and giving the assembled soldiers the full benefit of his brooding glare. As he swept them with what he hoped was pure malevolence, some shuffled their feet, others looked away, and only the hulking brute who had bust the door open met his stare…and winked. The toothy grin that followed made Morden’s heart leap. He was an orc, but his teeth had been filed flat. It explained his hugely muscled frame. Having learnt what a smiling orc meant from Grimtooth, Morden couldn’t help but raise a hand to his neck and gulp.
Behind the orc there was movement, and Morden sensed that someone else had come into the room behind the soldiers.
A soldier next to the brute stepped aside and a thin man, with pale skin and dark looks, stepped into the gap. He regarded Morden with what looked like a mixture of bemused interest and contempt. From the body language of all the soldiers, bar the orc, it was clear to Morden that any trepidation they may have felt concerning himself was nothing as compared to this man.
The man had a dagger in his left hand – a thin blade that looked of the highest craftsmanship. After a minute of studying Morden, he examined the nails of his right hand and started to clean them with the tip of the dagger.
“Do you know who I am?” asked the man, keeping his attention on getting the grit out from under his nails.
Morden straightened. It was show time. He slowly pushed himself up out of his throne and stood towering over the assemblage, in part due to his natural height, and in part due to the plinth he’d had made for his throne. “You are the man who will regret he ever laid eyes on me. I am a Dark Lord.”
He cast his gaze around the soldiers and exerted his considerable will. He was a Dark Lord. Who were these scum to come in here?
Some of the soldiers visibly buckled; others took a step back.
The thin man darted his eyes in Morden’s direction, a faintly bored expression on his face.
“You don’t say.” The man stopped his manicure and slid the dagger into its scabbard. He met Morden’s glare and arched an eyebrow. “I am Chidwick, personal private secretary to Chancellor Penbury. And you, lad, are in a lot of trouble.”
Morden hadn’t had cause to fear much in his life. When he was young his parents had given up on gruesome bedtime stories when it became apparent all they did was encourage Morden to ask a slew of questions. How exactly did an ogre get the marrow from a bone, for instance? In recent times, Grimtooth had managed to send a chill down Morden’s spine merely by baring his teeth, but then he imagined there were few men that could stand a five hundred year old orc’s grimace.
Apart from that, there was only one name he had heard and learnt to fear: Penbury. In itself, an innocuous enough name, but behind it was a man who was rightly feared by every man who ever went into business. And Morden was very much in business. Chancellor Penbury was nominally in charge of the financial matters for King Olaf VIII but in reality was the head of a business empire that spanned continents. It wasn’t the huge empire Penbury had that inspired fear as much as his innovative business practices. Where old school merchants may have leaned on competitors with well placed slander or the use of hired muscle, it was Penbury who had pioneered hostile takeovers and asset stripping. His latest coup had been the acquisition and subsequent dismantling of his closest rivals, Clack and Stingbee, international purveyors of snuff and other tobacco products. Seemingly a niche business, it was in fact also rumoured to be the international conduit for God’s Dust, or Headfucker as it was known on the street when sold in its impure form (the most powerful narcotic known to man).
“Trouble?” said Morden, trying hard to stop his voice breaking. “Surely my business is far too small to concern Chancellor Penbury.”
“Indeed,” said Chidwick. “But you’ve been messing with beer. And we can’t have
Behind the orc there was movement, and Morden sensed that someone else had come into the room behind the soldiers.
A soldier next to the brute stepped aside and a thin man, with pale skin and dark looks, stepped into the gap. He regarded Morden with what looked like a mixture of bemused interest and contempt. From the body language of all the soldiers, bar the orc, it was clear to Morden that any trepidation they may have felt concerning himself was nothing as compared to this man.
The man had a dagger in his left hand – a thin blade that looked of the highest craftsmanship. After a minute of studying Morden, he examined the nails of his right hand and started to clean them with the tip of the dagger.
“Do you know who I am?” asked the man, keeping his attention on getting the grit out from under his nails.
Morden straightened. It was show time. He slowly pushed himself up out of his throne and stood towering over the assemblage, in part due to his natural height, and in part due to the plinth he’d had made for his throne. “You are the man who will regret he ever laid eyes on me. I am a Dark Lord.”
He cast his gaze around the soldiers and exerted his considerable will. He was a Dark Lord. Who were these scum to come in here?
Some of the soldiers visibly buckled; others took a step back.
The thin man darted his eyes in Morden’s direction, a faintly bored expression on his face.
“You don’t say.” The man stopped his manicure and slid the dagger into its scabbard. He met Morden’s glare and arched an eyebrow. “I am Chidwick, personal private secretary to Chancellor Penbury. And you, lad, are in a lot of trouble.”
Morden hadn’t had cause to fear much in his life. When he was young his parents had given up on gruesome bedtime stories when it became apparent all they did was encourage Morden to ask a slew of questions. How exactly did an ogre get the marrow from a bone, for instance? In recent times, Grimtooth had managed to send a chill down Morden’s spine merely by baring his teeth, but then he imagined there were few men that could stand a five hundred year old orc’s grimace.
Apart from that, there was only one name he had heard and learnt to fear: Penbury. In itself, an innocuous enough name, but behind it was a man who was rightly feared by every man who ever went into business. And Morden was very much in business. Chancellor Penbury was nominally in charge of the financial matters for King Olaf VIII but in reality was the head of a business empire that spanned continents. It wasn’t the huge empire Penbury had that inspired fear as much as his innovative business practices. Where old school merchants may have leaned on competitors with well placed slander or the use of hired muscle, it was Penbury who had pioneered hostile takeovers and asset stripping. His latest coup had been the acquisition and subsequent dismantling of his closest rivals, Clack and Stingbee, international purveyors of snuff and other tobacco products. Seemingly a niche business, it was in fact also rumoured to be the international conduit for God’s Dust, or Headfucker as it was known on the street when sold in its impure form (the most powerful narcotic known to man).
“Trouble?” said Morden, trying hard to stop his voice breaking. “Surely my business is far too small to concern Chancellor Penbury.”
“Indeed,” said Chidwick. “But you’ve been messing with beer. And we can’t have
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