The Dark Lord's Handbook Read Online Free Page B

Morden.
    “Yes, Morden Deathwing, I am an orc,” said the beggar, his voice suddenly clear and strong.
    “Deathwing? You are mistaken. My parents are Harold and Jesobel of Little Wassop.”
    “Harold and Jesobel Thrumpty?” asked the orc.
    “Aye, that is them. What of it?”
    The orc chuckled and goose bumps rose on Morden’s arm and the back of his neck. Never had he heard a laugh so deep, so resonant, so implacably dark.
    “You are no Thrumpty, young Morden, but a Deathwing. And I have been searching for you for many years. You must come with me.”
    Morden stared at the orc. “What do you mean searching? Go where?”
    The orc made no reply. He held Morden’s gaze steadily.
    “It’s destiny,” said the orc at last.
    And in those words Morden knew from the void in the centre of his being that had been crying out for something that this orc was that thing.
    “Lead on,” commanded Morden.
    The orc raised an eyebrow at Morden’s tone and then spread a smile that revealed a full set of yellowed teeth that looked like they could rip the throat from a hippo let alone a man.
    “This way, my Lord” said the orc, bowing.
    Morden’s heart skipped a beat at the honorific.
     

Chapter 5 Conspiracy
     
    The ignorant will oppose you. Educate them.
    The Dark Lord’s Handbook
     
    They met in secret in a high tower hidden deep in a forest. It was an ornate folly of a long dead Lord. The meeting room at the top was circular and had a white marble floor. Arched windows gave a resplendent view out over the forest canopy but the lack of glass made it draughty.
    Count Vladovitch fidgeted under his white robe. He was used to the feel of coarse wool and armour rather than the touch of silk, but their leader had insisted they do this right; and that included suitable attire for conspirators. It did have a certain practical side in that none of those present was immediately recognisable, though the sheer bulk of Tulip (the Countess of Umbria) could not be mistaken.
    The use of adopted names did seem ridiculous. That he should have to be referred to as Hemlock was not only demeaning but daft. He had a famously grizzly voice that none who heard could forget. It wasn’t as though he didn’t know exactly who any one of the nine present was either.
    Foxglove, who had suggested the idea of the names, had explained that he was missing the point entirely. The robes, the names, the secret meetings were used so that what they plotted was plausibly deniable – a term that once explained seemed equally absurd as, in the Count’s experience, a conspiracy that was plausibly deniable would become eagerly admitted upon the threatened use of a hot poker.
    Nevertheless, there they were, shivering in the flimsiest of white silk, waiting for the last of their number to arrive.
    Petunia and Marigold were discussing a point of order when there was a strong buffeting and heads turned to the steeple dome. There was a crash and several tiles slid past a window. Curses could be heard and more crashes before Black Orchid made her entrance.
    Unlike the rest, Black Orchid’s robes were sable. And unlike the rest, the Count had no idea who Black Orchid was beyond the fact that she was the leader of this conspiracy and was not to be trifled with in the slightest. They had started out as an even thirteen but Pansy and Carnation had made the mistake of challenging Black Orchid’s leadership – on the basis that she was a woman. Bits of them were still unaccounted for, though there was little doubt that the parts that had been found belonged to the pair.
    “I see I’m the last to arrive,” said Black Orchid from under her black hood. “Let’s cut the formalities and get down to it shall we?”
    There was a sibilant hiss to Black Orchid’s voice and the Count found the accent hard to place.
    Feet shuffled but there was no response. The Count was happy for the hoods that hid their faces. Though he had lived a life of martial hardship, and was no