by Paul Dale
Chapter 43 Handbook: Battles
Incompetence is the standard. Mediocrity is the result.
The Dark Lord’s Handbook
Morden, war is coming. You have your army. You have your dragons. You have your fleet. It’s time to attack from the east and bring your will to bear on those who think themselves free. In their ignorance, they will oppose you. Battle will be joined. This, then, will be the moment of truth. In the fire of battle, empires are forged and you must be the master blacksmith. It is the moment when you can enjoy your greatest victories. Sadly, those who have preceded you have also managed their greatest defeats. We have gone over heroes, and their role in these events, often enough. You know what to do and not to do. Though there is no apparent hero to stand against you, be prepared for some child of humble birth to emerge from the masses and stand in your way. If and when this occurs, you are well versed and can deal with them.
What is of a more pressing concern are the battles themselves. Let’s face it, you’ve no real experience in the epic battle for the fate of a world. While certain aspects of battle have been mentioned in the past, given the impending conflict, it’s worth refreshing your memory and going into detail to avoid embarrassment.
The first thing to consider is your army’s composition. There are many roles to be filled in an army according to the battle and situation. In traditional armies, like those you will face, they will be concerned with the right troops for rough terrain, or to skirmish ahead of the main army, or to be swift-moving so as to wrap around the flanks. These are all well and good for the traditional tactician, but you are a Dark Lord. Such a tiresome attitude to armies completely misses the higher level of thought.
First and foremost, you need lots of troops. Think of a big number, then double it, several times, and then add more. That’s not enough. You need so many troops they make mountains shake when they march. You need an army that is like a swarm of locusts as it passes over the land. If you were to stand on a mountaintop and look out across your army, the world should curve away from your sight before you could see its farthest reaches. That big. And given you’ll probably lose at least one army to some unfortunate accident, like a sudden flooding of the sea, or an earthquake that swallows the army whole, best have a spare on hand as backup. You can never have too big an army or too many armies. Your foe can face no greater demoralisation than to defeat one army only to find it was but the amuse-bouche to the entrée.
You may think the reason for such an army is so it overwhelms the enemy. A military strategist will say you need, as a minimum, three times the number of men your enemy has to assure victory. Technically this may be correct but it hides the real point and that is, your army isn’t going to be any good. An odd thing to say perhaps, but the truth hurts. Your army will find ways to get itself slaughtered you cannot imagine. They will die in droves. If the enemy had enough daylight and energy, they could probably kill every last one of them, but they will tire under the weight of numbers, and darkness will fall. They will lose men themselves and get whittled down. You need a massive army to keep them busy so you can play your trump cards at the right time and tip the tide of battle.
Coming back to the idea of army composition, you need a lot of men, orcs, or whatever, who will die for you. That’s the core of your army. It should go without saying, but just in case, you need to work hard on morale for this group. They’re going to die, but they don’t need to be told they are going to certain death. Let the opposition enjoy the idea of a heroic death that will live in history. Your lot will want to be told they are going to live forever and enjoy the spoils of battle.
Next you will need the more specialist units, and they aren’t the fiddly ones who fight best in woods, or who can ford rivers for sneak attacks, or whatever. They are the ones who are going to drive your army forward while demoralising the enemy. Wild and fantastic creatures of unbelievable size and ferocity, which are barely kept in check by their handlers, work well. Yes, they will break free and run rampage across the battlefield, causing as much death among your men as the enemy, but, if you’ve been listening, you’ll have troops to spare. Huge wolves, angry giants, screeching harpies, flesh-eating elephants. That sort of thing.
Lastly, you’ll have a relatively small, but highly trained, group of elite troops whose reputation for battlefield prowess is unmatched. They will have the best armour, the best weapons, the only training to speak of, and the biggest muscles. They will rip enemies asunder and scatter their body parts. They will be so ferocious they’ll turn men’s hair white and make them defecate. They will be held back until the very last and unleashed to secure victory. They can be backed up by the most terrifying and fearsome of the monsters you have on hand, like dragons. They do perfectly. Just when the enemy thinks they have cracked you, when bodies soak the earth with their blood and the first hint of desperation is evident, then you hit them. Crush all their hopes and dreams of seeing their loved ones alive again. Drink in their lamentations and bathe in their tears.
As for how you fight battles, it’s not complicated. You have an army so big it’s impossible to tell them what to do other than ‘kill that lot in front of you.’ Leave formations and manoeuvre to those with small armies that can be played with like toys on a tabletop. Any attempt by you to perform some kind of cunning tactic, like envelopment or such-like, will merely confuse your army and increase the already considerable amount of chaos. Keep it simple. Make sure they are lined up, pointed in the right direction, and tell them to move forward and kill anyone who disagrees with the idea a Dark Lord should rule the world.
The only real precaution to take is to fight, where possible, with the sun already up, which does preclude the use of sun-sensitive soldiers. Your army will have a hard enough time seeing what it’s doing in daylight. It’s not a bad thing for them to be able to see the opposition. It’s an even better thing for the opposition to see what hopeless odds they face.
Beyond that, while there are some precautions that could be taken, like don’t try to cross wide rivers and fight up riverbanks, or fight uphill across ground that has been clearly soaked in oil, or uphill towards a suspicious line of hay bales flanked by men with torches, or at sea in a storm, most are not worth taking. It does mean you will be open to a whole range of tricks and stratagems the enemy may have, but that’s all right. Let them have their moment. You can afford the odd loss here and there.
Fighting against a fortified citadel is worth a special mention. Again, much could be said about how to dig trenches with sappers and weaken foundations and so on, but why bother? All you need is a big enough ram to knock the front door down and sufficient men with towers and ladders. It’s true, the casualties will be horrendous, but that doesn’t matter. The defenders will eventually tire and run out of arrows, rocks, and oil. When the bodies are piled as high as the tops of the walls, your men can literally walk in. If you have a mind to, feel free to speed things up a bit with trebuchets, but don’t bother using them to knock the walls down. Instead, fling burning missiles over the walls to set fire to the citadel inside and the bodies of the fallen to increase their despair. When it comes to the ram, make sure it’s in the form of a mythical beast and has a name so your men have something to get behind while arrows are rained down on them, they are being set on fire by oil, and crushed with rocks.
Once the battle is won, whatever you do, do not stand around and lead a hearty cheer, or start slapping each other on the back for a victory hard won, like the enemy tends to do. Your work is not yet done. You need to pursue whatever is left of the enemy fleeing the field and ensure as many as possible meet a swift end. If it is a city you have captured, your men should be given free license to rampage to force home the destruction and take their minds off how many of their mates are now dead. With any luck, they will be drunk on booty and pass out from exhaustion before the full horror of what has happened sinks in. When they remember it the next day, keep them focused on two things: they won and they’re still al
ive. That should do the trick and have them ready for the next massacre you have lined up.
And that’s it. No need for all that military planning. Strategy and tactics are overrated. Massive army. Fierce creatures. Scare the crap out of the enemy and put them to the sword. It’s not that hard.
Chapter 44 Fae Revealed
Mistakes will be made. Just not by you.
The Dark Lord’s Handbook
Edwin had found the march south from Solitude tough going. The ground was hard and cold from been frozen so long, even though the snows had eventually receded, and was uncomfortable to sleep on. The farther south they went, the more it bloomed with life, including clouds of biting insects, which followed them as a swarm. Edwin tried to ignore their bites but could not. His exposed flesh became covered in red, infuriatingly itchy bites, which he scratched at constantly when he wasn’t trying to reduce the uncountable number of insects that plagued him. What was more infuriating was that the elves and the Old Ones (as he had taken to calling Kezef, Af, Nuriel, Hemah, Mashhit, and Meshabber) were unaffected. Marching with five thousand elves, Edwin thought it unfair he was the meal of choice. It wasn’t as though the little bastards didn’t land on his companions; they did. He could see them settle and then, rather than sit and dine as they did on him, a few seconds later they would fly off again leaving no mark.
As the first trees appeared on the landscape, they left the ravenous swarms behind, much to Edwin’s relief. It also marked the availability of larger game and groups of elves went out to forage as the main body moved southeast. Kezef may have existed on a diet of mushrooms, plants, and berries for centuries but the elves did not when meat became available. While Edwin had grown used to the meagre fare in Solitude, the first rabbit he ate for months was one of the finest things he had ever tasted, and his pleasure was matched by his new elvish friends.
Progress was slow as the majority were still on foot. When they were able they bartered for horses, the Old Ones first to be mounted. It was several weeks before they arrived at the first major town, where they were given more horses. Edwin suspected it was to hurry them on their way. The elves in their armour made a strong impression on those they came across. With the armour’s flowing lines and soft silver sheen, they had a radiance about them normal folk took as being ‘not natural’, and ‘not natural’ was to be avoided at all costs. By contrast, Edwin had grown used to the elves, their strange looks and attire. He’d even accepted his own set of armour, finding it light and comfortable. As a smith, he had been intrigued as to how they had managed to make it so strong and yet so light. Every joint was faultless, every detail impeccable. The armour was as much a work of art as it was protection for battle.
It was soon after they reached civilised parts they received the first rumours of the Dark Lord Morden and his campaign of terror sweeping from the east. That evening, Edwin was summoned to a council of the Old Ones along with Ga’brel and Namu. The meeting was held under the stars in a small clearing. Edwin preferred a roof, but that was just him. Under the stars was something elves were keen on. In typical fashion, cushions—similar to those he had used for meditation—had been placed in a circle, and with a ring of torches to provide minimal light.
Among those seated was a stranger. From his dress, he was a noble. From his demeanour, he was uncomfortable, and not just because of the cushion he was sitting on. He had the hard, chiselled features of a northerner and grey eyes that matched the steel he wore at his side. Edwin sat himself next to Ga’brel, assuming the same comfortable position on it as the elves, one suitable for hours of meditation. The stranger shifted uncomfortably on his, trying to arrange his legs in a manner that matched those around him.
With Edwin’s arrival, the circle was complete.
“Edwin,” said Kezef, “this is Baron Steinberg. These are his lands we have wandered into and naturally he’s curious why an army has turned up on his doorstep. Baron, this is Sir Edwin, Hero of Bostokov. I understand he is well-known.”
At mention of his name, the baron shot Edwin a glare.
“Aye, he is well-known. Edwin the Butcher. Edwin the Murderer. Edwin the Cursed. There is blood on his hands. He’s wanted across the Western Marches for the foul and unprovoked murder of an innkeeper’s wife. He gutted the poor women with a butter knife. A butter knife, I tell you. Do you know how hard that is? The poor woman. Aye, he’s known.” The baron spat on the ground to one side. “Why is he here? Will you serve him up to justice?”
As the baron spoke, Edwin was taken back to the days before his march north to what he thought was certain death. It seemed like an age ago he had been this man the baron spoke of so vehemently. He looked down at his hands, turning them over. It was true. These hands had seen slaughter like few could imagine, unless they too had been in battle with a determined and unrelenting foe. That man was his past. He had changed. While it was true that once more he was heading into battle to kill, this time it was with a clear purpose not driven by base emotion and rage. He was going to face the Dark Lord Morden and his army of darkness because that was what every right-minded man who believed in freedom, and the well-being of those he loved, would do. And he had a score to settle. This time, Morden was going down.
“Edwin has admitted his crimes,” said Kezef. “He has done penance. He may have done wrong in the past but he seeks redemption through his actions and the defeat of Morden the Dark Lord.”
“Redemption?” The baron spat on the ground once more. “He should hang. That is the only redemption that would see justice done.”
“Have we not all done things we regret?” chipped in Af. “I, myself, have done things far worse. I remember the time when—”
“Yes, thank you, Af,” said Kezef, clearing his throat. “We all know what you, and yes, some of the rest of us, have done. But it was all in a good cause.”
“As was what I did,” said Edwin. “What I did was wrong. I should not have used a butter knife. That, I admit, was cruel. I should have brought her end more swiftly, but she did deserve to die. You do know this woman was Morden’s mother? She mothered a Dark Lord. If me killing a person so vile and evil is wrong then you may as well hang me from that tree.”
“I’d be only too glad, you murdering bastard,” cried the baron, getting to his feet. “A changed man, you say? She was a barmaid, you lunatic. If this man is changed, then I would hate to have known him before. You cannot protect him. If you are good and decent, men—”
“And elves,” said Namu, brightly.
“—if you are decent, then you must see he has to answer to his crimes.”
If Edwin had been the man he had been before, he would have ripped this man’s head off. But he wasn’t. He was different now. He was far more in control. He could feel the anger, the desire to beat sense into this dullard, but now he understood, on occasion, violence would not be the best course of action. There were much bigger concerns, like the defeat of Morden. He counted slowly to ten and watched his anger subside.
“I am nothing if not a man of justice. If I have done wrong, then I will answer for it. But not now. Now we must deal with a far worse evil and stop crimes being committed on a scale you cannot imagine. We must focus on defeating a Dark Lord, and for that we need your help, Baron. We need horses, as many as you have, and supplies. We cannot pay, but what price would be sufficient for your freedom and the lives you serve? What is freely given will be taken with thanks and we will be on our way to face this evil on behalf of the world.”
The Baron looked shocked. “You think we need you?”
“I am a hero. Heroes defeat Dark Lords. It’s what we do. Isn’t that clear?”
The baron bent his head back and laughed. It sounded like a bear breaking wind. “You don’t know, do you?” he said, gathering his composure. “We don’t need a hero, and we certainly don’t need you. We have a hero. No, sorry. We have better than that. We have a heroine. She is fearless, strong, and none can better her with a sword. She commands the hearts of men,
who adore her, and would die for her. She will lead us into battle, face this Dark Lord, and better him. Even now, as Morden’s armies march from the east, our forces gather to face him. Glorious battle will be had and this Dark Lord will be bested. Her beauty is light itself. She is radiant and terrible. She is Griselda, our heroine. We don’t need no stinking, murdering, has-been bastard of a hero, Edwin. He must answer for his crimes. Ah, I see surprise.”
Baron Steinberg had indeed shocked Edwin. He had spent many nights wondering where his sister was and what she was doing. He had thought her lost, seduced by Morden’s dark power and corrupted into being his Dark Queen, beyond help. He had even played through in his mind how hard it would be for him to kill her when she stood at Morden’s side. After all this time, there could be no part of the Griselda he loved, even as his sister, that remained. But it seemed he was wrong. If the baron were to be believed, she had thrown off Morden’s evil influence and now stood against him, a rallying point for truth and light.
“Baron. This Griselda you speak of, she is my sister. And now I see your surprise. How pleased do you think she would be to know you hanged her brother? By my life, and my bond to her as her brother, I swear I will answer for what I have done, but only after we have seen the Dark Lord Morden defeated by our hands. Fate once brought us together, brother and sister, unknowing who the other was, and then tore us apart. Now it brings us back together to face evil. You cannot stand in the way of this.”
“Is this true?” asked the baron. “This man is brother to Griselda?”
“Does she wield a sword that burns?” asked Kezef.
“She does. She calls it Dark Lord’s Bane and promises to introduce it most harshly to his person. Men fear it as much as they do her.”
“My sword …” To hear that his sword was found was as much a shock to Edwin as the fact his sister had escaped Morden and now led an army to oppose him.