by Paul Dale
“You think it will upset him if I tell him?”
“It’s worth a try. I’m not sure he’s a mother’s boy but if he is, it will definitely annoy him. Even if he isn’t, he may hesitate while he deals with what you’ve said, and that may leave a gap in his defence. I would try it out. But time it well. Such revelations need to be well-timed. If possible, wait until he is trying to get under your skin, or is in the middle of a lengthy monologue, and then interrupt him. That will make him angry if nothing else. A Dark Lord hates to be interrupted. He’ll hate being talked over.”
Edwin nodded his understanding. Namu was not bad, as elves went. She’d given him some useful advice. She was arrogant, a general elvish trait. And condescending. And she did sigh a lot. But apart from that, she was someone he thought he might grow to respect in time.
Namu sighed and rose from the bed. “I will leave you to your meditations. I hope you’ll think on what we have talked about. The fate of the world may well rest on your impressively broad shoulders, Edwin.”
Edwin watched the elf woman leave and wondered what her bottom was like under all that silk. She did have a gentle sway to her hips as she walked. Realising that trouble lay in such thoughts, he set them aside in his mind, got up from the chair, made himself comfortable on his cushion, and resumed his meditation. This time, though, he cleared his mind of all things bar two: Griselda and Morden. He let his love of her and his hatred of his enemy fill him entirely.
Chapter 40 Ancient Truths
Economic reality is another way of saying suck it up.
The Dark Lord’s Handbook
It was a warm morning and Penbury would have rather been in his garden, but he was far too busy. Instead, he was working his way through a pile of correspondence at his desk. He had already dealt with the priority mail from the other council members; their plans and contingencies for the upcoming war were going well.
To the cynically minded, it may have appeared that an elite group of industrialists, financiers, landowners, and brokers were going to do very well out of the coming war. They may even go as far as accusing them of profiteering. It was a word Penbury disliked. While it was true there were massive profits to be had in times of uncertainty and conflict, it was not, as some suggested, in his interests to engineer such situations. It had upset him to read one pamphlet which suggested Penbury himself had been responsible for Morden’s rise to power and they would be splitting the profits once the dust had settled. More shockingly, another suggested Morden was not the first Dark Lord for five hundred years and that Penbury was merely the latest of tyrants who had held sway over the world in successive chancellorships. He thought it rather unfair given he had never even owned a black robe, much less worn one.
He was answering a letter from a Baron Funkhousen, asking for a bridging loan of a size that made Penbury’s eyebrow raise, when there was the politest of taps at his door and Chidwick entered. He approached the Chancellor’s desk and dropped a bundle of letters to join the pile already on the corner of the desk. It would be a long day. His secretary then handed him a small card with gilt lettering.
“Not another one, Chidwick?” asked Penbury. He flipped the card round and read the precisely written name, heritage, competencies, and duelling record of yet another young noble who was presenting himself with the hope of being allowed to meet and, all being well, court Griselda.
“Shall I turn him away, sir?”
“Tell him the same as the others. If he can survive three minutes of sparring with Griselda with a real weapon then he can stay. That should scare him off.”
Griselda’s reaction to the first suitor was to insist they fight so he may prove his worth. He was lucky. He had only lost a hand to an unlucky strike when Griselda had tripped and he had instinctively reached out to grab her as she fell. Others had not been so lucky. Jurgen Hust had lost an arm, Francois Pinot a leg, and Bernard Cromwell his life. Quite soon, word had got out how deadly trying to get a first rendezvous with Griselda was, and that had reduced the line of suitors, for a while. Now there was something of a challenge going on amongst young nobles and Griselda’s reputation had soared. None of her victims would attest to having been bettered by ill luck, or an incompetent, and so her prowess in single combat had quickly reached legendary levels.
“She is without doubt the worst person I have ever had the misfortune to train,” Pierre had told his good friend over dinner one evening. “She is impossible. And yet, she is deadly. She may not have the faintest idea what a parry is, or what it means to riposte, but that damned sword has a mind of its own, and it knows only too well where there are vital organs, or an artery, and it finds them, one way or another.”
With the young nobles came an army camped outside Firena and growing by the day. It had been the trigger for mobilisation across the Western Marches. As well as becoming the single most desirable woman in the west, the fact she was preparing to face off against Morden had also got out and men had swarmed to her banner. They did not have a general of the quality of Count Vladovitch but they did have a figurehead. It was better than nothing.
In the meantime, Nuriel had tried to assuage Penbury’s fears when it came to Griselda by insisting his fellows would turn up, in the nick of time (as was their wont), and save the day. When exactly that would be, he could not say. Such was Penbury’s insistence that ‘just in time’ was not a good foundation for a military plan, Nuriel had at last agreed to find out when they expected to arrive and was due to leave imminently, much to Penbury’s relief. Not only was he uncomfortable with relying on others’ punctuality but Nuriel had become more than trying. Enigmatic was insufficient to describe his general demeanour. Trying to get anything concrete out of him was like trying to get money from an insurance claim. This thought reminded him he had a long overdue session in the archives. There were things Nuriel had said regarding Chancellor Huffenhoff’s secular reformation that needed to be followed up on.
Penbury looked at the desk clock, an exquisitely crafted timepiece in an age where few knew the meaning of time. It was lunch time. While there were many pressing matters to attend to, not even the threat of the imminent arrival of a Dark Lord could persuade Penbury not to stop for lunch. He decided to keep lunch simple and satisfied himself with an open sandwich topped with spiced dried meats, cheese, tomato, and drizzled with olive oil. Pitted olives, a glass (or two) of crisp white wine, and a slice of almond cake rounded it off.
Suitably fuelled, he headed to the cellar and the secret entrance to the chancellor’s archives, which was accessed from the false front of a giant sherry cask. He took the staff propped against the cool stone at the entrance, tapped it gently on the floor, and whispered the word that had been handed down by chancellors before him. The staff began to emit a soft light. It was a reminder that, in these days, his belief that everything should have a natural explanation was challenged on a nearly daily basis. A world governed by sense was a world he wanted to believe in but the evidence, and he was nothing if not a man of reason and evidence, indicated the contrary. Until three years ago, the world he had lived in was well-ordered and made complete sense. Now it was a crumbling edifice, being brought down by Dark Lords, dragons, ancient beings, lethal magic swords, and a staff that glowed when an ancient word he didn’t even know the meaning of was spoken.
Penbury made his way carefully down the worn stair. The air was cool, dry, and welcoming when Firena became unbearably hot in the height of summer. He let his fingers trail the roughly cut stone until the archive opened out ahead of him. As though it sensed the need, the staff’s light strengthened. Rows of shelves cut from the rock ran in lines away from a desk, upon which was a small cask and a down-turned glass. Penbury flipped the glass and rinsed it with a drop of sherry from the cask before filling it more generously. He set it on the desk and headed down one of the aisles. He’d been down here often enough to know where certain sections were without having to resort to the catalogue, and he found the relevant section on Huffenhoff with ease. He lifte
d a heavy, leather-bound book, wiped a thin layer of dust from it, and read the spidery title. Huffenhoff: A Secular Revolution. He took the book back to the desk, placed the staff in a wall bracket, eased himself into the chair, arranging the cushion under his posterior for maximum comfort, took a fortifying sip of sherry, and opened the cover.
Penbury quickly settled into steady reading. The language was archaic, as to be expected from a book written nearly five hundred years ago. While every chancellor was familiar with Huffenhoff—he was legend, after all—Penbury had never read the original text that outlined the entire revolution from its inception through to its execution. It had been a bold undertaking given that it was essentially overthrowing the rule of those who had disposed of the last Dark Lord, namely Uther the Merciless and his offspring. It was also a brazen move. Chancellors tended to control economies, and hence had an indispensable power base. They rarely moved into the realm of social and regime change. While social conditions could be widely deplored, as long as the economy was running smoothly and profits were being made, then a chancellor would leave well alone. The only time direct political intervention was called for was when some hothead ruler turned the focus of attention to the wealthy, normally in an attempt to line their own pockets. Almost without fail, they found it didn’t pay to mess with the rich and soon enough they would be toeing the line and oppressing the poor instead.
In which case, it was curious Huffenhoff thought his secular revolution was necessary. Penbury had no time for worship of any kind, other than at the altar of fine dining and comfortable living, and, until recently, had never been too troubled with the fate of the common man. Putting himself in Huffenhoff’s position, he’d have needed a damned good reason to mess with religion in such a sweeping manner. If nothing else, it wasn’t unheard of to meet an untimely end if you offended the wrong god and, more importantly, his followers. If people wanted to abase themselves in front of idols and give over a chunk of their wealth to a priesthood that lived in a style befitting servants of god, as long as they could work and pay taxes, then he wouldn’t have interfered. Something else must have been at work and Penbury hoped he would find it in the text.
Penbury ploughed on. He was so engrossed he was late in hearing the footsteps on the stone stair. Turning, expecting to see Chidwick with a plate of nibbles, he was shocked out of his chair when he saw not Chidwick but Nuriel.
“Nuriel? What are you doing here? Forget that, how did you get here? This is a secret archive. Only two people in the world know of it. And you should be more careful when sneaking up on people. I’m not as young as I was, you know. Where’s Chidwick? Chidwick!”
It was most rude of a house guest to creep around and go places they were not welcome. That he was here at all was vexing in the extreme. This couldn’t be his secret archive containing forbidden knowledge if anyone could come traipsing in. This would not do. He would have to have sterner words with his ‘guest’ once he had got rid of him.
“You must forgive me, Chancellor. I had assumed you knew that I knew all about this archive and how to access it. I was coming to say goodbye before I left. I couldn’t find you anywhere, and then I sensed this.” Nuriel indicated the staff in its sconce. “I had completely forgotten about that. When I felt it brighten, I knew where you must be.”
Here he goes again, thought Penbury. It seemed enigmatic was all this bearded, possibly immortal man could manage. Nuriel sensed the staff. What did that mean? And how did he know about the secret entrance? Only chancellors and their personal private secretaries knew.
Then the sun rose in Penbury’s mind. “Did you know Chancellor Huffenhoff?”
Nuriel seemed surprised by Penbury’s question. “Why, yes. Delightful man. Incredibly smart. And devious. A great chancellor. Maybe the greatest, present company excepted. You may well surpass his achievements in the coming months. It will be interesting to see.”
“Sherry?” asked Penbury, refilling his own glass to the top.
“I don’t drink.”
“Of course, you don’t. And this staff? Why would you sense this staff? Apart from being useful to light the archive without a fire threat, it seems ordinary enough.”
Nuriel took the staff and, as he did, the light brightened to an almost painful intensity before dimming back to a bearable level. “How things change. An artefact once used in battling a Dark Lord is now used merely to light the dark in a cellar. I had forgotten what had become of it. I thought it lost. Probably best it remains that way.” Nuriel placed the staff back in its bracket and suddenly it looked like the full span of years was upon him. “You must think me a doddering idiot. Ask your questions, Chancellor, and I will try to answer them as best as my memory can serve, and as clearly as I can. You want to know more about Huffenhoff and his, or rather our, secular revolution?”
“Will it help us in our current predicament, or am I wasting my time? Only, he was chancellor after the last Dark Lord and responsible for deposing those who had defeated that Dark Lord. That strikes me as odd.”
“This may take some time,” said Nuriel, and he took the spare chair on the other side of the desk from Penbury, who, feeling somewhat calmer, sat back down on his cushion and made himself comfortable. “It’s probably best if I tell you what happened, and why, and then you can ask questions to fill in the gaps.”
In the following hour, Penbury learnt more about the Huffenhoff revolution than he could have read in the book on the desk in front of him. He was sure much of it wasn’t even in the book, given he was being given a completely different point of view from one of the main protagonists. While he had being passingly familiar with Huffenhoff’s approach, using economics, and in particular tax regimes, to curb and eventually largely kill off the major organised religions, he had had no idea how the state of affairs had come about. He had thought it had been because, in direct response to the Dark Lord, there had been a religious backlash to evil incarnate. That turned out to be only half the story. The religious fire had been lit initially by a revelation. Uther the Merciless, the hero who had brought down Zoon, had done so with a sword given to him in a visitation by the divine. That divinity had been Nuriel, and the sword he had brought with him was the same sword Griselda was using to dismember the young nobles of Firena: Soulbane. It was an ancient weapon from conflicts long forgotten, in ages past, when the world had been different, and forgotten peoples and creatures walked the land. A time before men and orcs. It made Penbury wonder how long this eternal battle had been going on.
“If all you say is true,” said Penbury, as Nuriel came to the end of his story, “and I don’t doubt that it is, incredible as it sounds, then why do we bother? Are we not doomed to repeat this same struggle for all time?”
“Exactly,” said Nuriel. “That’s precisely the conclusion we came to, along with the elves, and we decided we’d had enough. So we withdrew. We weren’t prepared to defeat Dark Lord after Dark Lord until the end of time. What, as you say, was the point? Was that all life came down to? It’s a bleak world we live in if all we can do is grab moments of happiness in an endless war that cannot be won.”
“And yet, here we are again. A new Dark Lord, and the fight continues.”
“Indeed. We will fight once more. Many of us will die, but perhaps that is better than the alternative: living immortal lives only to fight an endless succession of Dark Lords.”
Penbury poured himself another sherry. He may be bordering drunk but he needed it. It was all so depressing. It gave him a completely new insight into mortality. It struck him as ironic that mortal men spent their lives doing everything they could to get the most out of their existence in full knowledge they were doomed to die—others lived in denial of that truth or tried their utmost to defer their end—while those who were immortal lived in drudgery, weighed down by the ever-lengthening span of years, knowing it would never end. No wonder the notion of an afterlife was such a welcoming idea. Then a thought struck that lifted his mood:
“It cou
ld be worse, of course. You could be a Dark Lord.”
Penbury laughed. It may have been the sherry but he found it an amusing thought. Nuriel thought he had it bad but not as bad as a Dark Lord. If there was a lesson history could teach, it was that the Dark Lord never won. Thinking about it, it was incredible there was always a new Dark Lord. Perhaps the fact it had been so long since the last one was why Morden thought it was time to give it another try. From what Nuriel had told him, he was in for a surprise. No matter how bleak things seemed for those who opposed the Dark Lord, they always pulled through in the end. Being a Dark Lord was not a good career choice. While there had been occasions a Dark Lord had enjoyed a measure of success, conquering land that stretched across continents, and subjecting vast populations to his will, it had never lasted. There always arose a hero to defeat him in his pursuit of conquest, or, in the worst case, defeat him in his hour of victory and undo all he had done with the swift jab of a sword.
“I mean,” continued Penbury, “it’s not like a Dark Lord ever wins. Thank you, Nuriel. I will sleep much better this evening knowing that, a few setbacks aside, we are fated to win in the end.”
“It’s depressing, isn’t it?”
“If it’s so depressing, you could always lose …”
Nuriel laughed. “Lose? Now, that is funny. It never happens.”
Penbury drained his sherry and poured another. No doubt about it, he was getting drunk. “I can’t imagine Griselda losing. She’s dangerous enough already, and she’s on our side. Losing to Morden is not an option. It’s hard to believe they were ever happily married.”
Nuriel made no reply. His mirth had vanished as swiftly as it had appeared. “How would you feel about losing?”
“Win or lose, it’s a matter of degree,” shrugged Penbury. “The only reason we contest is because peace is more profitable, despite what some may think, and we chancellors are good at managing peace.”