The Dark Lord's Handbook: Empire: The Dark Lord's Handbook, #3

By Paul Dale

Conquer the world—check. Assume the title Dark Lord Emperor—check. Job done. Or not so done. Morden Deathwing thought he could kick back and enjoy holding sway over the world but no. There just wasn't pleasing some people. Something was going to have to be done. Something drastic. The Dark Lord's Handbook: Empire is the concluding chapter of The Dark Lord's Handbook trilogy. --- The series is written as a humorous take on classic fantasy tropes, with a dash of satire thrown in for good measure. Of course, there are dragons, elves, orcs and that kind of thing. Big battles and such-like. It is epic fantasy after all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul Dale
• Release date: Feb 5, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215860465

Book preview

The Dark Lord’s Handbook

Empire

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Paul Dale

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Copyright © 2017 by Paul Dale

1st Edition

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Paul Dale has asserted his moral right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, without prior permission in writing of the author, not to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being impressed upon the subsequent purchaser.

Dedication

For Oscar, Mark, and Sir Terry.

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Acknowledgements

I would like to thank the following people for their help and support along the way: Bodhiketu, Jon Spence, Jim Grimmett, Louise Dower, Andrew Dale, my parents, Kate Frost, Judith van Dijkhuizen, Tamsin Reeves, Lucy English and the Bath Spa University Creative writing staff, Amethyst Biggs, and Kath Middleton.

Also, special thanks to my editor, Brenda Pierson.

Cover art by Jaka Prawira.

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Edited by Incandescent Phoenix Books

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 Good and Evil

Chapter 2 Empire

Chapter 3 Theme Tune

Chapter 4 The Dark Lord's Handbook: Empire

Chapter 5 Coronation

Chapter 6 Rebellion

Chapter 7 The Dark Lord's Handbook: Oppression and Rebellion

Chapter 8 Dark Chancellor

Chapter 9 Hal Headcracker

Chapter 10 Zoon's Journal

Chapter 11 Gathering Allies

Chapter 12 Balam

Chapter 13 Last Will

Chapter 14 The Dark Lord's Handbook: Bad News

Chapter 15 Hand of Adal

Chapter 16 True Name

Chapter 17 The Dark Lord's Handbook: Spymaster

Chapter 18 Coming Home

Chapter 19 Rescue

Chapter 20 Stonearm

Chapter 21 The Dark Lord's Handbook: Death

Chapter 22 Battle with Death

Chapter 23 Flight

Chapter 24 Afternoon Tea

Chapter 25 The Dark Lord’s Handbook: Assassins

Chapter 26 Hal's Destiny

Chapter 27 Nightmares

Chapter 28 Elvish Conspiracy

Chapter 29 Senate

Chapter 30 The Dark Lord's Handbook: Politics

Chapter 31 Dark Stranger

Chapter 32 Hedonism

Chapter 33 Casing the Joint

Chapter 34 Discovered

Chapter 35 The Dark Lord's Handbook: Children

Chapter 36 Thieves in the Night

Chapter 37 Dragon Attacks

Chapter 38 An Elf in the Bedroom

Chapter 39 Escape

Chapter 40 The Dark Lord's Handbook: Guards

Chapter 41 Mind Games

Chapter 42 Trial

Chapter 43 Solitude

Chapter 44 Into the Shadows

Chapter 45 It's a Trap

Chapter 46 Raising the Dead

Chapter 47 The Dark Lord's Handbook: Undead

Chapter 48 Hal's Terror

Chapter 49 Dead Rising

Chapter 50 The Beginning of the End

Chapter 51 Dawn of the Dead

Chapter 52 Dragon Slaying

Chapter 53 The Dark Lord's Handbook: Winning

Chapter 54 A Dark Lord Waits

Chapter 55 Showdown

Chapter 56 Dark Lords

Chapter 57 Choosing Sides

Chapter 58 Namu's Choice

Chapter 59 Aftermath

Epilogue Good and Evil

Epilogue Hal

Epilogue Morden

Chapter 1 Good and Evil

The game is always rigged.

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In the eternal conflict between Good and Evil, turmoil gripped the city below, with proceedings being played out with an air of inevitability. Sections of the city were reduced to rubble and fires raged everywhere. A desperate regiment fought a rearguard action around the palace grounds. Men and orcs scurried around the narrow streets and in and out of wrecked buildings, taking what opportunities presented themselves to murder their foe. The air was thick with smoke.

A particularly large explosion caught Evil’s attention. The noose was tightening and soon a Dark Lord would be hanging from it.

Evil despaired. It should not have come to this. His melancholy was in stark contrast to his companion’s mood. Over the countless centuries, Evil had never been so close to punching his opponent square on the nose. Smug was too small a word, infuriating too weak, to encapsulate the way Good’s lip curled into a smirk.

Ten years.

It was a long time for a Dark Lord to rule. Longer than most, but far from the eternal darkness of a Dark Lord’s supposed reign. His shadow had smothered the world, his victory seemingly total, but a spark of hope for Good had survived, albeit barely at times. Now it burned brightly to force back the darkness and bring light once more to the world. Evil could hardly believe it was happening. He had won. Morden had conquered all. His reach extended across oceans and continents. After his initial victories, none had stood before his might.

And yet here they were, on the cusp of his downfall. Another failed Dark Lord. Evil turned his attention back to the battle. Even though he had no chance of winning, he couldn’t help but watch the final act play out.

Do you know, I can’t be bothered anymore, said Evil. I’ve had enough.

Don’t say that, said Good, with insincerity in his eye. There’s always the next time. This was so close.

Not close enough. It never is, is it? I don’t know why I try. Well, no more. You can have your stupid victory. I hope you choke on it.

Come, come. There’s no need to take it so personally.

How else am I meant to take it? I did everything right this time. A perfect start—well, almost—a great mid-game, and a killer finish. Then you had to cheat, didn’t you? And I still did well. You should have conceded. I had won. Why didn’t you concede?

Well. You know. While there is hope left in the world and all that.... Look, I’m sorry. But can’t you see? It’s been rigged from the start. You think we’re the only ones in this game?

Evil dragged himself away from the devastation below. What do you mean, not the only ones?

Don’t be dense. You know who I mean. Him. It. Whatever. Good pointed his index finger skyward. Upstairs.

Evil couldn’t help but raise his eyes to a metaphorical heaven. You’re joking. Since when has He cared about anything? And as for them, Evil pointed down to the city, they’ve cared even less for a long time. You can’t tell me it’s about Him and them.

Who’s won every contest since time immemorial?

Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.

Like I said, I’m sorry. Good came to Evil’s side and put his arm around him. Anyway. It’s not over yet, brother. You never know what might happen. Morden is not dead yet.

Chapter 2 Empire

Who, me?

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Morden glided in the night, a shadow that passed across the stars. With a waxing moon and his dragon sight, he could see men far below scurrying around the battlefield. They thought they were being clever, preparing a surprise for his army, which slept peacefully three miles to the east. But he had fought many battles and was not stupid. Ten years conquering the known world and beyond was experience none could match. He’d fought battles of all kinds against all kinds of enemies. So while every battle was unique, there was plenty he had learnt which made winning increasingly easy.

Looking down at their futile efforts, he couldn’t blame them. This was their last hurrah. If they lost this, they lost everything. The Assanid Empire was ancient, the biggest empire the world had known until Morden had come along. The only reason it had been relatively unknown in the Reaches was because few ships had ever managed to sail across the oceans to the south to reach it, and the Assanids didn’t like the cold so didn’t venture north.

The Assanid Empire was impressive in scale and scope. It reached across deserts, mountains, and an inland sea to stretch a thousand leagues across and half as many from top to bottom. The rulers managed to bind the nations within its borders with a rule of law which, though strict, was fair to all peoples, setting none above the other. Morden had taken note. It kept things orderly. The only ones to sit above all this were the Assanid ruling class, with their emperor ruling above all. It was an empire which had lasted a thousand years and more. In many ways, it was a shame it would soon be lost to them. But Morden was a Dark Lord, and if he saw something he liked, he took it. And he really liked the Assanid Empire. Its buildings alone were a marvel. His lot would learn so much from his soon-to-be subjects.

Word was the Assanid Emperor, PendeKut II, was present for the last-ditch battle. Quite how they thought they could win was beyond Morden. While they did have the most fearsome, best-trained heavy cavalry he had ever seen, an Imperial Guard whose reputation routed armies just by turning up and presenting their plumed helmets, as well as guns which put Morden’s to shame—they could actually hit things—they didn’t have dragons led by a Dark Lord.

To Morden’s left and right, two of his half-siblings flew in perfect formation, a few yards from his wingtip. As he banked and turned, they followed. He could sense their excitement. Even after ten years of constant conquest, they had not lost the thirst for battle. Unlike Morden. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly when he’d grown bored of battles but it had been at least three years ago. This would be the last one though. After today, there would be nothing left to conquer.

Time to end the battle before it had a chance to begin.

Morden did a wing-over and went into a steep dive, gulping air as he did, feeding his inner fire. His nostrils picked up the smell of oil. Why they thought he would ever have fallen for such an old trick was beyond him. He guessed it was because they thought they were fighting uneducated barbarians from the north who only had one tactic, the frontal assault—which, to be fair, was about all orcs could normally manage. The Assanid plan may have fooled a warlord, but it didn’t come close to troubling Morden. The Handbook had proven inexhaustible in detailing ways in which Dark Lords could screw up battles, and Morden had no intention of falling for the same ruses. Unlike his predecessors, he’d established quaint new customs like scouting. Knowledge was as valuable as a hundred thousand bloodthirsty orcs and a dozen dragons. Well, maybe not as useful as the dragons, but certainly the orcs who, though fearsome fighters and absolutely loyal, weren’t too bright when their bloodlust was up.

At a hundred feet they were noticed by the men on the ground, but it was too late. The soldiers didn’t have time to worry about impending doom before the fire they had planned for Morden’s army took them and their best-laid plans. The three dragons made several passes over the field, incinerating everything with their breath before climbing to a height where they could check whether they’d missed anything. Morden spotted the odd survivor struggling back towards the low hills upon which the Assanid army was camped. It was a huge army, bigger even than Morden’s. The bulk of it was ill-equipped slave rabble, chained together and driven into battle with whips. They were fodder to soak up the opposition’s energy before the chariots, cavalry, and regular troops came in, supported by cannon. It was a good army, which had been beaten twice already as it had been pushed back towards the capital. Capitulation was their only option after tonight. Once more, Morden had shown none could stand before him and his Black Dragon Flight.

***

As it turned out, to Morden’s surprise, there was a battle. It could have been pride, desperation, or fear that brought the Assanids to the field, but for whichever reason, they came. For once his host faced a seemingly endless foe, stretching as it did out of sight. Shame about the quality. While slaves were urged forward by their masters, Morden’s battle hardened orcs stood their ground and waited while his cannon wrought ruin on the advancing ranks. Despite the carnage Morden’s army inflicted, it ended up taking most of the day to break the Assanids. Morden found it annoying. It was such a waste. He left his generals to clean up and retired to his tent. He would deal with the aftermath when he was rested.

The following morning, he followed his Guard Captain, Ironfist, into his command tent to find Stonearm and his general staff waiting for him. Chatter filled the tent with a light-hearted air. The General’s small talk fell away when Morden entered the tent.

Morden let his hood drop—it was far too hot to have it up all the time—and smiled. His generals winced and took a step backwards, reminding Morden his appearance hadn’t improved with time. He ought to make more effort to cloud their minds and spare them his grisly undead features, presenting instead the dark, smouldering good looks of his youth.

As you were, gentlemen, said Morden. It was an odd order but one he had been told was traditionally given by a ranking officer entering a room (or tent) with subordinates to set them at ease. Given he was a Dark Lord, and easily the most terrifying thing in the world, he thought it an ineffectual command. The one exception was Stonearm. His Field Marshal had spent so much time around his Dark Lord master he barely flinched when Morden displayed his considerable power. I assume the battle ended to our satisfaction?

Yes, boss...my lord, said Stonearm. We have prisoners. Lots of prisoners. About fifty thousand or so.

Morden raised an eyebrow. That was a shitload by any standard, and unusual given orcs weren’t known for leaving enemies alive. Perhaps they had got tired. And PendeKut?

Stonearm pulled the face he made when he had less good news to give. Not quite bad news, but not good news. It was an odd combination of scrunched-up nose and toothy grimace. It was a bit like he’d been hit in the face, not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to be annoying.

We rounded up all the surviving nobles but none of them has owned up to being PendeKut. They’ve closed ranks.

Can’t we just pick him out? Surely we have a picture.

I’m afraid not, my lord. All we have to go on are these coins and the odd painted relief on buildings we’ve come across. I had an artist make a copy. Stonearm indicated a small pile of coins and parchment.

Morden stalked over and picked up one of the bigger coins. The stamped face was PendeKut but could have been anyone. The profile on the parchment likewise was no help. Assanid art was stylised. It also followed all art when it came to depicting rulers by flattering them in the extreme. He could think of only one way to uncover PendeKut, and he’d have to do it himself.

Take me to the nobles, ordered Morden, pulling up his hood. It was time the Assanids met their new ruler.

The Assanid nobility had been corralled together and left to sit in the dirt. Morden was surprised there were so many. Probably a few thousand. Some were carrying a nick here and there, others looked singed, but otherwise they didn’t look like they’d been in the largest battle the world had seen. Morden was impressed to see defiance in many of their eyes. For now, he kept his power in check.

My name is Morden Deathwing. I only have one question for you today. Which one of you is PendeKut?

He spoke in their native tongue—compared to the contortions his larynx performed speaking Orcish, the Assanid tongue had proven easy to master. There was a ripple through the squatting prisoners as the full force of his Dark Will washed over them, staggering them on their haunches. Those nearest him grabbed their faces and screamed as their flesh puckered. For a second, other than the cowering and screams, there was no reaction. Perhaps PendeKut had been killed. It seemed improbable. Unlike the rulers of some nations he had conquered, the Assanids had no recent history of leading from the front.

Then, twenty yards away, a man jumped to his feet. His robe was dusty, lined with gold, and his coiffure was impressive.

Are you PendeKut? asked Morden, this time without the force of his will. He didn’t want to kill the man.

The man looked panicked, as if regretting getting to his feet. He looked wildly around. No, I’m not PendeKut. He is! The man shot out a finger at another noble some yards away.

The accused noble’s eyes widened and he jumped to his feet. I’m not PendeKut! He is!

Again, a finger picked out a smaller man whose demeanour seemed somehow different. The man rose slowly to his feet and looked to each side. Those around him averted their gaze. The man took a deep breath and puffed out his chest. I am...not PendeKut! he declared solemnly. He is!

He gestured with a limp finger off to one side. A man jumped up from the area. I’m not PendeKut. He is!

Within seconds men were jumping up all over, declaring they were not PendeKut but the bloke over there was.

Even this early in the day, the sun was fierce and Morden was losing his literal and figurative cool. If the real PendeKut doesn’t stand up right now, I’m going to be extremely pissed off and crucify the lot of you.

The several dozen or so on their feet fell to earth as if they’d been punched. Then a voice came from the centre of the huddled nobility.

Enough.

A man dressed plainly compared to those around him, a simple pale brown robe and open-toed sandals, rose. He held Morden’s gaze with no hint of defiance or fear. If anything, it reminded him of how Penbury looked at people when he met them for the first time, as if a person’s character could be discovered by how they carried themselves. In Morden’s case, PendeKut shouldn’t have too much of a problem. He was about six feet tall, wore a black, hooded robe, and exuded an aura which killed small animals, shrivelled plant life, and left blackened footprints where he walked (which played hell with carpets if he didn’t rein it in). He was a Dark Lord and he meant business.

As for PendeKut, if that’s who he was—although Morden had to admit the likeness to the face on the coins really was quite good—he had the complexion of a man who enjoyed a good life, a long, straight nose, hair which followed the Assanid fashion (bouffant with lots of oil to fix it), and keen eyes accentuated with kohl (although he may just have had little sleep). He, too, looked like he meant business and Morden couldn’t help but like what he saw.

I am PendeKut.

In the future, do not try my patience. Now, follow me, ordered Morden.

He spun away from the crowd and stalked to his tent in the most Dark Lordly fashion he could manage. The tent was marginally cooler than outside. His Dragon Guard, who lined the walls of the tent in their heavy black plate, had to be roasting. Stonearm certainly was. Beads of sweat gathered on his forehead and formed rivulets to run down his nose.

PendeKut had followed Morden into the tent and was taking a look around in an interested manner.

Morden indicated a stool off to one side. Sit.

Three-legged and too short for a grown man to sit on without squatting, Stonearm called it the naughty seat. It was for those unfortunate enough to have done something wrong and needing to be dealt with by either himself or Morden. Apparently the threat of being sent to it was sufficient to keep even the most unruly orcs in line.

PendeKut squatted on it, a hint of a smile coming to his lips.

This man is not stupid, thought Morden. He understands what the stool is for and how it is designed to make him feel. And yet, he also has the sense to do as he is told. He knows he is beaten. Defiance now can only make things worse for himself and his people. Now comes submission and he hopes under the best terms possible. Good.

You look uncomfortable, observed Morden.

PendeKut shrugged. You speak our tongue well for someone so new to it.

A talent I have, said Morden. And hopefully well enough so there is no misunderstanding.

PendeKut looked down at the stool between his legs. I understand perfectly. As one who has spoken from a position of power for most of his life, as emperor of the greatest civilisation in the world, I understand. All I ask is you do not destroy something which is so great. It would be a loss to the world.

Morden couldn’t help but chuckle. Which was unfortunate. His amused laugh sounded as if he were disembowelling someone and enjoying it. PendeKut visibly blanched, fell forward onto his knees, and prostrated himself.

I beg you, my lord. Do to me whatever you will, but spare my people torment.

Morden was used to this reaction. Instilling fear was as natural to him as breathing. He couldn’t help himself, it was an essential part of who he was.

I would rather burn down any city in the Western Reaches than see the Assanid Empire be ruined, said Morden. It wasn’t true but it was a fitting placation. It seemed to have the intended effect as PendeKut looked up from his position on the ground with a mixture of relief and puzzlement. Not to say there won’t be a certain amount of looting going on. You can’t expect me to bring my army all this way and for them not to have some fun. They’ve earned it. It’s only fair they get drunk and nick stuff. There’s also a few things I’ve seen I’ll be having away; the Assanid marbles will look great over the mantelpiece back home. Aside from that, I see no reason things can’t be much as they were before. But with one small change.

PendeKut was on his knees now, frowning. But...you’re a Dark Lord. You’re meant to lay waste. Conquer and lay waste. That’s how it’s meant to be.

If everything were the way it was meant to be, I’d be in serious trouble, said Morden. It would be only a matter of time before a Hero rose up to bring me down.

Exactly, said PendeKut, brightening.

Not going to happen, said Morden. And as for the small change. You will continue to rule the Assanid Empire, but in my name. Tomorrow you will stand before what is left of your army and kneel before me and pledge fealty.

As he spoke, Morden exerted the full weight of his coercion. Only the strongest minds could take his full attention and not be driven mad. Morden was hopeful PendeKut was such a man. It would be more convenient if the succession was smooth. This way, the Assanids would follow their leader and bow before him without the need for razing cities and making examples. He didn’t have time for all that messing about. He’d been away from home a long time and he wanted to put his feet up and relax without having to worry about bringing an empire under his boot.

PendeKut’s jaw locked in rigour.

Nod if you understand, said Morden. There was an almost imperceptible twitch of PendeKut’s head. Excellent. I’m sure once you get to know me, you’ll find that, for a Dark Lord, I’m not all bad.

Chapter 3 Theme Tune

A Dark Lord always carries a good tune.

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Having dealt with PendeKut, Morden left Stonearm in charge of the pillaging and flew home with his father and a few of his siblings. The rest of his half-brothers and -sisters stayed behind to do a tour of the Assanid Empire. They had been ordered to show the Assanids what a Black Dragon Flight was and what it could do, as well as partake in thieving of their own. Morale was good. His father had been upset to miss out on sampling PendeKut’s harem, but he’d come around when Morden ordered Stonearm to bring it back to Firena.

On the way home, a niggle started in his mind. It had something to do with him being a Dark Lord and PendeKut. By the time he got home, the niggle had become an itch he couldn’t scratch.

As with many things these days, he decided a chat with Chancellor Penbury was in order. His friend always had a way of getting to the heart of things.

I can’t see anything more to conquer, Morden said, twirling Penbury’s globe.

It is, without doubt, the biggest empire the world has seen. I doubt it will be surpassed, Penbury replied.

Hmm, mused Morden, the kernel of an idea forming.

Until now, Morden had enjoyed one title: Dark Lord. It was perfect in most respects. It encapsulated all he was and all he represented. There was no mistaking the intent or purpose of one who went by the title Dark Lord. He thought it more than sufficient, and it meant introductions were brief. He did not share the aristocracy’s infatuation with lists of titles and accomplishments before their names, as a measure of their self-perceived importance. If the Dark Lord Morden was announced, everyone knew who to expect. There was nowhere he was not known. If there was a corner of the world his armies had not visited and brought under his sway then it was not worth visiting. From cold wastes to burning deserts, mountain tops to lowland swamp, his dragons had heralded his arrival.

As a result, he had an empire, and by simple extension, he was an emperor. It occurred to him he deserved recognition of the fact.

***

Once Morden had decided a promotion was in order, it had taken an extraordinary amount of work to arrange. But in Stonearm, Penbury, and Penbury’s Personal Private Secretary, Chidwick, Morden had three of the best to get things done a Dark Lord could hope for. As a result, six months later, summoned representatives and retinues from every corner of his domain had gathered outside Firena to witness his crowning tomorrow.

What remained were the fine details of the coronation ceremony. Chidwick had found an account of the coronation of Emperor Belwich, a petty duke who had the notion to crown himself two hundred years ago. It hadn’t worked out as he’d intended; he’d been smacked down by the rest of the nobility and made to wear a dunce crown for the rest of his days. Nevertheless, Belwich had gone as far as establishing a protocol for the declaration of an emperor, and as there had been no others of note in the Reaches, it was all they had to go by.

The crown shall be presented to the emperor on a cushion, from which the emperor will take it and place it on his head, read Chidwick for the fifth time.

Sounds clear enough to me, said Lord Deathwing who, though not counted amongst the competent when it came to managing affairs, was present as Morden found it hard to counter the argument ‘But I’m your father’. Morden takes the crown and puts it on his head. Job done.

Seems fair, said Stonearm. He is the boss.

Penbury pulled a variation of the face: ‘Yes, but’. I’m not one to go around in circles but you seem to be missing the point. Cushion, crown, taking of crown are not in question. What needs to be decided is who is going to present the crown on the cushion.

The group was standing around a chair upon which was a purple velvet cushion, with the crown sitting atop. For an emperor’s crown, it was a simple design: a thickish circlet with a central shard of brilliant white gold at the front, flanked to either side by increasingly smaller shards shrinking to nothing at the back. There had been a suggestion to encrust gems and jewels but Morden had thought the idea vulgar, and Penbury had concurred. Stonearm’s disappointment was short-lived when Morden had said his Field Marshal ought to have a ceremonial rod for the coronation and he could bejewel the hell out of it.

In ancient days, continued Penbury, royalty was bestowed by divinity and the highest ranking member of whichever religion was pertinent would place the crown, as a symbol of the deity’s approval.

So you have said several times already, said Lord Deathwing. Well, screw that. There is no higher authority. Morden is emperor by right of conquest.

And because he’s a Dark Lord, interjected Stonearm. And a dragonlich.

Thank you, Field Marshal, said Morden. But we still have the issue of the cushion carrier. Whoever carries the cushion will be seen as bestowing, even if I take the crown.

Exactly, said Penbury. We need to consider the political message. Lord Morden is undisputed in his dominion, but it doesn’t hurt to have it backed by the right person.

I can see where this is going now, said Lord Deathwing. You want to carry the cushion, don’t you? The richest, most powerful man prior to Morden gives his seal of approval, and at the same time makes it clear you are number two. Well, that’s not going to happen. Morden, tell him. I’m your father. I should carry the cushion.

That’s not my style and you know it, said Penbury, bristling in a way Morden had not often seen from the normally calm chancellor.

I can do it, said Stonearm. I’m the boss’s highest ranking commander.

You can’t, Stonearm, said Morden, placing a hand on his old friend’s arm. You’ll be at my right side, keeping an eye on things. That’s where you belong. And Father, you’ll be on my left. Penbury, you’ll be with the council members. We’ll have the crown placed, prior to the ceremony, on a plinth, covered in a black cloth. I’ll step forward, pull the cloth away and take the crown. And that’s the end of it. Now, is there anything else we’ve forgotten?

We need to decide what music to play, said Penbury, reaching for a stack of manuscripts and handing them out. Here are a few ideas I’ve had prepared.

I don’t read music, Stonearm said, laying the script to one side.

You don’t read at all, countered Lord Deathwing.

I quite like this one, said Penbury, ignoring the other two.

How does it go? asked Morden.

I’m sure you know it. Pierre is always humming it, said Penbury. Du dum-du da da da daa da-da, du dum-du daa da da-da.

Far too cheerful, said Lord Deathwing. Morden’s a Dark Lord. Besides, there’s a hint of revolution about it I don’t like.

I know, said Stonearm, How about da dum...da dum...da dum...da dum, da dum, da dum, da dum....

Better, said Lord Deathwing. It does have the sense of impending doom. It could work. Builds tension as Morden approaches. What do you think, Morden?

Morden wasn’t taken with either option so far. In truth, he hadn’t thought about the musical side of things at all, but it struck him that whatever was chosen was going to stick with him for as long as he was emperor, which, all being well, was going to be a long time. The tune had to be right for a Dark Lord Emperor, but more importantly something he liked, as he was going to hear it for the rest of his days. Any other options? he asked.

There is this one, offered Penbury. Daa da-duh da daa, daa...daa...daa, daa da-duh da daa, DAD da-daa...

I like it! exclaimed Stonearm. It makes da boss sound like...like...he’s a super—

No. Too heroic, said Lord Deathwing. We need something befitting a Dark Lord. Something that says a bad-ass is coming. How about...Dit deeeee, dit deeeee, DIT deeeee, dit-dit-deeeee.... See? Now there’s something which instils a sense of dread.

It’s okay, if Morden was a mere underling about to kick butt, said Penbury, but it lacks gravitas. An emperor requires something more universal. Something an army can get behind. Let me see.... Here. It’s a new one I had commissioned. Penbury shuffled a script to the top of his pile and cleared his throat. Da da da duh-da da duh-da daa, da da da duh-da da duh-da daa. Da Da Da Da-duh da da-duh daa....You get the gist. I know it sounds a bit like a marching tune but if anything says Dark Emperor—

I like it, said Morden. In his mind’s eye, Morden could see himself standing at the head of a massive orc army, rank upon rank of troops lined up ready for battle. That’s settled. Make sure the band is well-practised. I want no bum notes for my coronation. You all have plenty to do...

The room emptied, leaving Morden with the crown. It was magnificent. And heavy. He could see how it sank into the purple velvet. That could be a problem. Maybe he should practice. It would not look good if he fumbled it and dropped the thing. With a deep breath, Morden grasped the crown on either side and lifted it. He needn’t have worried about the weight; his dragon strength was more than sufficient to take the load, though it was even heavier than he had imagined. Then a thought struck. Now it was off the cushion, he may as well try it for size. He had been carefully measured when the crown had been commissioned but it would look silly if it was too large and came down too far over his head, or even became an outrageously large necklace. He lifted it smoothly and placed it on his head. The fit was perfect, snug over his short, black hair. He paced to a mirror to take a look.

The Dark Lord Emperor Morden Deathwing stared at himself and was pleased. He had not been sure about the idea of a crown, letting himself get talked into it largely by Stonearm, whose mission in life seemed to be Morden’s aggrandisement. Any lingering doubts fled when he saw it in all its glory, like all hope his enemies might have had before he was crowned.

There was a polite knock from behind him.

My lord— began Chidwick as he entered, stopping when he saw Morden.

Morden had got to know Chidwick quite well, as well as anyone could when it came to the inscrutable PPS. He was a man of few expressions. He had seen awe on many faces, but not Chidwick’s. He was hard to impress. So as Chidwick’s eyes widened, his eyebrows raised a fraction, and his upper lip twitched, Morden took it positively even if it could equally have been disdain.

My lord, we await you at your convenience, said Chidwick.

Very good, Chidwick. Here, you’d better take this and ensure they are in place as I instructed. Morden took off the crown and placed it back on its cushion. And make sure the front is facing away from me. I don’t want to have to juggle it when I lift it up.

Very good, my lord.

Alone once more, Morden tried to settle his mind. Although his ambition had always been grand, his desire absolute, now it was about to be fully realised. He felt like giggling. He had to get a grip on himself. By all means, he could savour every moment of his triumph, but he had to be calm. Tomorrow he would become emperor of the world, and if he were to be anything, he would be the coolest Dark Emperor this world would ever see.

Chapter 4 The Dark Lord's Handbook: Empire

When it comes to a Dark Lord’s empire,

the trick is to avoid the fall after the rise.

The Dark Lord’s Handbook

––––––––

You have come far, Morden. Assuming the mantle of Dark Lord was the first step. Proclaiming yourself emperor is a fine follow-up. There have been many who have styled themselves Dark Lord but none who have carved out an empire and been crowned emperor. It is a wise move, as nothing cements absolute political power more than the title Emperor. Without it, you would be a mere tyrant, or dictator, both of which are petty in comparison. They are two-a-penny compared to the few who can rightly call themselves emperor.

Empires last. Empires form a wedge in history and define ages, and it is the emperor who is remembered as the one who has ruled. It is your chance to leave an indelible mark on the world none can erase. Your empire will last a thousand years (the traditional minimum span of years for an empire) or more. And the good news is, being an immortal dragonlich, you will be in charge the entire time. Your legacy is safe in your hands. You do not have to risk it all by having a succession of idiot sons and their descendants.

It all sounds fantastic but you need to avoid complacency. Now that you are emperor, there may be a temptation to let your guard down. This would be a bad thing. The crown sitting on your head can easily topple and fall, to be snatched up by a usurper. On your rise to being a Dark Lord, we talked much about the threats you faced. Now that you have established your rule, there are new challenges to face. You must be aware of the world and all around you, as there will always be those who seek to depose you. They will come in all guises. You have to be ready to act if you sense any challenge to your rule. You can’t please everyone, and nor should you. It’s your empire and you should do whatever pleases you when you run it. This will naturally annoy a number of those who fall under your dominion. Trust no one. Not even those who you consider most loyal. In fact, trust them the least, as many attempts to overthrow you will come from them rather than from more obvious external threats.

Aside from keeping a constant eye out for those who would depose you, there is other work to be done. Being an emperor is not one long holiday. Far from it. You need to decide what kind of empire you are going to have and how you are going to shape it. The options here are almost limitless. One is to follow the traditional path of the Dark Lord and lay waste to the world. Desecrate everything for your personal gratification, bring misery and suffering to all. Turn the world into the embodiment of hell and enjoy the cries of the tormented souls you reign over.

That’s one option, but given how you’ve not been one for callous and arbitrary cruelty, I suspect that’s not for you.

Certainly not, thought Morden. There’s no point in conquering the known world, only to set it on fire. I’m no pyromaniac, or sadist for that matter. I must admit, though, I’ve been so busy I haven’t put much thought into what to do next. Some time off would be good.

Which brings me neatly to a second option, which is to delegate the running of the empire to others and live a life of pure hedonism, indulging your whims in every depraved way possible. Hold orgies that last weeks, games that last months, a year-long festival to yourself. Gorge yourself on fine food and drink yourself into a stupor. Gather a harem of women who live for no other reason than to pleasure you in ways you cannot imagine. Pile riches in mounds to lie on, as any self-respecting dragon would. Bleed the rich of their wealth and take it for yourself. Require every ounce of gold in the empire be brought to you. Indulge any and all passions, letting the years pass by in a blissful haze. Whatever you want, you can have.

Tempting, thought Morden. I’m sure I’ll get some of that done, but it sounds more like the thing my father would do, and I know what he’s like. It’s not me. And there is no way I could keep that up for a thousand years. My father probably could. He’s been at it for over five hundred now, and shows no