by Paul Dale
“Why me? Surely you could kill her yourself. If you can evade my security to see me then you could equally get to her.”
“Let’s call it a test of resolve and future loyalty. If you do this, it shows commitment to our cause. You’ll be doing Morden a great service and by it he would happily bestow his favour.”
“I knew their marriage was in a bad way, and she has threatened to hack him to pieces with that damned sword of hers, but I didn’t …. Ah, I see. That’s it, isn’t it? That damned sword. Morden’s afraid of her.”
“Of course, he isn’t,” laughed Deathwing, waving a dismissive hand. “He’s young and fearless. He’s a Dark Lord in his prime. He fears no one.”
“Then perhaps you do? Is that it? Does he even know you’re here?”
Lord Deathwing made no immediate reply. One hand went to his chin and a finger drummed a lip. It was a classic tell Penbury knew from his card playing. He’d just made a big bet and Deathwing was trying to decide whether he would continue his bluff or fold.
“You see straight through me, Chancellor.” So he folded. That was good. “Morden is young and foolish enough to think himself invincible but he has one weakness, and it’s that damn woman. Despite everything he knows, and everything my good wife and I have told him, she can still be his downfall. If they kiss and make up, that would be a disaster. But not nearly as big a disaster as if she separates his head from his shoulders with that bloody sword. She is Edwin’s sister. She has heroic blood in her. She could be the most inept person ever to wield a sword but if those two face off then I fear the worst.”
“Seems rather an oversight to deliver her to me with the sword.”
“I didn’t know she had the bloody thing in her trunk. I thought it was full of her clothes. You know how many black lacy things she has.”
“So why don’t I let her meet Morden on the field of battle, as is her intention, and watch her defeat him?”
“You remember that bit, an offer you couldn’t refuse?” Lord Deathwing inhaled and then spat a plume of flame. “It wouldn’t end well for you.”
“And you have no intention of going near that sword?”
“What can I say? I’m a coward. And I’ve seen far too many improbable mishaps to add my own unfortunate end to them.”
Penbury had taken part in many negotiations over the years. The secret was to enter them having already won. The process of give and take was largely an illusion. In most negotiations, one person held all the power and the other was only there to come to terms with what was required. The only real difference between those negotiations and this was, in the more normal ones, it was money on the line, whereas here, it was his life at risk. And that was a big difference. He was rather fond of his life and until now, with the exception of the odd unforeseen mishap, like that time in Al-Frahzi, it had never been at risk, and he was not inclined to start down that path now. The description of Lord Deathwing’s offer was accurate—it was one he did not seem to be able to refuse.
“It’s not something I can guarantee. I can only make a reasonable attempt to do as you ask.”
“How about best endeavours?”
“Do I need a lawyer?”
“Only if you mean those special ones who execute estates, otherwise I am happy with a verbal agreement. We both know what best endeavours means.”
“Indeed.”
It was not a term Penbury was happy about being subject to. He was happy enough to have it included in his more punitive contracts, but in this case it was not only his financial ruin he was promising to see things through, it was his life.
“Very well. Though, if she is a heroine, as you say, then any effort I make may well be fruitless. The heroic tradition is hard to beat.”
“As long as you are the one trying to beat it, and not me, I am happy enough with that. Then we are agreed?”
“It seems I have little choice.”
“Excellent. In which case, I will leave you to your sleep.”
Penbury’s guest got up from his chair, crossed over to the veranda doors and was gone, a sudden buffeting of wind the only sign of his departure. Penbury remained seated and went over what was likely the last big deal he would ever make, and it was the worst he had ever made. Either he would renege on the deal and suffer the consequences at the hands of a black dragon, or he would attempt to dispose of Griselda and meet his fate at the hands of a heroine. Even should he succeed, Morden may not be happy with what he had done. No matter he may well have saved the Dark Lord’s life, if Morden still had feelings for Griselda Penbury would surely meet a swift end if he had her done in. In the dead of night, he could see no way out of it. He couldn’t see himself getting back to sleep that easily, either.
He went to his bedside and pulled on the rope that called Chidwick. Moments later, there was a polite knock and his personal private secretary entered.
“I think I will have that milk, Chidwick. Two cookies, the ones with nuts, and sharpen up the milk with some of the Grand Reserve brandy. The good stuff.”
“Trouble sleeping, sir? I thought I heard voices.”
“Yes, Chidwick. I had a visitor and I thought best you not be at risk. Are we able to get hold of those lawyers, Snort and Snort?”
“They retired, sir.”
“Try to tempt them out of retirement, will you, Chidwick? Promise them anything.”
“Very well, sir. Will there be anything else?”
“If I believed in it, you could wish me luck, Chidwick, though even the best of luck looks like it may not be enough.”
Sitting in bed, drinking his warm milk, in which there was more brandy than milk, and nibbling on pistachio cookies, Penbury went over the deal looking for a way out. By the time sleep took him, with a helping hand from the brandy, none had presented itself.
*****
Penbury didn’t think he had drunk enough brandy to get a hangover and yet, when the doors to his bedroom were thrown open the next morning and Griselda stormed in, it felt like he had drunk a cask of the stuff.
“No time for sleep, Chancellor. It’s a beautiful day, a glorious day, and we have a divorce settlement to finalise.”
Through bleary eyes, Penbury watched as Griselda went to each window in turn and pulled back the curtains. The bright sunlight hurt his eyes. Chidwick must have let him sleep late. Griselda added to the banging of windows as they opened with the clattering of the amour she was now in the habit of wearing having dispensed with her chainmail. It was a light plate, beautifully made, that looked more decorative than functional. Etched onto the plate were fine filigree patterns that suggest twining briars, accentuated by delicate roses. Under the plate she wore a gossamer-fine chain shirt that rolled up her throat. Her hair was loose and golden, shining in the sunlight, and at her hip was the sword in a bejewelled scabbard. When she had finished with the windows and turned to face him, the zeal in her eyes burned almost as brightly as the sunlight that reflected off her armour.
“He’s here,” she said, her hand resting on the pommel of her sword. “His army is only a few days away. Morden is here. Dragons flew over the city at first light. The city is in turmoil. The army is mobilised and ready.”
Penbury reached for the glass at his side and took a long drink of water. It tasted like nectar. He wondered where Chidwick was, but only for a moment as his PPS came running in. Unusually, he looked flustered.
“I’m so sorry, Chancellor. She burst in before I could do anything.”
“It’s all right, Chidwick. She’s not the first unwelcome guest to my bedroom I’ve had in the last few hours.”
“Chancellor, didn’t you hear me?” asked Griselda, ignoring the glowers she was getting from Chidwick. “He’s here. That no-good husband of mine actually has some balls. I’m going to take the army and beat his sorry arse into the ground. Don’t you want to come and watch? It will be epic. That fucker is going to die.”
Even after all the time he had spent around her, that one so lovely could be so fo
ul of mouth was at odds with the natural order of things. Not that anything could be done about it. Many had tried to curb her tongue, himself and Morden not being the least amongst them, and failed. She was hardly going to change now.
That he was meant to silence her tongue for good, and prevent her from her much-desired showdown with her estranged Dark Lord husband, was foremost in his mind. Even if he could get hold of some really good lawyers at short notice, even an office full of them, he doubted it would make a difference. Everything about Griselda shouted heroine. She had changed a lot in assuming her role. She had spent increasingly less time moping around, writing poetry about the deaths of swans and ducklings, and thrown herself wholeheartedly into the warrior maiden role. That she was not chaste, as such heroines were thought to be, made little difference.
Even if he could fulfil his bargain, if he’d wanted to, seeing her here in the light of day, he realised the deal he had entered into last night with Lord Deathwing was ludicrous. He could not kill her. Not only did he not want to, it was now clear in his mind that she was in fact his only hope. Only by her hand, and the defeat of Morden, could he be saved. If she beat him, then she was bound to rout his forces and go after the other dragons. If he stuck closely enough to her, Lord Deathwing was too much of a coward to come after him. He saw now, Lord Deathwing was desperate. He was also right in his assessment of the threat Griselda posed. If anyone was going to stop Morden, it was her.
“Very well, my dear. I will get dressed and join you. If you’d excuse me, Chidwick will help me get ready.”
“We march at midday. I would be honoured, Chancellor, if you would be at my side.”
Chapter 48 Dark Tidings
A hero is your worst enemy. An ancient enemy is a close second.
The Dark Lord’s Handbook
The closer they got to Firena, the warmer it became and Morden noticed his guards and generals were giving him a wider berth than normal. Even the stoic Stonearm was observed to wrinkle his nose standing beside his Dark Lord master. Morden could only imagine how he smelt given he’d lost all sense of smell years ago. He didn’t take his robe off these days and didn’t want to think about the state of his body underneath it. This morning, they stood in a wide circle around the table upon which was his war map.
“Scouts report the enemy are deployed here and awaiting us?” he asked of his General of Horse.
“Yes, my lord.”
Firena itself was on the coast, close by an estuary. Inland, it was flat and highly cultivated along the river, with wide areas of grassland beyond. As far as battlegrounds went, it was perfect. To the northwest there were gently rolling hills that rose off the plain, but nothing significant. Morden would be able to see anything coming easily, especially with his airborne scouts. It was altogether straightforward and that made him nervous. He couldn’t see how the army that opposed him could possibly stop him. They were outnumbered by over ten to one and they neither had dragons nor cannon. The latter had proven to be surprisingly useful, either as a terror weapon or for pummelling city walls. His metal smiths had studied them and were confident they could make more. For now, the twenty he had were plenty. The orc gunners had overcome their natural fear, given Huang’s mishaps of the past, and become adept at loading and firing them. They weren’t particularly mobile but, when deployed to the centre of the army, provided an awe-inspiring means to open a battle, even if they didn’t hit much. Flat plains, baked hard by the sun, were ideal. Nothing to get in the way.
“I see no need for anything fancy then. We’ll go with the standard deployment. Cannon in the centre, massive horde to either side, and dragons above.”
“Yes, my lord,” chorused the generals.
“Have we sent an emissary to ask when they’d like to start?”
“Tomorrow, around midday, if that’s to my lord’s satisfaction?”
“Very well. Have the army deploy. Dismissed.”
The generals trooped out, leaving Morden with Stonearm, his father, and Lady Deathwing. The dragons looked distracted.
“Tomorrow, Firena falls and we are victorious,” stated Morden. “What’s bothering you two? Any news of the missing young ones?”
Lady Deathwing shot him a glance she normally reserved for her errant husband. If he wasn’t in such a good mood, he may have taken it as insubordinate and bent her to his will to show her who was boss again, but he let it slide. Soon he would be master of the world.
“We sent out a wing to look for them,” she said. “No news.”
“And what’s your problem, Father? Why so glum?”
“You won’t do anything stupid tomorrow, will you, son?”
Morden was genuinely taken aback, not only by the question and its tone but by the fact his father had it in him to show the slightest amount of concern.
“I’m a Dark Lord, father. I think I can handle a rousing soliloquy and a crushing victory on the field of battle. Look at all the battles we’ve won so far.”
Over the course of the last few months, none had stood before them. Morden’s shadow had engulfed everything. True, there had been little organisation and resistance. Too much had been put into the fleet and the idea of stopping him coming ashore at all. There didn’t seem to be much of a plan B other than this army at Firena with his estranged wife at its front.
“The fact you are now, beyond dispute, a Dark Lord is what has me worried,” said Lord Deathwing. “Especially with the string of easy victories. Complacency has been the downfall of many a Dark Lord. Zoon was complacent, and look what happened to him. Twice. And there’s—”
“Griselda. You needn’t worry. I can handle her. She’s no threat.”
“Foolish boy,” interjected Lady Deathwing. “Of course she’s a threat. She has you by the balls even when she’s not here. I may not be able to read your thoughts, like the common man, but I can read his.” She pointed at Stonearm, who had the decency to look apologetic. “And he knows how you feel better than anyone. You’re still hung up on her and it will be your downfall, and ours, unless you get over her. Let me burn her when she takes to the field.”
“I can assure you,” said Morden, “I am completely over her. If she is daft enough to face me, she will lose.”
“With any luck, you won’t have to,” said his father, almost to himself.
“And what do you mean by that, Father?”
For a philanderer, Lord Deathwing was terrible at keeping secrets. Morden had learnt to read the signs of guilt in his father when he had something to hide. He could only imagine what it must be like for his wife.
“I struck a deal with Penbury. She won’t be a problem. That’s all.”
“You what?”
“Look. You’re a Dark Lord. She’s Edwin’s sister, and he was a hero. She has his sword. It’s as plain as day that if I didn’t act you would do something stupid, so I took matters into my own hands. It’s what a responsible father does.”
Morden couldn’t believe what he was hearing. His father, admittedly as untrustworthy as they come, had betrayed him and struck a deal with his greatest foe, Penbury. That aside, it was a flagrant disregard for him as a Dark Lord. He was the one in charge around here. If there were any deals to be struck and murders to be plotted, then he’d be the one to do it. Morden felt something he rarely felt: rage. And with that, the dragon inside opened an eye and took an interest. He could feel its latent power. His father was lucky it was trapped.
“On your knees,” commanded Morden, stepping towards his father and bringing the full power of his will to bear. Lady Deathwing opened her mouth but he gripped her in his will as well. “Don’t say a word.”
His father sank to his knees in front of his son. Morden stood over him and fumed. He was no love-struck teenager. He was a grown man and a Dark Lord.
“There are times when you forget yourselves. You live to serve me. You may be my father and stepmother, but you are both subject to my will. I will not tolerate anything that undermines me. Do you understand?�
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Morden released them just enough so they could nod their understanding. There was fire in their eyes but they were helpless in his power. They would serve him. He let them go, and his father rose to his feet.
“My apologies, my lord. I will not make the same mistake again.”
“Very well. Let’s put this behind us. We are on the verge of complete conquest. Let’s set our minds to that. Victory tomorrow will bring rich rewards for us all.”
Morden was about to elucidate the exact nature of those rewards when there was a commotion from outside and three men pushed the tent flap aside and staggered in. They were dragonlings in their black battle-leathers, and they were in a bad way. They had burns about their bodies and blood dripped from wounds on their faces.
“Fae,” gasped one before collapsing to the floor.
Morden had no idea what Fae was but the dragon inside opened its other eye. Something primal gripped him. Whatever this Fae was, he intuitively knew it was not good. His father and Lady Deathwing’s reaction confirmed this.
“Bugger,” said Lord Deathwing.
“We should attack now,” said Lady Deathwing. “If it’s the Fae, we have no time to lose.”
“She’s right,” said his father. “Attack now. We must defeat Griselda before the Fae turn up.”
“Explain,” ordered Morden, indicating a dragonling who had managed to stay conscious.
The dragonling told of their patrol and how they had come across a small army of strangely dressed men, in silver armour, and when they had approached to get a closer look, they had been met and attacked by winged creatures that shone like the sun and wielded terrible weapons. They had fought and only just managed to escape, though they did say they had inflicted wounds on their attackers. The description of these winged beings was especially odd. The description of their weapons was more familiar.
“Tell me what you know of these Fae, Father. Why have I not heard of them until now? What threat are they?”