Free The Dark Lord's Handbook by Paul Dale

crossbow but all that did was turn up the volume, as though they were mocking his effort.
    Fortunately, by the time Chidwick had called a halt at a wayside inn, the crows had gone; perhaps they needed a rest from all that racket.
    By its looks, The Fat Goose promised both warmth and good food, but Morden’s hopes were dashed when he was bound and thrown in a barn with a guard set on the door. An hour later he was untied briefly to eat slops off a plate before being rebound. The ropes chaffed his wrists and ankles, and the straw tickled his nose into fits of sneezing. It had been cold during the day but now that the little warmth the sun had offered was gone, it was freezing.
    Morden was confused with what was going on. Chidwick treated him like a sack and showed little interest other than to ensure he was secure and not about to run off. Surely Chidwick hadn’t been interested in Morden’s business interests. What he said about the beer must have been a diversion. If not, did that mean he knew about Morden’s destiny? But the Handbook had said that while Morden was Rising the Forces of Good would be impotent until he was ready. On the other hand, it felt quite a presumption that he was indeed Rising – trussed like a turkey in a barn he didn’t feel remotely Dark Lordly.
    The line of flawless logic that followed sent an unfamiliar shiver through Morden. Was that fear? If Chidwick knew he was a Dark Lord in Rising and was not with the Forces of Good then that could only mean that Morden had a rival. Was there another Dark Lord Rising? Or indeed, a Dark Lord already in place and working his evil from the shadows? It did make some kind of sense. Was Penbury a Dark Lord? The world had not seen a Dark Lord for over five hundred years. That was not to say one had not Risen but perhaps was taking a non-traditional approach to world domination through Laying Waste and Pillaging etc. It was worth considering and as such presented Morden with quite a worry.
    Morden needed an ally but the only candidate, Stonearm, was being equally enigmatic. He’d marched all day not ten feet behind Morden and made no attempt to communicate or reassure. Morden had tried to engage the orc in conversation a few times, but had been silenced by a grin. If the orc didn’t want to talk then Morden figured he best keep quiet. Still, he did wonder what all this fanciful talk of being undercover was about. Undercover for whom and for what purpose? It was hardly a masterpiece of covert insertion, placing a seven foot orc built like a buttress into a guard of men on a grab mission.
    Morden fell into fitful bouts of sleep; tiredness kept closing his eyes and the cold kept opening them. A noise at the barn door brought him fully awake. Someone was giving orders and it sounded like his guards were grumbling. The barn doors were pushed open but instead of Chidwick, as Morden had expected, Stonearm tramped into the barn. Two guards were standing at the door holding torches, obviously not stupid enough to come into a barn full of dry hay with fire in their hands.
    Stonearm reached him and hauled him to his feet. “The boss wants to see you,” he said in what seemed an unnecessarily loud manner; followed quickly by a whispered, “I’m getting us out of here.”
    If Morden hadn’t been so cold and tired, and bound at the ankles and wrists, and had the slightest confidence in a seven foot orc’s ability to muster any kind of plan, he may have been excited.
    “Do you think that’s a good idea?” hissed Morden under his breath.
    Stonearm’s answer was to push him forward. Morden teetered like a marionette, the rope biting into his ankles.
    “Less of your lip,” said Stonearm, again with theatrical loudness.
    Great , thought Morden, an orc who does pantomime .
    Morden almost fell as he passed between the two guards at the door, as much from the shock of the cold air as the second shove in the back from Stonearm. He had thought the barn was cold but in