broke the legs of the last man to call me an orc, so yes, I think they believe me.”
“So they don’t call you an orc any more?”
“No.”
“Well, that’s a great cover.”
The orc’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t get all sarcastic on me now. I don’t like sarcastic. I may be an orc, but don’t confuse that with being stupid.”
“I wouldn’t dream…”
“Right then. Best be quiet for now.”
The orc straightened himself and cuffed Morden round the ear. It was like being swatted by an oak branch.
“Ow!” screamed Morden.
“Trouble, Private Stonearm?” Chidwick had materialised next to the orc.
“Just showing the prisoner who’s boss, boss,” said the orc, stiffening to attention.
“Very good. Carry on.” Chidwick stalked around the side of the cart and climbed up next to the driver.
“Did you have to hit me so hard?” growled Morden in a low whisper.
Stonearm considered the question for a few seconds. “Yes. I reckon I did.”
With a gee-up from the driver, the cart jerked forward and began to judder along the cobbled road. Everything in the back, including Morden, rattled around. Stonearm kept an easy pace a few yards from the back of the cart and the dozen or so men marched in rank behind him. It struck Morden that it must have made an odd procession to any passer-by, but those he saw seemed to studiously ignore Chidwick on his cart.
With his ears still ringing from the slap he’d received, Morden decided there was little he could do right now so tried to make himself as comfortable as he could and began to sulk.
He’d lost everything. Looking back to the monastery, he could see a thick plume of smoke rising from where his little empire had been centred. In the grand scheme it hadn’t been much but it was his. It had taken years to get to where he had and now it was all gone. He had nothing to his name.
Well almost nothing. Tucked under his black robe was the comforting bulk of the Handbook. Until now, he’d been happy with the notion of being a Dark Lord but had been lacking in motivation. He had needed a spark to set his fire and now Chancellor Penbury had both figuratively and literally set that spark. He was a Dark Lord with a purpose. Penbury would pay and if that meant that the world coughed up at the same time, then so be it.
Chapter 10 An Orcish Escape
Your minions willingly give their lives for you. Don’t disappoint them.
The Dark Lord’s Handbook
The cart rattled and rumbled its way for what seemed like forever, but in fact was until sundown. Bindelburg had been left well behind and they had travelled south towards the coast. From the little that Morden knew of Penbury, he did know that he preferred the warmer climates and that he spent much of his time in Firena, the second city of the Kingdom of Byzan that Olaf VIII ruled over. It enjoyed sunshine all year and was known for its exquisite fruit, according to the text books Morden had read.
When they had left town, Morden had realised that he had not been out of Bindelburg for two years. Rather than go home to visit his parents, they had come to see him and shop. He had, therefore, no reason to leave the city. He liked the variety of sights, smells and people. Countryside was dull. And it played havoc with his sinuses. Although, with winter settled in for the duration, his sinuses were one concern he didn’t have to worry about. Instead he was freezing. His robe was wool, but the cold seeped in and took root in his bones. He tried to take his mind off it by concentrating on his surroundings but all that consisted of was stark tree lines, ragged copses, wonkily ploughed fields and crows.
Ah, the crows. In Bindelburg he had almost forgotten them. Their cawing had been washed over by the noise of the city. But out here there was no escaping the bloody things. It wasn’t long before others noticed and were cursing them as well. Caw. Caw. Caw. They wouldn’t shut up. One soldier tried his luck with a
“So they don’t call you an orc any more?”
“No.”
“Well, that’s a great cover.”
The orc’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t get all sarcastic on me now. I don’t like sarcastic. I may be an orc, but don’t confuse that with being stupid.”
“I wouldn’t dream…”
“Right then. Best be quiet for now.”
The orc straightened himself and cuffed Morden round the ear. It was like being swatted by an oak branch.
“Ow!” screamed Morden.
“Trouble, Private Stonearm?” Chidwick had materialised next to the orc.
“Just showing the prisoner who’s boss, boss,” said the orc, stiffening to attention.
“Very good. Carry on.” Chidwick stalked around the side of the cart and climbed up next to the driver.
“Did you have to hit me so hard?” growled Morden in a low whisper.
Stonearm considered the question for a few seconds. “Yes. I reckon I did.”
With a gee-up from the driver, the cart jerked forward and began to judder along the cobbled road. Everything in the back, including Morden, rattled around. Stonearm kept an easy pace a few yards from the back of the cart and the dozen or so men marched in rank behind him. It struck Morden that it must have made an odd procession to any passer-by, but those he saw seemed to studiously ignore Chidwick on his cart.
With his ears still ringing from the slap he’d received, Morden decided there was little he could do right now so tried to make himself as comfortable as he could and began to sulk.
He’d lost everything. Looking back to the monastery, he could see a thick plume of smoke rising from where his little empire had been centred. In the grand scheme it hadn’t been much but it was his. It had taken years to get to where he had and now it was all gone. He had nothing to his name.
Well almost nothing. Tucked under his black robe was the comforting bulk of the Handbook. Until now, he’d been happy with the notion of being a Dark Lord but had been lacking in motivation. He had needed a spark to set his fire and now Chancellor Penbury had both figuratively and literally set that spark. He was a Dark Lord with a purpose. Penbury would pay and if that meant that the world coughed up at the same time, then so be it.
Chapter 10 An Orcish Escape
Your minions willingly give their lives for you. Don’t disappoint them.
The Dark Lord’s Handbook
The cart rattled and rumbled its way for what seemed like forever, but in fact was until sundown. Bindelburg had been left well behind and they had travelled south towards the coast. From the little that Morden knew of Penbury, he did know that he preferred the warmer climates and that he spent much of his time in Firena, the second city of the Kingdom of Byzan that Olaf VIII ruled over. It enjoyed sunshine all year and was known for its exquisite fruit, according to the text books Morden had read.
When they had left town, Morden had realised that he had not been out of Bindelburg for two years. Rather than go home to visit his parents, they had come to see him and shop. He had, therefore, no reason to leave the city. He liked the variety of sights, smells and people. Countryside was dull. And it played havoc with his sinuses. Although, with winter settled in for the duration, his sinuses were one concern he didn’t have to worry about. Instead he was freezing. His robe was wool, but the cold seeped in and took root in his bones. He tried to take his mind off it by concentrating on his surroundings but all that consisted of was stark tree lines, ragged copses, wonkily ploughed fields and crows.
Ah, the crows. In Bindelburg he had almost forgotten them. Their cawing had been washed over by the noise of the city. But out here there was no escaping the bloody things. It wasn’t long before others noticed and were cursing them as well. Caw. Caw. Caw. They wouldn’t shut up. One soldier tried his luck with a
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