The Dark Lord's Handbook Read Online Free Page A

town,” he announced and stood.
    Kronker fetched him his coat, an ankle length black wool affair with a hood that allowed him to pass unrecognised in town; at least as unrecognised as a six foot black cloaked figure could be. Morden had grown quickly, and if he could bulk out he would be happier, but he was still a commanding figure.
    Slipping out of the school – unnecessary as the monks wouldn’t hinder him for a second but he enjoyed the slipping part – Morden navigated the quagmire in the alleys with a deft step and headed towards the centre of town.
    It was autumn – Morden’s favourite time of year as it heralded the bringing of death by winter while not being too chilly. Today, however, there was the first hint of the coming winter frosts and Morden plunged his hands into his sleeves for warmth.
    The centre of town was impressively built. The town’s wealth was evident in the two and three story stone buildings, and the flourishes in their masonry – a rose here, a gargoyle there. Each addition of detail would have cost that bit more. Morden had developed an eye for costs. Nothing was free. This town had money to burn and Morden could smell it. Bindelburg’s wealth came from its position. Situated on the river Clud, and at a crossroads, it was the trade hub of the region. Lord Wallee was ruler in name but it was the merchant houses that held the power.
    Morden pondered this as he crossed the town square. There was no market today, and the chill kept many indoors, so the square was empty. Morden decided he needed to warm himself and headed for the Swan Inn – or Slap and Tickle as it was often called, for reasons that had begun to interest him.
    A lone beggar thrust a rusty can at Morden as he passed under the statue of King Ribald IV, which dominated the centre of the square.
    “Spare a penny for a poor orc,” coughed a voice from under a mass of rags.
    Morden was in mid-stride and almost tripped when he heard the request. A poor orc? Morden had heard every line from a thousand beggars and thought he’d heard them all: need a penny for a night in the shelter, a penny for a potato, a penny for the last cart home. Spare a penny for a poor orc was new.
    According to their history teacher, Brother Pinchard, orcs had been rendered almost extinct five hundred years ago in the last great war in which Prince Theo the Marvellous and his general, Uther the Merciless, had brought ruin to the last Dark Lord the world had seen, Zoon the Reviled. Orcs had passed largely into legend, along with dragons and the other mythic creatures. Trolls no longer lived under bridges but in the imagination.
    Morden rummaged for a penny. “Did you say orc?” he said, reaching to toss the penny into the beggar’s tin cup. He didn’t want to get too close; he knew how far fleas could leap.
    The thing, whatever it was, coughed. It was a phlegm filled cough, one that sounded like the thing was about to bring its lungs up onto the cobbles.
    “Most kind,” it wheezed.
    “It was not kindness,” said Morden. “It was payment for an answer to a question. Did you say orc? Look at me.”
    The hand that came out of the rags to reach into the cup and scrabble around for the penny was green of hue and had nails like talons. It clenched the penny between two fingers and held it up before pulling it back into the ragged mess of cloth. Seemingly satisfied, the beggar lifted his head.
    Morden took a step back. The beggar was certainly no man. Though man sized, the features were bulkier and Morden sensed there was hidden power under the bundle of rags. The orc’s face was thick set, with a broad heavy nose. The skin had a definite green tinge to what some may have said was a heavy tan. The two tusk-like incisors that protruded down over the lower lip were definitely not human though. According to the stories, the orc was a vicious fighter and would rip a fallen enemy’s throat out with those teeth.
    A shiver of delight passed through