by Paul Dale
Ferg’s hands went to his ears before reaching with one hand down to the claw. The fingers on his other hand splayed wide and held for a second. His thumb pulled into his palm, leaving four fingers. His little finger continued the count. Three. Two. One.
Hal had listened to Zara talk about some of the fights she had been in and how it was as though time slowed down. She was able to move and react as though her opponents were in treacle and she was not. What happened next was nothing like that for Hal.
Ferg took the claw and scraped it down the face of the slate. Even through his earplugs, the sound was excruciating. Hal ripped his hands free and covered his ears. The lint he had used to plug them had come loose so he pressed it back in, and the pain lessened. The result was surreal as he watched the gaoler scream and clutch his head, Deathwing drop to his knees and do likewise, but only hear a muffled version of what his eyes told him. Ferg continued to scrape the stone, and gestured wildly with a stabbing motion towards the stricken dragon lord. The meaning was clear. Hal reached to his back for the shiv Ferg had left there.
Then he hesitated. Should he free Zara first? She was thrashing wildly and had managed to wriggle one hand free. She was twisting as best she could to free the other. He had to act quickly, as Deathwing looked to be regaining control. Hal stepped forward and pulled his hand back to stab the monster in the back of the neck. This was it. He was going to slay a dragon. Everything he had ever done came down to this. A quick stab and he would enter legend. Hal Dragonslayer.
But it never happened. That thing with time Zara talked about did happen—and not in a good way. His hand lunged forward, but it moved like he was trying to punch through molasses, while Lord Deathwing moved with frightening speed. Where a split second before had been an exposed neck, ready for a good stabbing, there was now air. Deathwing spun in place and rose, swinging a fist to connect Hal squarely in the chest. In a torture chamber such as this, it would have taken a miracle not to hit something sharp, and no miracle was forthcoming. Hal saw the spike thrust out of his belly a few inches below his sternum before the pain told him it had happened. Blood began to squirt from the wound.
Across the room, Ferg stopped scratching the slate and stared in disbelief at Hal. Zara’s wide mouth replaced the torture device’s screeches with screams of her own as she snapped free from her bonds. With a swift movement, she kicked the gaoler in the face, sending him sprawling, picked up the bucket of rats, and emptied it on him. Deathwing was oblivious to her as his attention was fully on Hal. It was like a veil had been lifted from Deathwing’s eyes as he approached Hal, a look of curiosity on his face. He stopped three feet from Hal and wiped blood from his face. Hal looked down, dreamlike, at the spike. Blood spurted in a slowing rhythm. He felt cold and like he was sinking away from the world. Across the room, Ferg was paralysed, tears running down his face. Hal shook his head and the lint fell free from his ears. Zara’s tortured screams filled them. Deathwing seemed not to hear and stood watching Hal’s life leave him. Behind him, Zara picked up a hammer that was propped against a bench.
“Who are you?” asked Lord Deathwing in a bemused tone.
Hal found it almost impossible to answer but at last managed to cough a blood-filled reply. “Hal … Hal Bakerson.”
The last thing he saw was Zara Headcracker doing what she did best.
Chapter 34 Morden Issues Forth
Coming close to death should be avoided; it may reach out and grab you.
The Dark Lord’s Handbook
Morden stood over his father’s body where it had been left lying in a pool of black blood. A hammer lay to one side, blood congealed on its head. Slices in the leather he wore showed where he had been stabbed. A few feet away lay the body of the gaoler. He’d had his throat cut and there were bite marks all over his arms and face. Against one wall, a man hung impaled on a spike. The prison guards were standing around, looking everywhere except at Morden and Lord Deathwing’s body.
“Is he alive?” asked Morden, indicating his father’s body.
Spoken out loud, it sounded like a stupid question. The blow to the head would surely have killed any man, but Morden’s father was no man. He was a dragon, and Morden, from his own experience, knew how tough a dragon could be. He’d been shot with a harpoon and lost nearly all the blood he had and lived. From the lack of reply from the orcs, no one had checked. Which was fair enough. He looked corpse-like. Morden stooped and placed a hand on his father’s chest. It was still enough but, much like when he had laid a hand on the dragon eggs, Morden could feel a flicker of life. This dragon was not dead.
“Get a stretcher in here. Now! Take him to his quarters. Get what passes for a physician. No, get Lady Deathwing and have her look at him. She’ll have a better idea. And get Ironfist here.”
The guards jumped into action. Now that his father had been dealt with, Morden turned his attention to the other matters in the torture chamber, namely the man impaled on a spike, and the sewer cover that had been removed. When he’d been shown around the dungeon and torture chamber only a short while ago, he’d thought it a dumb idea to have such an obvious means of escape but he’d been assured even if prisoners could somehow overpower the guard and raise the heavy cover, they still had to navigate the sewer and its death traps. And that was something else Morden had no confidence in. For death traps, they were pretty bad at either trapping or killing. No matter how much he read and learnt from his Handbook, it didn’t stop cock-ups happening on a regular basis.
Whereas Morden had some doubt that his father was dead, even with all the blood, he was in no doubt about the man impaled on the spike. Morden could see splinters of bone where it had pierced the chest. The man’s clothes were blood-soaked but the bleeding had stopped. There was no heart beating. No, this one was definitely dead. There was no coming back from this. Morden stepped closer to look the man in the face. Given he had died so violently, and in such unusual surrounds—namely the torture chamber in a Dark Lord’s fortress—the man looked serene in death. He was tall, well-muscled, and handsome. He looked about Morden’s age.
Morden had seen death but never so up close and personal. In his escape from the west, there had been battles and casualties on both sides. He had walked across battlefields with the fallen all around. He had been shocked at how messy battles were. There had been bits and pieces of people strewn all over where limbs had been hacked. After a while, he’d not noticed. In battles, terrible things happened. People died. Orcs died. He realised now, looking at this impaled man, he had become numb to death. As numb as the flesh on the dead bones in his body.
Morden had so many questions that needed answering. Who was this man? How had he come to be here, and why? To kill a Dark Lord? Did this man think he was a hero? If he had, he was wrong on that score. He was dead. There was no sign of a sacrificial death a hero may suffer so his enemy may fall. They hadn’t even managed to kill his father. Though for that, they could be forgiven. He’d looked in a bad way and it would have been reasonable to suppose Lord Deathwing was a goner.
Morden was intrigued. It wasn’t clear what had happened here, but it looked like, given the leather straps that hung from the restraining arms of two of the apparatus, the man and woman had been tied up. They had somehow broken free and a fight ensued. The man had come off the worse. Unbelievably, the other had got the better of a dragon and beaten him senseless, stabbed him for good measure, then made an escape before the guards could react. Morden inspected the straps more closely and could see one set had been cut rather than ripped. They’d had help.
Morden stalked to the sewer and peered down. He’d done the same thing recently and felt something. This man and his companions had been down there. They’d escaped but then been betrayed and ended up here again. A man, a woman, and an orc. Most odd. From what Morden had been told, the orc had been one of theirs, one of the undercover H-Squad, whose mission was to seek out and control potential hero threats so they could be better managed. It looked like everythin
g had gone to plan. The betrayal, the imprisonment, the torture. So what had gone wrong? That there had been an escape suggested there were heroics at play here. It was so preposterous anyone could find the means to escape, take on, and defeat a dragon lord that there had to be a hero. And yet, there was the corpse on the spike.
Was the woman a heroine? Or the orc a hero? Now there was a thought that surprised Morden. Had he been betrayed? Had there been a double game at work here? Perhaps this man had been a hero and he had sacrificed himself for the woman he loved. It would fit the mould. There were still too many questions to be answered. What was clear was that he needed the woman caught again, and to find the orc who had betrayed the man and woman and see what he had to say for himself. Unless, of course, he had been in on what had happened here. It would explain the cut straps. He could have escaped with the woman.
“Where’s Ironfist?” barked Morden. Every minute wasted was a minute in which his quarry got farther away.
His guard captain came hurrying into the chamber, took a swift look around, and stiffened to attention. “My lord.”
“Get teams into the sewers now. I want them searched and the escaped prisoners captured. Put a detachment on the sewer exit, both inside and outside the fortress. Lock down all gates and start sweeps. That orc spy of yours. Get him in front of me.”
A downward glance from Ironfist told Morden that latter wasn’t going to happen.
“That orc was here, my lord. He was going to help with the interrogation. You know: good orc, bad orc. He was going to be the familiar face. The good orc.”
Morden cast a theatrical stare around the chamber. “Well, he’s not here now so he must be a very good orc indeed. Assume he’s with the woman then. Report your progress to me in one hour. I’m going to Lord Deathwing. And take care of that.” Morden pointed at the impaled body. “Search it and bring anything you find to me. Anything. If he has so much as a cock ring, I want to see it.”
*****
Morden strode through his fortress to his father’s quarters, his mood darkening by the second. As he went over the facts, it was clear he had been betrayed and there had been a plan to kill him or his father. It wasn’t the plot that bothered him so much—he knew enough about what it meant to be a Dark Lord to know everyone was out to get him—but rather the betrayal by an orc. That hurt. Hadn’t he been good to them? What had he done to deserve this betrayal? In a mere few years, he had liberated a good number of orcs from servitude and restored their pride. Their teeth were no longer filed off, and shortly he would lead them in a triumphant conquest that would slake their thirst for revenge upon those who had kept them as downtrodden menials. How could they betray him? After all he had done for them. Talk about ungrateful minions. He’d done nothing other than devote himself to being the best Dark Lord he could be for over three years. And this was how they repaid him. He’d sacrificed everything to become a Dark Lord and get to the point where they would finally conquer the world for him. He’d nearly lost his father, and may still do. He’d lost his wife; his health; his good looks. And for what? To be betrayed. Well, no more Mister Nice Dark Lord from now on. If they thought him a cruel master, they hadn’t seen anything yet.
As he arrived at his father’s chambers, there was a flash of lightning and a crash of thunder that shook the floor. It was enough to startle the orcs who guarded his father’s door, but it was nothing compared to the terror that surrounded Morden as he loomed above them. One dropped his halberd and ran off down the corridor, another froze and pissed himself. A third managed to retain enough control to open the door for Morden as he swept past.
His father’s quarters had undergone a few changes since his wife had taken up joint residence. Gone were the lascivious portraits of young women. Crystal vases held black orchids, and black satin throw cushions were casually arranged on leather upholstered chairs and sofas. The candles were now scented and his father’s black leather bed sheets had been replaced by silk (how he’d ever slept under leather sheets had always been a mystery to Morden—must have been a dragon skin thing). His father was propped up in bed, his wife tending him at his side.
“I said I didn’t want to be disturbed,” said Lady Deathwing, without turning to see who had entered. “It had better be good.”
There was more lightning from outside and thunder so loud it made Morden’s teeth rattle.
“HOW IS MY FATHER?”
The question drowned out the thunder.
Lady Deathwing leapt to her feet. “Morden.”
The fire in her eyes flared as she looked at her stepson. Morden was pleased to see it had returned. He would be needing that fire in the years to come. Still, he had to make sure it was his fire to command. He came to her side of the bed and pressed his hooded face close to hers. Morden was impressed that she neither recoiled nor turned her face. He knew what he must smell like this close. He remembered well enough what it had been like when he had met Zoon for the first time.
“My lord Morden,” he rasped.
Her eyes became black slits engulfed in dragon fire as she held his gaze.
“My lord,” she said, and took a step away. “My husband will live. It was close. His fire was nearly extinguished.”
“It takes more than a bash to the head to kill a dragon.” He should know if anyone did.
“Let’s hope it knocked some sense into him. What was he thinking?”
“I asked him to interrogate the prisoners. But I didn’t tell him to send his guards away. From what I’ve been told, he was … we were … betrayed by an orc, the one who had facilitated their capture. It seems to have been a ruse to get them close to me.”
“But you sent your father instead. Just in case …” Lady Deathwing laughed. It was the first time Morden had heard her laugh and it sent a shiver through him. “Well played, my Dark Lord. Well played.”
It hadn’t been the reaction Morden had been expecting. Gone was the confused, drug-addled mess his father had first brought to the fortress. Instead here were the first glimmerings of the femme fatal, Lady Deathwing, of legend. Cold, heartless, totally ruthless. Just what he needed.
“He’s always been an idiot,” said Lady Deathwing, sitting herself next to her husband on the bed. “But what can you do? He’s my husband and I’m stuck with him. And now we have the children to think of. If it wasn’t for his indiscretions we wouldn’t have the first Dark Lord for five hundred years. No offence.”
“You can’t pick your parents,” said Morden, moving to the other side of the bed and sitting. It had been a long day. “I need you to do something for me.”
“I am at your disposal, my lord.”
“Get my father well again. And prepare for war. It’s time we got things moving.”
“My children grow swiftly and they are clever; something they got from me. We will be ready in a few months. They need to grow and learn how to fly together. The Black Dragon Flight will be ready.”
“Good. I will get the army fully mobilised and on its way to Deathcropolis. It will take us several months to reach the fleet. You can catch us up when I send for you. By next spring, we should be ready to cross the ocean.”
“And we will burn the world.”
“In a manner of speaking. It wouldn’t be much good to us if it were all turned to ash.”
“My lord?”
“Never mind. I’ll leave you to tend your husband.”
At the door, Morden stopped to look at his father. Lady Deathwing was holding his hand and whispering something to him, but he remained comatose. He had no doubt his father would recover. He had to recover. Morden needed his father. While it was welcome to see Lady Deathwing returning to her normal self, she was a little scary. He would need his father to keep her in check. She was growing stronger by the day. Morden shuddered at the thought of her at full strength, with a host of dragons at her back.
Chapter 35 Nuriel
‘Not all old men are wise, nor wise men old.’
Regardless, don�
��t trust a wise man.
The Dark Lord’s Handbook
With a groggy Griselda having retired to her room, it left Penbury with two guests for dinner, Pierre and Nuriel—though the exquisite cuisine was largely wasted on Nuriel as he refused meat, fish, and fowl. The only dish he ate with relish was an antipasto of fungi with a delicate, creamy sauce. Strangely, Penbury found himself lacking in appetite. There was something about Nuriel, and the exchange he’d had with Griselda, that was disconcerting. He picked at the crab, sucked lethargically on a lobster claw, reluctantly disassembled a parcel of quail, poked at the green bean, pea, and rocket risotto, forced himself to try the lemon sorbet with just the single sliver of cheesecake, and rounded it off with a couple of dark chocolate, cherry liqueur-soaked truffles.
“Tell me, Pierre. How is our old friend, Count Vladovitch?” asked Penbury, once dessert had been dispensed with and space was made for the cheese board. Though he didn’t feel like it, he thought he ought to make the most of the array of soft cheeses and crackers.
Pierre’s face dropped at the question. “Not good, I’m afraid. He’s now a widower and suffers from terrible gout as he has taken to drink.”
“That’s sad to hear. I was rather hoping we might talk him out of retirement for the coming conflict.”
“He was a fine leader,” said Pierre, “but I fear those days are past. He is inconsolable in his loss. She was a dear woman. And, as you say, he was the best general we had.”
“And we could do with a good general.”
All through the meal, while Penbury and Pierre had caught up with an array of small talk, Nuriel had kept much to himself. The attempts Penbury had made to draw him out further had been fruitless, to the point he gave up and concentrated on Pierre’s latest exploits, and so it was with un morceau de la surprise that Nuriel coughed by way of interruption. It was one of those polite coughs of amusement one may hear when it is clear the person finds something quaintly absurd, or naive, and amusing to the point of being unable to restrain said cough.