The Dark Lord's Handbook by Paul Dale Page A

head. It could be start of a beautiful relationship; one that should end in his unfortunate demise.
    And before you set this book aside and get some well earned rest after a hard day fleeing Penbury’s men, there is one more thing to remember about heroes.
    Even though they think they have won, they have not. A Dark Lord is never beaten. One day, you will rise again.
    So sleep well, young Morden, and dream of conquests to come.
     

Chapter 12 A Hero in Love
     
    Most Heroes are merely misguided romantics.
    Watch out for the ones with hearts as dark as your own.
    The Dark Lord’s Handbook.
     
    It was a day that belonged in poetry, and Edwin was trying his hardest to make it so. He lay under the dragging limbs of a willow at the edge of the lake, quill in hand, parchment spread and brow furrowed.
    The sky was…was…was as blue as, well, it was blue. And the sun reflected off the still water as though it were off a mirror . Off something shiny, like a mirror, but not a mirror.
    This poetry was hard. Harder than the villagers of Wellow appreciated. But this wasn’t for them . It was for her . Fair Griselda. How could he compare her? Unto a pretty bloom of some kind; a rose perhaps? (Too thorny.) A lily then? (Too pale.) A petunia?
    Whichever, she was flower-like in aspect and filled his nose with her sweet perfume when she passed the smithy. Except those times when she had just cleaned the privy and then she was not so sweet. But nothing could detract from her perfect frame, her silken hair, her ripe…
    Edwin shook himself. Now was not the time to be having those thoughts. He had poetry to write. He only had an hour and he would be expected back at the smithy. It was a busy time of year. The harvest was in and the farmers had soil to turn before the frosts made the ground too hard. He sometimes wished he hadn’t invented the plough that was taking the region by storm and had brought custom from far a-field.
    It had been a fateful book shopping trip to Bindelburg that had started it. He had happened across Brandock, a swordsmith. They had struck up professional conversation and Edwin had been invited along the next day to see Brandock at work. Inspired by the lamination technique, he had bought half a dozen ingots and gone home to make swords. From those he made ploughshares and the rest was history, or so he liked to think.
    He glanced over to the stick he had stuck in the soft earth. The shadow from it had moved on from the line he had marked when it was placed. He estimated his hour must almost be up. He sighed and set the quill down and looked out over the lake. The muse had abandoned him. Instead, he would drink in the calm serenity of his surrounds and lose himself in the clouds that reflected so perfectly off the lake’s mercurial surface.
    Autumn was enjoying a reprise before winter took full hold and there were ripples here and there as trout took small insects from the water’s surface. It was perhaps because of this Edwin did not notice one such ripple become more wavelike. Once he noticed, however, it made him sit up. There was something big down there, made obvious by the water that was spreading like a bow wave as whatever it was came closer to the shore where he lay.
    It was odd. Odd enough for him to get up to see if he could catch sight of what might cause such a disturbance. As he did so the lake’s surface was broken by an explosion of water and a brilliant sword thrust itself into the air. It cleared the water sufficiently for Edwin to see the hilt was grasped by a hand, possibly female, covered in weed. The sword was a few yards out, and not within reach unless he fancied wetting his hose. It was all quite surreal and he was left wondering what he should do.
    The sword shone, water dripping down its length, bright and terrible in the sunlight. It was a thing of beauty and Edwin reached for his quill and parchment. If only he could capture in words the razor edge and reflected sunlight that spawned a