ferg’s plan, to arrange a confrontation where the dragon’s natural advantages of size, strength, and flight were nullified. Thinking about it, he should take care; Lord Deathwing was still going to be strong. And Hal had no idea what other abilities he may retain even when not in his full-blown lizard form. Hal was also weaponless. He could only presume Ferg would remedy that in some way when it came time to strike.
The waiting was getting unbearable when he heard the bolts being dragged back on the outer gates to the cells.
“Put your earplugs in now,” hissed Zara from the adjacent cell, and Hal did as he was told while he still had the chance.
The gaoler made an appearance with orc guards following. Hal and Zara were taken from their cells, hands lashed behind their backs and hoods over their heads. From the muffled swearing that came from Zara’s cell, it sounded like she was not coming quietly. Hal made a show of struggling so as not to raise any suspicion but decided he was better off saving his energy.
Hal didn’t need his sight to know where they were being taken, it being so close—the torture chamber. He could smell hot coals and could imagine the pokers undoubtedly stuck into a brazier full of them. In short order, his arms and legs were splayed apart and he was lashed against cold metal before his hood was removed.
Back home, the only torture chamber Hal had been aware of had been run by Madame Dominix in a private dungeon that was the kind of place fat, rich men frequented to satisfy certain peculiar tastes. Zara had several good stories of having been called there and the excesses that had gone on within.
This place was nothing like that. It was immediately obvious this torture chamber was all about pain with no prospect of pleasure. The chamber was arrayed with all manner of devices that took the simple idea of inflicting unbearable pain to new heights. The sight of them alone was enough for Hal to feel weak in the bladder. He couldn’t help but imagine standing in the coffin leant against the far wall, whose door was filled with needle-thin spikes, and the excruciating pain it would inflict as it closed on him. Or being suspended over the glowing spike to his right and slowly being lowered onto it. Then there was the bucket of rats he could see, not five feet away, each of which was bigger than Gomble the cat. The idea of having them confined to a bowl that had been placed on his stomach, and them eating their way through him, made him gag. Everywhere he looked there was another infernal torture device. He could feel sweat beading on his head. He was totally helpless. Earplugs weren’t going to help if the gaoler decided to shove a hot poker up his behind. This was madness.
Then there was Zara, similarly tied to a cross. She didn’t look scared, just angry. She looked his way and he tried to manage a reassuring smile. From the laughter that came from the gaoler, and the few guards slouching around, he failed miserably. One of the guards said something Hal couldn’t make out with his ears blocked and they all laughed again. It seemed he was wrong, this was a torture chamber where there was entertainment to be had—only he and Zara were going to be doing the entertaining. It was not a welcome prospect.
He was wondering where Ferg had got to, and how they were going to get out of this with all their body parts intact, when the mood in the chamber chilled considerably as a man made his entrance. Dressed entirely in well-cut black leathers, his draconian features and alabaster skin gave him away for who he was: Lord Deathwing. The only good thing about his entrance was that Ferg followed the dragon into the chamber. When Hal’s
eyes met Ferg’s, the orc gave nothing away. Instead, he asked something of his dragon overlord, who answered with a nonchalant wave of the hand, and the guards were then ordered out, leaving only the gaoler, Ferg, and Deathwing. Though better, Hal still didn’t like the odds.
Lord Deathwing’s gaze slid over Hal as though he was not there and came to rest on Zara. An eyebrow raised and a lip twitched. It seemed Lord Deathwing had found someone who interested him. He began to speak to Zara and was met with snarls. Even though they weren’t that far away, with the plugs in, Hal couldn’t quite make out what was being said. Zara writhed in her bonds when Lord Deathwing reached out, ran a finger down her cheek, and let it drop further to the top of her breast. Anger and frustration burned through Hal. This was worse than any physical torture. Lord Deathwing ran his fingernail down the front of Zara’s loose shirt, splitting it open to reveal her well-toned stomach. Hal’s mother had a washboard that was not dissimilar. Lord Deathwing’s hand continued its journey down Zara’s front and came to rest on her belly.
Unable to watch what was happening, and dreading what was coming next, Hal turned his head aside, which was fortunate as Ferg had been trying to get his attention. Deathwing and the gaoler were intent upon Zara, ignoring not only Hal but Ferg as well. The orc produced a thin blade and swiftly cut the straps at Hal’s wrists and ankles.
“Wait,” said Ferg, pressing his mouth close to Hal’s ear. “Don’t move.”
Hal did as he was told, keeping his hands pressed against the wood. Hal then felt the orc slide something behind his back before stepping away and smacking him in the face. Hal guessed it was for show but it hurt nevertheless. Ferg then sidled over to a flat black slate leant against a wall, with a metal claw attached to a leather strap hanging off one side of it. Hal had noticed it in his perusal of the chamber but had paid it no attention, it being the least-harmful-looking implement among a host of terrifying devices.