by D. P. Prior
Glaring, but not attacking.
“Do I know you, laddie?” the dwarf asked.
“I—”
“Thought you were that shogging philosopher, but he’s a crusty bald bastard, and you must be half his age with ten times his hair. Funny thing, that. Could’ve sworn I heard his voice. Must’ve been dreaming.”
Shader tried to will his body to relax, but his eyes roved of their own accord to the dwarf’s blood-speckled arms. “I am Deacon Shader, a knight from—”
“Never heard of him. Gods of Arnoch if I can remember the name of the bloke I was swinging for, but I’m sorry I mistook you for him. Can’t see shog out of this helm, and what with that and the daze of sleep, dwarf’s bound to make mistakes. Am I forgiven, laddie?”
“Of course,” Shader said, hoping he didn’t sound as relieved as he felt. “This philosopher you mentioned, his name wouldn’t happen to be Aristodeus, now, would it?”
The dwarf rattled the chains dangling from his wrists. “Aye, that’s the shogger. Tricked me, he did. Tricked me and trapped me.” His hands went to the sides of the great helm. “Feel different, though, since waking up. I feel… less angry. Less scared.”
Shader couldn’t imagine him being scared of anything, and if this was him being less angry, he’d hate to see what he was like before. He supposed the blood spatters on his hauberk, boots, and arms offered some indication.
“It was Aristodeus who put you here?” Shader asked.
“Aye. Him and the council. Shoggers would’ve killed me if they’d had their way. Can’t say I blame them, either. After what I’d done…” He lowered his head, and his voice choked away.
So, Aristodeus had a foothold on Aethir. Was there nowhere free from his influence? “I know him,” Shader said.
The dwarf looked up, his eyes invisible, inscrutable, through the blackness of the helm’s slit.
“I once considered him a friend and mentor, but now I’m not so sure.”
“Ah, he means well, laddie. He might be a lying, cheating, flatulent windbag, but his heart’s in the right place. Least Thumil thinks so, and that’s good enough for… Oh, my shogging nugget-sack! Thumil and Cordy—they were in the Dodecagon when I was trapped.” He rapped the helm with his knuckles and then raised his bloodied hand to the eye-slit. “Ouch, that smarts. Must’ve cut myself.” He shrugged and carried on. “They stood up for me, even after everything. Shog, I wanted to die, wanted to die so much, but they still cared.” He went silent, his massive shoulders bunching up around the sides of the helm.
“Thumil?” Shader prompted. That had been the name of one of the white-robes outside, the one with patchy hair.
“Councilor. The best of ’em,” the dwarf said. “Though I would say that, because I served under him when he was Marshal of the Ravine Guard, and because he is… was my friend.”
“Sounds to me like he still is,” Shader said.
The great helm pivoted left and right. “Loyal to a fault, ol’ Thumil, but he knows. He knows.”
“Knows what?” Shader asked.
“More’n I do, that’s a fact. It’s like my memory’s a book telling the story of my life, but someone’s taken an inkwell and splattered every page with black splotches. Some of it’s still there, but other bits are missing. I see snippets—most of ’em bad—but I can’t piece it all together.”
Shader nodded then made his way to sit on the bench. “Well, it’s not as if we’re going anywhere soon. Why don’t you tell me about yourself? It could help.” He wanted to believe he made the suggestion out of compassion, love of neighbor in the Nousian sense, but he knew himself better than that. If he was going to get out of here, he needed help, and what better ally than this monstrous dwarf? Clearly, he was a force to be reckoned with, and chances are he knew his way around the city. If he could get Shader to the council, maybe they’d listen. Once they knew of the threat, it was inconceivable they’d not get involved. And if all else failed, he might at least know a way into the tunnels Gilbrum had spoken of.
The dwarf sauntered over and sat beside him. “I’m not sure. I’m thinking there’s things in my noddle I don’t really want to know.”
“Then start with just what’s necessary. Tell me your name.”
The dwarf chuckled. “Ah, you got me there, laddie. Got me good ’n’ proper.”
Shader shrugged his incomprehension, but before the dwarf could explain, the grille on the door slid open. Muffled voices came from outside, followed by a metallic scratching and a resounding clunk. A few more words were exchanged, and then the door opened a crack, and the balding, white-robed dwarf from the walkway backed inside. At his nod, the door was shut behind him and the key turned in the lock, then he faced Shader, gave a lopsided smile and held his palms up apologetically.
“Precautions. I’m sure you understand.”
After what had happened with Dave, Shader could see why the dwarves were being less than hospitable.
“We had no idea—Thumil, isn’t it? About our companion, I mean.”
That wasn’t strictly true. There had been plenty of warning signs, but need had blinded him. Need and a faith that was little better than a patchwork cloak, more holes than tattered fabric. What was it Ludo had said about a snow-covered dunghill? That about summed it up.
Thumil pursed his lips and raised an eyebrow. “Kind of played into the hands of the traditionalists. Those of us with a more progressive leaning have been espousing the merits of opening our doors to the world for quite some time, but your friend has probably made sure they are fitted with bigger bolts and reinforced with steel. It’s a rare thing, folk visiting Arx Gravis. Rarer still to have them brought inside.”
“He was a trap,” Shader said, stomach tightening at the memory of what Dave had become, what he’d willfully failed to see. “A deception of the Demiurgos.”
“That’s precisely what we’ve been afraid of all these centuries.”
Shader frowned and looked at his cellmate for an explanation. The dwarf was stony-still, back to being a brooding presence masked by the great helm.
“I see you’ve met,” Thumil said. He scratched at his beard, and a clump of hair came away in his hand. “Tried talking to him?”
“Yes, but—”
“Me too. Used to come daily, when he was first brought here. Then days turned to weeks and weeks to months. I don’t know, I guess I just hoped he’d…” He stopped and stared at the sheared bolts on the floor beneath the bench, his eyes tracking to the loose lengths of chain dangling from the dwarf’s wrists. The color drained from his face, and he backed toward the door. “What have you done?”
“Hoped he’d what?” The helmed dwarf pushed himself up from the bench.
Thumil yelped, and his knees buckled. His eyes nearly bulged from their sockets, and he couldn’t take them from the black helm. He scrabbled weakly against the iron of the door, as if he had the vain hope of passing straight through it.
“Hoped I’d say something?” The dwarf took a step toward him. “I would’ve, if I’d known you’d been here. Weeks, you say? Months? How long has it been? Forgive me, Thumil, I feel I’ve been dead, and this is my tomb.”
Thumil’s teeth chattered, and spittle sprayed from his mouth when he spoke. “It’s not possible. How can you be awake? Aristodeus said only he could… Oh, never mind. Are you… Are you…?”
“Cured? Well, I don’t feel like you’re all trying to kill me, if that’s what you mean. Not that you were—not you and Cordy. Least not all the time. What I mean is, I think I’m myself. The rage has gone.”
“Yourself?” Thumil said. “You remember who you are?”
“Some. Not all. Not a lot, actually. I was just saying to what’s his name here—”
“Shader,” Shader said, rising from the bench so he could offer Thumil a hand up.
“I know, laddie, I know. Just a bit slow on the recall, is all, but once the cobwebs are out of my nonce, I’ll be right as… right as… You know, Thumil. What�
�s the expression? Right as mead! Or was it ale?”
Thumil gripped Shader’s wrist, pushed his back into the door, and got his feet beneath him. “You remember your name?”
“That’s where I thought you could help.” He gave the helm a sharp rap. “It’s in here somewhere, I’m sure of it, but it won’t show itself.”
Thumil sighed and lowered his head. “I’m sorry, old friend.”
“But you remember it, surely?” Shader said. “Tell him what it is.”
Thumil looked up, eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I can’t.”
“What do you mean you can’t?” Shader said. “Don’t you want to—”
“It’s gone.”
A groan rumbled up from within the great helm.
“What do you mean it’s gone?” Shader said. “Surely—”
“Gone for all time. Gone from all time, as if it never existed. As if he—”
The dwarf flopped heavily onto the bench and cradled his helmed head in his hands. “Should’ve killed me, Thumil. You should’ve let them send me to the seethers.”
“I couldn’t,” Thumil said, the tears running freely now. “You were… you are…”
“Not after what I’ve done, Thumil. Not after what I’ve done.”
Thumil took Shader by the arm and walked him across the cell.
“They call him the Nameless Dwarf now,” he said. “Well, I started it, but it wasn’t me, if you know what I mean.”
Shader didn’t and shook his head.
“It struck me, so clear, so forcefully. It was like an echo back through time, and then this being, this Archon, came and—”
Shader gripped him by the shoulders. “The Archon was here?”
Thumil nodded. “Last year, though it seems a lifetime ago. He and the philosopher argued. He wanted to kill…” He indicated the Nameless Dwarf with a nod. “Said one day it would be a cursed name.”
“Is now,” the Nameless Dwarf said. “That’s the point of it. A dwarf with no name is a dwarf most shamed, isn’t that what the Annals say?”
Thumil grimaced. “The worst punishment a dwarf can receive.” He looked up at Shader. “We are a people steeped in tradition, in history. Names are very important to us. They are memorized by our families, all the way back to the founders. One gap in the roll of names brings dishonor to the whole lineage. Our laws allow for the striking of a dwarf’s name from the family roll, but only for the most heinous crimes. It’s a shame few would want to bear. In fact, none have. All others so condemned have preferred death, and their wish has been granted.”
“There’s still time,” the Nameless Dwarf said. “Grab a spear and come straight back. I’m not going anywhere.”
“That’s enough!” Thumil barked like a drill sergeant.
Shader tensed, expecting an eruption, but the Nameless Dwarf simply gave a mock salute and lay back on the bench.
Thumil let out a low sigh and raised his eyes in what looked like silent prayer. “This is worse,” he said. “His name hasn’t just been struck out, it’s been plucked from existence, taken from time. It’s the only way Aristodeus could reassure the council, the only way we could start to forget what he did.”
“Aristodeus can do that?” Shader said. “He can erase a name from history?”
“Obliterate it,” Thumil said. “I don’t know how, or where his knowledge comes from, but it seemed better than the alternative. The council wanted blood, Shader. I’ve never known them to be so… decisive.”
“Except with Lucius,” the Nameless Dwarf mumbled from his bench before rolling onto his side with his back to them.
Thumil leaned in close and kept his voice low. “Lucius was his brother. Bit of an egghead, if you know what I mean. Pupil of Aristodeus.” He touched his forehead in the Nousian manner, but then proceeded to touch his chest and each shoulder. “Why we made an exception for that bald bastard I’ll never know. Had the run of the city at times, it seemed. Certainly has the gift of the gab, that one. Silver-tongued shogger.”
“Aye,” the Nameless Dwarf mumbled, then smacked his lips and yawned deep within the great helm.
“He has a brother?” Shader said. “Maybe he could—”
“Dead,” Thumil said. “Defied the council. Defied all our traditions when he pored over the most ancient of the Annals in search of relics from the lost city of Arnoch. What he found wasn’t left by our mythical ancestors, though. It was a snare of the enemy, who had inserted clues to its existence in our sacred histories. Lucius was so convinced he’d found the resting place of the Axe of the Dwarf Lords. When we warned him against pursuing his mad quest, he set off anyway into the bowels of the earth. The whole thing reeked of deception to us. For once, the whole council was unanimous, and a decision was reached in a day. See, we spurn action. Have done ever since Maldark, but when one of our own acts, and puts the city at risk, then we’ll make an exception. Our assassins caught up with him before he went too far, sent him to the seethers.”
Shader opened his mouth—wanted to know if it was his Maldark—but Thumil must have thought he was asking about these seethers.
“You don’t want to know. Deep down is where you’ll find them, though I wouldn’t advise you to go looking. Spawn of the Abyss, most likely, but they make their nests in the dark spaces of Gehenna.”
“Gehenna?” That struck a chord. Shader fished out his Liber and started riffling through its pages. “The cursed valley outside the holy city?”
“Jerusalem,” Thumil said.
“You know of it?” Shader said. “How—?”
Thumil frowned. “Here, give me that.” He took the book and scanned a page at random, furrowing his brow and muttering. “What’s this?” he said, handing the book back. “What’ve you done to it?”
“What do you mean?”
Thumil took a step closer and fixed him with a stern look. “Profaning the sacred, is what I call it. Hardly anyone reads the scriptures these days, not since Maldark’s Fall, but I do. It’s something of a passion, and that—” He wagged a finger at the Liber. “—is traducement.”
“If I knew what that was…” Shader said.
“Lies. Calumny. Heresy. It’s been falsified. Whole passages are missing. I can tell that at a glance. And there are things in their place that are just plain wrong.” He waved his hands and looked away.
“You’re right, it was altered,” Shader said, “but I’m told there is a golden thread running through it that retains the original truths.”
“Bah,” Thumil said. “Golden thread, my gonads. And what’s with this outfit you’re wearing? It’s like a parody of Maldark’s order. Who are you, Shader? Where do you come from, and more importantly, who do you serve?”
“I knew Maldark,” Shader said. “Considered him a friend.”
“Rubbish. That’d make you old enough to be my great, great, great, great—”
“There isn’t the time for this,” Shader said. “I am a knight from a far away place. I am pledged to the Ipsissimus, ruler of the Templum—”
“Templum? So you know Latin?” Thumil said, whirling on him. “Go on. You are some kind of holy knight, part of a temple.”
“It’s a bit bigger than that,” Shader said. “Our Templum is the bride of Nous, son of the All-Father, Ain.”
Thumil shook his head. “Sounds oddly familiar, though the words are screwed up. Listen, Shader, you sure you know what you’re about?”
That was the question to trump all questions. Shader’s mouth hung open like an imbecile’s. He had no way of answering.
A loud snore reverberated from within the great helm, and Thumil turned his gaze on the Nameless Dwarf.
“Look, nothing happens quickly here. By the time the council is ready to see you, it’ll likely be the Feast of Arios. Takes us weeks to agree an agenda. I’ll root about in my study, bring you some things to read. Maybe that’ll give us something to discuss.”
“Maldark was helping me,” Shader said. “Helping me to avert a
cataclysm that will come to pass long before your bloody feast day.” His fingers flew to his forehead in acknowledgment of his swearing.
Thumil raised an eyebrow.
“Listen to me. Have you heard of Sektis Gandaw?”
“Who hasn’t?” Thumil said. “According to history, he’s the reason we shut ourselves away down here in the first place. Him and that tricky bastard toasting his toes in the Abyss.”
“Well, he’s still alive,” Shader said.
“I know that,” Thumil said with a shrug. “Out of sight, out of mind, is our way. We’re no threat to Gandaw and his experiments, and from what I hear, he keeps himself to himself for the most part.”
“And what does your history tell you about Maldark? About his Fall?”
Thumil scoffed. “Nearly brought about the Unweaving, that’s what. If it hadn’t been for that shogger betraying the so-called goddess—”
“Careful,” Shader said, heat flooding his face. “I watched him die trying to atone for the past. There’s no one braver, no one more honorable.”
Thumil sighed and wrapped his arms about his chest. “Forgive me. Even in our legends, Maldark made amends, but it is said he never forgave himself for delivering Eingana to the Technocrat. When Gandaw reduced her to a statue and commenced the Unweaving, it was Maldark who saved her from him. He handed her over to her grandchildren, the Hybrids, the offspring of the Cynocephalus, and then set himself adrift on the black river that runs from the depths of Gehenna through the heart of the Abyss. The statue of Eingana vanished from Aethir. To this day, no one—Gandaw included—has a clue where the Hybrids hid it.”
“They took it to Earth,” Shader said. “My world. The world Gandaw hails from. He’s found it, Thumil. Found the pieces of the statue and assembled them. The time of the Unweaving is upon us.”