by Paul Dale
“No, your Dark Eminence. I will not. Familiarity is ill-befitting a Dark Lord.” Morden’s Field Marshal leant to one side, raised his thigh, and broke ferocious wind. “Pardon me.”
“What’s so important, then?”
“Two things, boss. First, we lost a dragon, and second, we found Griselda, kind of. More a case of we know where she is and what she’s doing.”
For once, important matters. Morden didn’t immediately understand how you could lose a dragon, and was even less clear about what Stonearm was saying about Griselda. Much as he was more concerned with her, he thought he’d better get the dragon thing out of the way first.
“Start with the dragon.”
“Actually, it’s dragons. We lost two. One didn’t come back from a patrol, and the one that went looking didn’t come back either. One may be an accident, but two is suspicious if you ask me.”
Two dragons. His Field Marshal was right, that was suspicious. Griselda could wait. “Show me,” he said, getting up and going over to the map. It was covered in small blocks that represented his armies and small dragon figurines for the detachments of the Black Dragon Flight. His position was marked by a pewter casting of himself he thought was rather well-made. Stonearm joined him at the table, ran his claw-nailed finger over the map, and then jabbed to the northwest.
“Up there.”
Morden peered more closely at the map. There was little more than a few large towns up there. His main line of advance was more to the south, and he had one smallish army out in that direction to sweep up those towns and act as a flank guard. He hadn’t wanted any unexpected surprises, and yet that was exactly what he’d found.
“Good, Stonearm. You were right to bring this to my attention. Order the remaining flight members back and send out cavalry scouts. Have them perform a wide sweep and report back to me their findings, no matter what they are. Send five more regiments to bolster that army. I’m sure it’s probably nothing but let’s not tempt fate. And now, what of Griselda?”
“Well, it’s only reports we have from captured prisoners, but I think she wants a divorce, and she aims to make it a final settlement of the fatal kind.”
“She what?”
“She’s raising an army against you. When the armies clash, she says she’s going to meet you in single combat and bring a violent end to your reign of terror.”
“She did, did she?”
“Yes. Apparently, she has become quite good with the sword and she plans to hack you to bits, grind your bones into meal, and feed you to pigs.”
“Really?”
“Yes. And then she plans to slaughter the pigs, make bacon sandwiches from them, and serve them at a victory feast. Not sure about that bit. I think one of the prisoners may have been embellishing.”
“Well, she always did have an eye for drama.”
“True.”
“And since when could she even lift a sword, let alone wield one? This is ridiculous. I would win easily.”
“Yes, boss.”
“I would.”
“I’m sure you would. Only …”
“Yes?”
“The sword. It’s the one from Deathcropolis that Edwin had.”
“The one that killed Zoon, with the blue fire and all?”
The orc nodded. With the revelation she had the sword, Griselda’s plan did not seem so ridiculous. Morden wasn’t afraid of many things, but that sword was one of them. He’d seen what it could do to a Dark Lord up close.
“And how did she get the sword? I thought it was safely locked up in the fortress?”
“She must have nicked it, my lord.”
Morden remembered watching her fly off, a big trunk in her father’s claws. He’d thought it was full of dresses, underclothes, and what remained of her bad poetry. Not for a second did it occur to him she would steal the sword. This was serious.
“You’ve done well, Stonearm. Leave me. Go and see to those orders. I have much to dwell on.”
Alone once more and sitting on his throne, Morden brooded on what he should do. The dragon thing would probably take care of itself. Griselda was another matter. He had thought maybe once he had done conquering the world the two of them may have had a rapprochement. Once the world was his, he’d have far more time for her. They could be together, go places and enjoy the spoils of conquest. Raising an army and threatening to feed him to farm animals wasn’t the softening of feelings he had been hoping for. He thought absence was meant to make the heart grow fonder, not homicidal. As for single combat, he was sure there was something in the Handbook about that. It didn’t sound like a good idea, especially against an estranged spouse with a magic sword that killed Dark Lords.
Morden took the book from its place inside his robe. After all these years, it had almost become part of him. He flipped it open and began to read the familiar lines of text as they wrote themselves across the page.
Chapter 46 Handbook: Single Combat
You don’t have to be crazy to be a hero, but it helps.
The Dark Lord’s Handbook
Single combat. Perhaps the single most stupid thing a Dark Lord can engage in, and yet one of the most likely things they will face. No matter how you intend to avoid single combat, it has a habit of occurring anyway. You may be goaded out, or the hero may sneak up on you, and with nothing more than an ‘Aha!’ you find yourself facing off against your doom. As much as you would like to avoid fighting Dark Lord-to-man (Or woman, thought Morden), or Dark Lord-to-woman, you may well find yourself in the unfortunate predicament of having to do so. If that is the case then there are a number of things you should be prepared for, even though in all likelihood it will be your last fight. The truth is, Dark Lords can’t fight. They are about as bad at single combat as anyone can get. No matter how powerful they are, or hopeless their opponent, they will find a way to lose. There’s always a chance you can buck the trend though, so let’s get down to it.
Not the most uplifting of starts, thought Morden. The Handbook was never normally this depressing. Surely, if he could beat anyone, it was Griselda. He may be useless at fighting but he didn’t believe for a second she had turned into this warrior queen type.
Pay attention, Morden. This is perhaps the most important advice I can give on any topic.
Firstly, if you do have to fight, make sure the fight is not anywhere near lava, or high above a precipice, or below a snow covered slope, or in a building held up with scaffolding, or on ground covered in oil. Essentially, avoid anywhere you can trip, or be pushed, or be dragged into, onto, under, or over something that will kill you. Heroes are excellent at avoiding environmental obstacles, Dark Lords less so. The hero could be hanging by his fingertips off the edge of a cliff and you could go to stamp on them only to slip, or for him to grab an ankle, and, before you know it, you’re over the edge on a one-way trip to being an ex-Dark Lord. Flat, open ground within an area that is not subject to earthquakes is ideal.
Next is your weapon. Don’t bring a letter opener to a hero fight. And conversely, don’t overdo it. A massive mace that is so heavy you can’t raise it above your head, and is so slow even your grandmother could avoid it, is no good. Stick with a classic, like a well-balanced sword. Do not, under any circumstances, coat the blade with something that could harm you as much as the hero. A poisoned blade may sound like a good idea but there’s only one person likely to be poisoned, and that’s you. Likewise, do not use a magic weapon that spits fire or sucks souls. Almost certainly, you will be disarmed and the weapon used against you. Take a weapon that keeps you alive by effectively blocking attacks. And by that measure, a shield is probably a good idea as well, but use it to deflect blows, not bear the brunt of them, or it will shatter.
Once the opening pleasantries have been exchanged, threats made, promises of doom given, get down to the fighting. Do not chatter. Resist all urges to soliloquy. You are concerned with one thing, and one thing only, and that is to avoid being killed. You are not concerned with answering
accusations about your atrocious behaviour, or crimes you may or may not have committed. You probably were responsible for the death of their brother/sister/mother/father/other relative. Yes, they are here to avenge them but you do not care. All you want is to get out of this in one piece.
Keep your distance. Do not try to grapple them. There may be a certain appeal to being face-to-face, so close you can taste their fear, but they’ll probably be slipping a knife into your vitals as you spit in their eye. You will not tire; you are an immortal undead Dark Lord lich thing. They will tire. Let them do the running around. Let them do the fancy dodges and back-flips. All you need to do is keep moving forward, shield at the ready, and keep swinging that sword.
You may be wondering how this fight will end.
Actually, I am, thought Morden. I’ve never had a fight in my life.
This is the most important part of all. You will win by doing what any Dark Lord should do, and that is cheat. Single combat? Not a good plan. Once you’ve spent a few minutes facing them off and you have fulfilled your part, order your minions to kill them. It doesn’t matter much how, as long as you get out of the way first. If it’s archers, retreat behind them first or you’ll get shot. Should they curse your double-dealing then that only makes your victory sweeter. More the fool them. No Dark Lord ever wins single combat. Always, always, always, bring friends. Your opponent will probably find a way to escape, but that’s fine. The important thing is you faced them and lived to tell the tale. That’s a victory.
One last word of warning: beware the Pyrrhic victory. This is easily spotted. Your opponent will seek to sacrifice themselves. In doing so, they will either try to take you with them (thus the avoidance of precipices, lava, etc.), or they may have been a mere diversion to keep you busy while the means of your downfall is prepared elsewhere, or in their dying they will transcend their normal existence and turn into some being of supreme power. An opponent in single combat who seeks death should not be granted it. Capture them if possible, or chase them off. If by their death you lose, then avoid their death.
And that’s pretty much it. I’m sure you’re disappointed. You probably had visions of glorious battle, of crushing your enemy beneath your steel boot, of holding a severed head aloft to show your army and declare victory, but that never happens. The best you can hope for is not to find your head being held aloft, or your sudden dissolution into a nether spirit, doomed to spend centuries a mere dark presence preparing for a comeback.
Single combat is for suckers. Do not be that sucker.
Chapter 47 Plan B
Feel free to strike a bargain with your enemies.
They are fools if they think you will keep it.
The Dark Lord’s Handbook
Penbury’s research on the staff had so far drawn a blank. He’d managed to find no mention of it anywhere in the archive. It didn’t mean there wasn’t something in the archive, just that he hadn’t yet found it. In the meantime, Morden’s progress was unstoppable and it was becoming increasingly difficult to hold Griselda back. Her army had grown to the size Count Vladovitch had led in the First War of the Dark Lord (as modern historians had dubbed it), and Firena and the surroundings were struggling to support it. Penbury had done his best to put in a supply chain but, with Morden’s conquest proceeding apace, resources were generally scarce as hoarding took place.
There was also a clear plan behind Morden’s progress. While there were a number of armies, and seemingly plenty of dragons to go around to support them, his main body was heading in an obvious direction: Firena. Penbury could think of two reasons and didn’t like either. Morden was either coming for his wife or he was coming for Penbury. The latter was keeping sleep at bay. It suggested Morden knew where the real power lay and he was coming straight for it.
He had to keep reminding himself of what Nuriel had said, that all would seem bleak but turn out well in the end. It was little comfort in the dead of night with the knowledge a Dark Lord was perhaps only a week away. When Nuriel had said they would turn up in the nick of time, about now would have been when Penbury would have preferred. Every day, he sent out scouts to the northwest to search for, and report back on, anything unusual and every day nothing was found, even when the scouts had ridden for several days before turning back. If help was coming, there was no sign of it.
That Morden would be a Dark Lord of reason and deal reasonably with him, should it come to that, was also increasingly in doubt. So far, Morden had shown little in the way of reasonableness when it came to dealing with the incumbent rulers of the lands he conquered. Penbury was used to heads rolling after hostile takeovers, but not in the literal fashion as had been the case for some who had stood against Morden’s will.
He had no intention of standing against Morden should the Dark Lord come knocking on his door. He’d put plans in place to make good his escape well ahead of time should it look like he was not going to be stopped. It would mean the end of everything he loved in life, but he would make do. He’d prepared an assumed identity as a retired merchant and acquired a pleasant enough house, with modest gardens and surrounding land, in a warm, wine growing region to the southwest. There were worse ways to spend his remaining days while a Dark Lord assumed power over all he had previously controlled. And yet, here he was, wide awake and suffering a night sweat at the idea his best laid plans would crumble. In the dead of night, alone, he was once more a child, afraid of the dark and what it may hold.
“Ahem.”
To the best of his knowledge, the Chancellor had never suffered a heart attack. It was true, when he had first tried spriggle, he had come close. But despite that, and all manner of other things he had eaten, his heart had served him well. The sound of someone—or worse, something—clearing its throat, a mere few yards away, sent a jolt through him.
“Argh!”
He shot up in his bed, clasping the thin sheet to his throat as if it would shield him. At first he could see nothing. Then a shadow stepped from one corner of the room and what little light there was from the moon fell upon it.
“Apologies, Chancellor. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
The voice was immediately familiar.
“Then you bloody well shouldn’t come into my room in the dead of night and scare the hell out me, Lord Deathwing.”
Any response the dragon lord may have made was interrupted by Chidwick’s familiar knock at the bedroom door. “Chancellor, is everything all right?”
Everything was not all right, but if Deathwing were here to kill him he saw no point in getting Chidwick killed as well. “Just a nightmare, Chidwick. I’m fine.”
“Can I get you anything?”
“No, thank you.”
“A glass of warm milk? A cookie?”
“No thank you, Chidwick. Go back to bed.”
Lord Deathwing sat himself down in an armchair next to the open veranda doors and brushed off some imaginary lint from his knee. Penbury had to wonder how he had managed to elude his guards. He hoped the dragon hadn’t killed them. He could have made an appointment with Chidwick and Penbury would have been happy to see him during office hours. Penbury swung himself out of bed, put on a night robe, picked up the glass of water he kept at his bedside, and went to sit opposite his unwelcome visitor.
“An unexpected pleasure, Lord Deathwing. What brings you here, in the middle of the night? Shouldn’t you be off burning some hapless village?”
“Oh, I don’t get too involved in that kind of thing. I leave it to the wife. Once you’ve burned one village, you’ve burned them all.”
“What brings you here, then?”
“What else but an offer? One that—”
“I cannot refuse?”
“Precisely.”
“Let me guess. You want me to arrange a surrender and to welcome the Dark Lord Morden with open arms.”
“Surrender? What good would that be? A Dark Lord is nothing without his conquests. It is the foundation of his future rule. People must remember
these times as the most terrible they have lived through and have no desire to see a repeat. Only then can a lasting peace ensue and the Dark Lord get down to the real business of running things and enjoying life.”
“We had peace. And at the risk of sounding arrogant, I was running things and everything was fine. If peace is what is desired, then why start a war?”
“While all you say is true, the one thing Morden is most unhappy with is the ‘you running things’ bit. He would rather he did. And to do that he needs to establish his undisputed supremacy, and hence the war of conquest. It will crush all opposition and be the bedrock for his coming rule.”
“So he feels he cannot compete with me other than by force of arms?”
“He’s a Dark Lord, not a businessman or banker. He desires power absolute, not money. He has no desire to compete with you in the boardroom.”
This was all very interesting. He wasn’t sure where it was going, but it sounded like a peace overture despite what Lord Deathwing had said. If all Morden wanted was political rule then Penbury could probably come to terms with that. He’d had to work with enough petty tyrants and despots in the aristocracy. A Dark Lord would be no different.
“What’s the offer, Lord Deathwing? You’ve obviously been sent here to deliver a message.”
“When Morden has won, you will be spared and allowed to continue doing what you do best. But you must answer to him directly. A Dark Lord’s chancellor, if you will.”
“And in return?”
“And in return, you will arrange for the house guest I brought you last time to meet an unfortunate end.”
They wanted Griselda dead? There were many who did, mostly the grieving families of the poor unfortunate suitors she had killed, as well as his chef, and probably Chidwick. She was … difficult … to get on with, but did she deserve to die? To ensure his survival, then maybe.