The Dark Lord's Handbook (18 page)

The woman’s hair was down and straggled around her head, and her peasant dress was torn. She was clasping her front as the men goaded and pulled at her. The man lay curled on the ground, trying his best to protect his head from the loose kicks that were being thrown his way.

A fire ignited within Edwin, fuelled by righteousness and lit by anger.

The wind meant they didn’t hear him coming until it was too late. The first swing of his sword separated a cowardly head from its miserable body. The corpse toppled forward, a fountain of blood pumping from the neck. The head rolled to the feet of the woman. She clutched her face and screamed as she was sprayed with her tormentor’s blood.

When the smell of blood reached his horse’s nose, it reared and he was thrown backwards off it. He hit the ground hard and the wind was knocked from him. Fortunately his chest armour spread the shock of the landing, though there was a sharp stab of pain in his ribs from where he had hurt himself before.

His being dismounted gave the brigands time to get over the shock of his attack. The woman was forgotten now, shoved to one side, and weapons had been drawn. They weren’t the weapons of war but peasantry. Hooks, spikes and scythe blades, designed to grab and slash and puncture. Without knowing how he knew, Edwin recognised the combination of weaponry and hungry looks of anticipation as something that many a knight had underestimated. There was real danger here.

The remaining five brigands spread themselves around him. They wouldn’t be so stupid as to rush in, but would bate him like they would a bear. They would tire him until he could stand no longer and then finish him. He knew he had one chance.

He got to his feet slowly and assumed a weak guard position, holding his sword one handed at arms length, waving it pathetically as though to keep them at bay, while grasping at his side.

“Let’s do him slowly, boys,” said one. “For Jenk’s sake.”

“Aye. We’ll make him bleed, and feed him his guts,” said another.

Edwin arced his sword around. He made weak lunges and they shied away. They weren’t brave enough yet to risk him striking. Not only were they cowards but they were an ugly bunch. Lank hair, rotten teeth and patchwork clothing showed them for the desperate band they were. The world would be a better place without them and all their kind.

“He’s tiring,” observed one when Edwin dropped to a knee.

That was good. Let them think he was growing tired.

A bill hook thrust in at him and he parried it away, and had to spin sharply to avoid a thrust from behind from a pole arm. They were closing in.

On the next attack he parried, but instead of crouching backwards, as he had been doing, he suddenly released all the hate and anger that he had been storing and leapt forward.

“Eleonir va rindir!” The words came from him as a battle cry. He had no idea what they meant but the sword sang in response and a blue fire ran along its length.

His sword swung and cut right through the haft of the weapon that was raised to stop it and into the skull of the brigand. Without a pause, he spun and thrust the sword backwards underneath his left arm to impale the attacker who thought to get him from behind. He didn’t have to see to know that he had pierced the man’s heart.

Blood ran on his blade as he tugged it loose and finished his dance of death. He moved so fast and so surely that surprise was the expression he saw on their faces as he served up justice.

It was over as swiftly as it had begun and six brigands would be troubling the world no longer, at least not after he had hewn the head off the one that was groaning and trying to hold his guts into his stomach. It was a mercy, the temptation being to let him die a slow excruciating death.

His work done he turned his attention to the living. The woman was kneeling, her head held in her hands, rocking backwards and forward. She was covered in blood. The man lay in a foetal position, his hands still protecting his head from blows that would not be coming.

“It’s over, you’re safe now,” said Edwin. He wiped his sword on a corpse and sheathed it. His hopes that the woman was his Griselda were somewhat diminished because, although he had not yet seen her face clearly, this woman was much slimmer than he remembered his love.

Not that it changed matters. She had been in distress and he had rescued her. From what he could see, her comely form was not unattractive if a little on the skinny side. If she had a favour to give to her hero then she would not find him ungrateful. It had been a while after all and if Griselda were to be kept from him then his manly needs could find other outlets.

The man on the ground raised his head to look around while the woman kept up her weeping. There was fear written all over his face. It passed briefly into what looked like hope as he saw the dead but returned when his eyes fell on Edwin. There was age in those eyes. They had the look of experience about them.

Realising he must look quite a sight, covered in the gore of battle and dressed in armour, Edwin tried to reassure him: “You are safe; your tormentors have met their just end. Please. Get up and tell me who you are and how you came to find yourselves thus?” Then a dreadful thought occurred: What if Griselda and her captor had come this way and been waylaid as well? What if he had been too late for them? “Quick now. Answer me. Have you seen another couple pass this way?”

“We have not,” said the man, getting to his feet and moving over to the woman. “Griselda, it’s all right. We are safe now.”

Edwin’s heart leapt. Had he heard correctly? It couldn’t be a coincidence.

The man had reached the woman and knelt before her. He stopped her rocking and gently put a hand under her chin to raise her face.

Now Edwin could see clearly it was indeed the love of his life. Her hair was straggled and dirty, so was not the sunshine blonde he knew, and she had lost a lot of weight. Her face was thinner. Her cheekbones were more pronounced and her face was less rounded. But that did not matter; hearty eating would set her right. The important thing was that he had found her.

And he had found her abductor.

The blade sang once more as he drew it from its scabbard. Its work this day was not yet done after all. At the sound, the man looked over to Edwin and his eyes widened in shock.

“Step away from Griselda,” ordered Edwin.

“Wait! What is this?” said the man, stumbling backwards as Edwin advanced on him.

“Edwin!” Griselda’s voice stopped him his tracks. Just to hear her voice made his heart sing.

“Edwin! Stop! What are you doing?” said Griselda. She got to her feet and stepped in front of the man.

“Get out of my way, Griselda, and let me dispatch this cur. He deserves to die for your abduction and torture.”

Griselda’s spread her arms wide. “Abduction? Torture?”

“Aye, it’s plain to see he has starved you. Look how that dress hugs your once full frame like damp cloth on a stick. I can see it in your face.”

“Edwin? This is Kristoff. He’s a poet. And I like being slim.”

Edwin was not sure what Griselda was talking about. How could this man be a poet? Then it dawned on him. He had heard of such cases, when someone had been abducted and brainwashed into caring for their abductor.

“It’s all right, my love. You are safe now. You don’t need to protect him. Step aside and let me send him on his way. You can eat all you want. You need not starve yourself for me.” Edwin took another step forward and raised his sword. The two of them shrank before him.

Edwin was stretching an arm out to pull Griselda aside when there was a tremendous beat of wind. It was so strong it made him stagger backwards. A huge shape came out of the cloud above.

It was a dragon.

He had only ever seen engravings of creatures like this. It was entirely black, no hint of colour except for blazing eyes. It had white teeth as long as his hand in a maw that gaped and shrieked. The sound made him drop his sword to put his hands to his ears. Its massive wings continued to beat and he struggled to hold his ground.

“Griselda!” he shouted above the terrible noise. “Griselda!”

The dragon came lower and stretched out massive talons to snatch at Griselda and her abductor. With further powerful strokes of its wings, the dragon rose, clasping the pair beneath it. So he had been right. This man was in league with the foulest creatures in the world and had somehow summoned this beast to his rescue.

Edwin’s heart filled with anguish. He had found his love, Griselda, and been so close. So close. Only to have her snatched from him once more. How could one man bear such torment? He could hear the gorge calling at him.
End it all
, it said.
Plunge into me and your pain will be gone
, it whispered in his mind.

No. He would not buckle.

Getting to his feet, he retrieved his sword and held it up. It sang as he cried, “Griselda! Fear not. I will find you my love. Griselda!”

Chapter 24 Sacrifice

Dead people are of little use, but they are less annoying.

The Dark Lord’s Handbook

Not having slept well, Morden’s thoughts were as grim as the breakfast he was being served; it was no more than gritty bread and pasty gruel. He could have murdered bacon, eggs, blood sausage and thick slabs of white bread but instead had been served slops. The fact that this was the best that all the orcs around him ever had didn’t make him feel ungrateful; he was just in a black mood.

Grimtooth seemed happy enough with the fare. He held his bowl up close to his mouth and scooped the gruel in with his hand.

“I’m going for a walk,” said Morden.

Grimtooth nodded and kept shovelling.

Outside the weather was equally grim. The rain that fell from the low cloud had turned the street into a quagmire. Morden raised his hood and stepped out expecting to sink knee deep in mud. He was pleasantly surprised. The robe had an aversion to getting dirty; instead of sinking he glided across the surface of the mud. It was also clear that the robe was not so much waterproof as water repellent. The rain fell to within an inch or so of the robe and then seemed to decide that getting the robe wet would be a bad idea. The effect of all this was that as he walked Morden skated over the mud with a cloud of mist at his feet and he left no mark.

This did not go unnoticed as he strode off in a random direction. The few orcs that were out and about took a keen interest in him and tagged on behind. Morden did his best to ignore them. He wasn’t in the mood to be sociable.

At first Morden walked aimlessly, but after twenty minutes or so of nothing other than hovels and running sewers, and with his stomach grumbling, he decided it was time to see the city proper and find something good to eat. The city’s wall rose above the slum and stretched left and right. Even in the gloomy light, it was easy to spot the towers that doubtless flanked the gates into the inner city and Morden headed that way.

Deep in brooding thought about how a Dark Lord could expect at the very least a decent breakfast, he vaguely registered the number of orcs had swollen considerably and that the rain had eased off and was now just an annoying drizzle.

At last he reached the road that went into the walled part of the city, where presumably he could find the decent food he was after. Traffic on the road was light and mostly heading into the city. Being on foot, Morden felt no need to queue and strode up the side towards the guarded gate. A sergeant and two men were dealing with the foot traffic. An old woman, bent over and carrying a basket of flowers, was ahead of Morden.

“Name, occupation and business?” asked the sergeant.

“I’ve forgotten my name, and I sell flowers,” croaked the crone.

The sergeant shook his head. “All right, go ahead.”

Morden was next and he stepped forward.

“What have we got here then?” asked the sergeant with a hint of amusement. “Name, occupation and business.”

“Morden, and I’m looking for breakfast,” said Morden.

“And your occupation? No, wait. Let me guess. You’re a student. How many times do I have to tell you people it’s not safe outside the walls. Especially if you’re going to dress up.”

The sergeant’s jocular tone was starting to irritate Morden and the fact that he didn’t seem to be taking him seriously was more than annoying, but a rumble in his stomach reminded him that causing a scene was not his top priority.

“So what did you go as? Death?” It seemed the sergeant had nothing better to do than continue with his teasing. “No. Silly me. No scythe so you must be a…let’s see…”

“A Dark Lord,” said Morden. “Yes. Now may I pass?”

The sergeant smiled. “Not so fast, son. Dark Lord is it? Good one. And I suppose this lot are your army?” The sergeant pointed behind Morden and laughed. He obviously thought he was being funny but Morden was less than amused. He was hungry.

Looking over his shoulder, Morden was surprised to see several hundred orcs waiting patiently behind him. He had assumed they would have got bored by now and gone home, but they hadn’t. They were watching with what looked like curiosity, though some were smiling in a way that suggested the situation might get messy.