by Paul Dale
Zara looked out to starboard. They were coming up on a cove that had a village nestled up on the hillside. A fishing boat was tacking its way out. A late start. She thought of home, and her life there. It could never be the same. Not without Hal. Not after she had seen what she had seen. There was no going back now. A Dark Lord was coming and he was going to conquer and kill and spread his dark shadow over everything, corrupting the land and bringing ruin.
“Sounds good. Let’s go south. Assuming you’re coming too?”
“That’s my girl. Of course I’m coming. Hal’s ghost would haunt me if I let anything happen to you. I’ll go tell Farouk we’re staying on board.”
Ferg left, leaving her to gaze south and wonder what the future held for her and her son.
Chapter 42 Victory at Sea
Allow yourself fun sometimes.
The Dark Lord’s Handbook
Morden loved the ocean as much as he used to love blue cheese, which is to say, not at all. If he’d been able, he would have happily flown across the ocean. Even though the dragon within opened a half-interested eye on occasion, he was still locked into an increasingly decaying body. In the last week, he’d lost the tip of a finger on his left hand. He wasn’t sure where or when, it had just dropped off. Doubtless a rat had found it by now and was happily gnawing away on it. He hoped it got indigestion. At sea, not eating was a blessing as he had nothing to throw up, but it didn’t stop him feeling like he was about to fall over all the time. It could have been worse. He could have been on any one of the smaller ships in the fleet along with the orcs packed into them. It wasn’t hard to imagine how unpleasant it was on those ships, in cramped conditions, with puking orcs spilling their guts.
Not all orcs suffered from seasickness. The eastern orcs who crewed the ships had good enough sea legs, even if their land-bound cousins did not. Then there was Stonearm. The big orc seemed to enjoy nothing more than a hearty breakfast followed by a day of striding around a swaying deck, bellowing the maritime orders he had picked up from the ship’s captain. He’d added such words as ‘hoist’ and ‘belay’ to his military vocabulary and used them freely. He’d even taken to wearing a loose shirt and pantaloons, with a cutlass replacing his heavy mace. Morden was concerned that when they reached land his Field Marshal (he’d been promoted yet again) would tell him life at sea was for him and he was off to shiver timbers.
Fortunately, they were making good progress and they would not be at sea much longer.
“Hoist the mainsail!” bellowed Stonearm from his position next to the ship’s captain, who shook his head but kept his peace. Even Morden knew the mainsail was already up and had been for much of the voyage.
Stonearm was wearing a tricorn hat at a jaunty angle. Morden had no idea how he’d managed to come across one. He must have procured one from a western captain.
“How fares it, Field Marshal?” asked Morden, seemingly unable to resist getting into the swing of nautical speak. If he wasn’t careful, he’d be addressing his men as ‘me hearties’ as Stonearm had taken to doing, much to the crew’s discomfort.
“She’s blowing hard from the east-by-north, my lord,” replied Stonearm. “We’re clipping along well enough.”
“Any news from the fleet ahead?”
“None, my lord.”
It couldn’t be long now before they had some news. Lady Deathwing and her offspring must have made contact with the enemy by now. His father, largely recovered from his injuries, was below decks making the most of his wife’s absence with the young lady he had brought aboard, ostensibly to help him with his rehabilitation. Now that she had children to concern her, Lady Deathwing was less concerned with her wayward husband and turned a blind eye to his licentious fornication, which he had assured Morden was a return to normality in their marriage. As long as it didn’t get in the way of his plans for the Black Dragon Flight and the conquests to come, Morden could not care less what his father got up to in his own time and, as they were stuck at sea, he had plenty of that to indulge himself.
“Dragons ho!” roared Stonearm, pointing westward.
Morden followed Stonearm’s arm and could just make out black specks, high up and heading their way. A call from the watch confirmed the sighting. Morden watched as the three specks grew rapidly larger. The dragons circled once over Morden’s ship before diving down to make a faultless landing-cum-transformation on the stern of the ship. The three dragonlings approached Morden and bowed. Though Morden recognised them, he forgot their names. It was hard to keep track of twenty-odd half brothers and sisters.
“What news?” he asked, in the new voice he had been working on—it was deeper and had stresses in places that hinted at the diabolic.
“Victory, my lord,” replied the dragonling in the centre of the trio. “Their fleet burns and what remains is being chased as we speak. Few, if any, will make landfall.”
“I do hope there will be some survivors,” said Morden. “What good the victory if the enemy does not also learn of it? I thought I was clear on this?”
The dragonling blanched. “Yes, my lord. I’m sure one or two ships will slip away.”
“You may go.”
The three backed away a step before turning to make their exit.
“Wait …” The three froze. The power he enjoyed with the utterance of a single word was still a thrill to Morden. “One more thing.”
The three turned as one. Their normally pale skin, when in full human form, whitened to ivory.
“Good job.”
Morden turned his back on them and smiled to himself. It was important he continually reinforce his leadership. The combination of fear and praise would work well on his dragonlings. If it had been his father, or Lady Deathwing, he would never have got away with it. They were not so easily impressed. If Lady Deathwing ever decided she would go against him, he would have a tough time of it. His will was strong—stronger than hers—but she more than made up for that in being a massive black dragon who breathed fire that would char grill what remained of his flesh and bones like a barbecue.
“They’re good kids,” said Morden, standing next to Stonearm.
“Yes, my lord. What orders now?”
“Hoist a victory flag and then west, Stonearm. West to landfall. We have conquering to do.”
“Yes, my lord. And perhaps a drink ration to raise spirits.”
Morden knew Stonearm had been waiting for this for some time. “Very well.”
“Thank you, my lord,” said Stonearm, grinning to expose his formidable set of teeth. Stonearm took a step forward and grasped the rail in front of the wheel with both hands. “Listen up, you scurvy lot.” Heads at work turned to listen. “We have victory.” A cheer went up from the crew. “Brace the mainsail!”
*****
Land crept over the horizon as if it were concerned about who might see it. The Dark Lord Morden, standing at the bow of his flagship, watched it grow from a thin line into a ragged stretch of cliffs and bays. Grasping the rail with one hand, he struck a pose while an orc with charcoal hurriedly sketched the scene. This was history in the making and Morden was aware the stuff of legend was important. He had to take every opportunity to enforce his dark presence and the notion of his unstoppable power.
As the artist drew him, Morden dictated an address to be circulated when they made landfall. “Read me back the last part.”
“Today, we make history. Today, we embark down the road to triumph. Today, we begin our conquest.”
The orc scribe delivered the lines in a dry, matter-of-fact, tone. It would sound better when he spoke them. “Stonearm, what do you think? Too many ‘todays’?”
“No, my lord. But …”
Even after all this time, Morden’s best friend was reluctant to even insinuate anything he did was anything other than perfect. That was fine with Morden, but he knew better. He was still trying to get to grips with the business of epic soliloquy.
“Speak freely, Field Marshal.”
�
��Yes, my lord. Today, we make history, should come at the end. I think it would sound better.”
Morden tried out the idea in his head and had to agree. “Scratch that last line, scribe, and rewrite as Field Marshal Stonearm suggests, then give me the speech.”
The orc scribbled furiously and handed Morden the parchment. It was a mess of corrections—words spelt badly and then corrected to be almost correct, crossing-outs, weird marks, wiggly lines, bold capitalisation, italics, double lines, triple lines, marks in the header, the margins, and at the foot. He would have to have the entire thing written out again. For now, he read back the last three sentences.
“Today, we embark down the road to triumph. Today, we begin our conquest. Today, we make history.” Not bad. “Good job, Stonearm. It does sound better.”
Morden looked up from the parchment to find the scribe had collapsed on the deck and had blood coming from his nose and ears. The sketch artist had managed to stay upright but had knocked over the easel. The canvas lay to one side. The portrait of a Dark Lord striking an impressive pose on the bow of a ship, a stormy sky in the background, was ruined by a heavy black line that ran across it like a charcoal scream. Even Stonearm was grimacing. If Morden had not been a Dark Lord, he may have apologised. As it was, he didn’t. It wasn’t easy being a Dark Lord. Those around him had it easy in comparison.
Land was getting close now, and the ship’s captain shouted orders. All around, the fleet heaved to (Stonearm had explained it meant positioning to slow down or come to a stop) in a wide bay with a long stretch of beach. It was an ideal place to land an army. Already, skiffs had been lowered from ships nearest the coast to carry scouts to shore. It looked as though they would be unopposed. Given what had happened to the enemy fleet, this was not unreasonable. No one in their right mind would oppose a fleet that had dragons.
Speaking of which, from the south came a flight. The three that had already rejoined the fleet took off to greet them and the flights merged to a formation of six. They went through a series of complex manoeuvres above the beach and the surrounding hills. Morden was pleased. They were well-drilled. As five maintained a vigil over the boats, one dragon detached and flew over to Morden’s ship. His half-brother landed with grace that Morden envied.
“The coast, as they say, is clear, my lord.”
“Excellent. Signal the fleet. Disembark the army.”
*****
The Battle of Xanthos was less of a battle and more of a sacking. Morden remembered the city from his previous visit. It had been his last stop before leaving the west and, by the time he had arrived, they had thrown open the gates and welcomed him with open arms. He’d put on a bit of show in his dragon form, stolen their fleet, all their food, and left without so much as a good-bye or a thank you. Other than the property theft, he had respected their cowardice and left the city structurally intact. Perhaps it was because of this relatively light treatment on his previous visit that Xanthos once again threw open its gates without pretence of resistance. Unfortunately for them, this time Morden had other plans for Xanthos. He needed a port city to take the vast number of ships that would soon return from Deathcropolis, having already delivered the one army and now headed back to get the second.
That and he had an example to make. There was a new force in the world and it should not be opposed. Admittedly, Xanthos had not opposed him, but that was not the point. If they had, then this is what would happen. Indeed, was happening as Morden entered through the city gate riding the largest and most docile black stallion he could find (he was a Dark Lord, not a horseman). Orcs in black armour ran through the streets like a flood. Doors were kicked in, people were thrown roughly to the ground, some were beaten, crockery was smashed, and the odd fire was set. Statues of past and present rulers were toppled, the grand estates were sacked, and the rich were urinated on while their servants were forced to watch (some joined in).
By nightfall, the city was well and truly sacked and Morden had found himself a comfortable mansion from which to direct his generals. He didn’t bother meeting with the local rulers and nobility, as there was nothing much to say. He had them thrown in the dungeons for ‘due processing’ at dawn the following morning. For now, Morden was concerned with the council of war he had called. His generals and Lord and Lady Deathwing joined him at a round table upon which a map of the west had been spread. With Stonearm standing at his side, Morden set out his plans for the coming months. Arrows on the map showed lines of advance for the armies and the cities they would take before they all converged on one particular city in the south of the continent: Firena.
“This,” said Morden, pointing with a long stick Stonearm had found him, “is our goal. Chancellor Penbury’s residence is in Firena. From there he controls everything. He is the true power in the land. These petty kingdoms are nothing compared to the control he exerts. We take Penbury, we take everything.”
A range of expressions made their way across his generals’ faces, from perplexity to bewilderment. When he caught his father’s eye, all he saw was faint bemusement. The only one present who seemed not to share in the confusion was Lady Deathwing. There was a gleam in her eye.
“I’m going to enjoy this,” she said in a tone that made Morden glad he was not Penbury. “I have a score to settle.”
It came as no surprise she held such feelings; it had been Penbury who had outwitted her and turned her into a drug fiend for the best part of three years. Headfucker had lived up to its billing. Since she had been weaned off the drug, and more especially since she had become mother to nearly two dozen children, she was back to her old self: mean, vicious and cunning. And, as the female of her kind, the biggest dragon at Morden’s command. He found it hard to imagine anyone, bar himself, being able to stand against her.
“And you shall have your revenge, Lady Deathwing,” said Morden, “as you will be with the main army, and myself, as we form the central thrust of our advance. The majority of the dragons will be with us, but we will detach a flight to support the northern advance, and one for the southern. Six in each flight should be more than enough. I will leave it to you to select the members and appoint the leaders in each group. Now, what of the cannon? I understand not all of them were put on ships?”
“No, my lord,” answered Stonearm. “Some had been deployed at the harbour entrance to prevent ships entering. We have captured a dozen of them.”
“And they are like the ones Huang was working on?”
“Yes, but better, my lord.”
“How so?”
“They don’t blow up when used.”
“Very good. Put them on carriages and arrange mule teams. Find volunteers to man them. Take them outside the city and practice firing them well away from anyone so if they do blow up they don’t kill anyone but themselves. All being well, we’ll take them with us. At the very least, they’ll scare the hell out of the enemy.”
“Very good, my lord.”
“Right, that’s about it. Stonearm will accompany me with the cannon and the main army. Orders of battle, and other such details, will be dispensed by him after this meeting. I would ask if there were any questions but I’m confident none of you are stupid enough to have any. Study this map, take your assignments, and ready your men. Conquest awaits.”
Morden stalked from the room in a manner befitting a Dark Lord. He thought he’d done rather well. All this talk of lines of advance and orders of battle had been picked up from the military books he had quickly scanned that morning. As for the actual campaign plan, Stonearm had done most of that over the previous year back in Deathcropolis. Stonearm had explained it to Morden, and he had tried to listen to his friend about the importance of lines of march, supply and logistics, concentration of power at vital points, and so on, but he found it dull. Military matters were far less interesting than politics and business. He was more a people person. He liked to find weakness and exploit it, whether it be a personal weakness or a badly formed market strategy. The entire reason Penb
ury was his main target, aside from the fact he had ruined his beer enterprise back in Bindelburg, was because Penbury was the only one he feared when it came to such matters. For decades the man had manipulated, cajoled, bullied, seduced, blackmailed, coerced, sweet-talked, subverted, and crushed all who dared stand in his way. And he had accomplished this largely without the use of the military option. He was to be admired but not tolerated. Penbury had to go.
Back in his commandeered suite, Morden went onto his balcony and looked over the city. There were areas from which smoke still curled, and the air was full of a mixture of screams and cries, orc shouts and barked orders. It was organised mayhem. In the west, the sun sank over the sea. As Morden watched it, Griselda came to mind. She was the other reason he would be heading straight for Penbury. She would be there. The campaign had taken up much of his time but, for one who never slept, there was always time in the day, or night, for him to dwell on her. He often wondered where she was and what was she doing. Was she seeing someone else? More the fool them, if she was. He didn’t think it arrogance to believe a Dark Lord for a partner would be a hard act to follow, despite their issues. Perhaps when he was lord over all, his dark dominion spread across the world, she would see him for what he was: her only real option. He wanted someone at his side. Not to share it—Dark Lords don’t share—but to be there.
Morden sighed and the flowers in the earthenware pots lined along the balcony wilted, then charred, before turning to ash and collapsing. He needed a distraction. His first thought was the Handbook, but it tended to give him a hard time over Griselda. Then he remembered Zoon’s diary. It had been a while since he’d had a read of that. Maybe another Dark Lord’s misfortune would cheer him up. He would read that first, then the Handbook. He needed to brush up on a few particulars when it came to waging war.