Against the Unweaving

by D. P. Prior

  Thumil staggered, as if he’d been struck with a sledgehammer. He stood gawping for a moment, the silence between them filled only by the rhythmic snoring coming from the bench. Finally, he shook his head and carried on as if Shader hadn’t just mentioned the end of the world. “Earth? What do you take me for? Earth’s no more real than Arnoch. I don’t know what your game is, Shader, but the idea of Gandaw finding the statue on Earth is as believable as me finding a cask of mead at the end of a rainbow.”

  “I’m not joking,” Shader said. “Earth is very real.”

  “In the stories, maybe. It’s their way of explaining where someone as evil as Gandaw comes from. Some go so far as to say he sent his minions back to Earth to kidnap people to experiment on. There’s even stuff about it in our Annals, how the dwarves are just modified Earth folk. I wouldn’t place too much stock in it, if I were… You’re serious, aren’t you? Even if you’re deluded, you believe what you’re saying.”

  “I can assure you, I’m not deluded, Thumil.”

  “Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you. It’s what defines delusion. Listen, if Gandaw really had the statue, how come we’re all still here? Don’t you think he’d have started the Unweaving by now?”

  “I think he has started. When we left the Sour Marsh, there was a brown cloud above the Perfect Peak.”

  Thumil’s jaw dropped. “You’ve been to the Sour Marsh? All the way up to the Dead Lands? Then why didn’t you put a stop to it, rather than bring your problems here?”

  Shader inhaled sharply through clenched teeth. He offered up a mental prayer for calm. This was it, his one and only chance, and he didn’t need to blow it now by becoming exasperated. “The mountain is guarded by silver spheres that spit fire. The only way we’re going to get inside is through the tunnels you dwarves used for—”

  “The scarolite mines?” Thumil said. “You want to use the tunnels that run from the mines to the Perfect Peak? But they’ve been closed for years.”

  “But you can get us into them?”

  Something was different. Shader frowned, trying to work out what it was. And then he realized. The Nameless Dwarf had stopped snoring.

  Thumil rubbed at his beard, frowning as strands came away in his fingers. “They could be unblocked, I suppose, but shog knows what you’d find inside. According to the Annals, back when we were mining for him, Gandaw had the tunnels infested with giant ants to keep the scarolite from being stolen. The only reason our boys weren’t eaten is because he made an ant-man to control them. Horrible thing, by all accounts, and I pity the poor bastard he took and melded into it.”

  “I’ll deal with that hurdle if we cross it,” Shader said. “The question is, will you help us?”

  Thumil puffed his cheeks up and blew out a big breath. “That’s putting the cart before the horse, I’d say. Council still needs to meet to decide what to do with you after that business outside. Then, and only if they reach a decision, which is by no means certain, I could propose admission to the tunnels, but the problem there is that it would constitute an action that may have ramifications in the outside world. Last thing the council wants is to be implicated in anything that might come to Gandaw’s attention. You see, everything we might do is fraught with peril. One action leads to another, and before you know it—”

  “That’s just ridiculous,” Shader said. “You can’t hide away from the world.”

  Thumil shrugged. “For some, Arx Gravis is all there is.”

  “But you’ll stagnate,” Shader said. “Grow sick as a society.”

  Thumil chuckled. “That’s what I’ve been saying for years, but the council moves slowly, and always with caution.”

  “Then convince them they need to get a move on,” Shader said. “Tell them about the Unweaving.”

  “You’ve yet to convince me,” Thumil said, “and I can assure you, the council will take a lot more persuading.”

  Shader raised his arms, turned in a circle, as if he could find more sense in the walls of his cell. “Forget the council, then. If they’d rather debate while the worlds return to nothing, let’s bypass them. You could get us into the tunnels.”

  Thumil looked horrified. “That’s the sort of attitude that leads to dictatorship.” He pointed at the sleeping Nameless Dwarf. “That’s what happened with him, when he came back from Gehenna with the black axe. So decisive, so sure, and yet all he left behind him was blood and destruction. I’ll not do it. No dwarf would.” He turned round and raised his fist to knock on the door.

  “I would.”

  Thumil froze and then slowly faced the bench.

  The Nameless Dwarf stretched and yawned inside his helm, then swung his feet to the floor and stood. “Seeing as you won’t kill me, and seeing as I could get very, very bored holed up down here now I’m awake, I might as well make myself useful.”

  “No,” Thumil said. “No, that won’t help at all.”

  The Nameless Dwarf folded his arms over his chest, the eye-slit of the great helm focused squarely on Thumil. He radiated menace, and Thumil must have sensed the change in the atmosphere, because he turned back to the door, muttering as he knocked.

  “I’ll speak with the council, tell them of the urgency, but don’t get your hopes up. They are fatalistic, at best, Shader, and they don’t want to be blamed for anything.”

  “Lucius used to say it’s been more than a thousand years since Maldark’s folly,” the Nameless Dwarf said. “Surely we can start to take baby steps into the world once more.”

  “And look where it got him,” Thumil said as the door swung open and spears bristled across the threshold.

  “Everything all right, Councilor,” a gruff voice said from the corridor outside.

  Thumil didn’t even bother to answer. He just stepped between the spear tips, which started to withdraw, until someone yelled, “Shog, he’s awake! The butcher’s awake!”

  Two red-cloaked dwarves surged into the cell, spears leveled. Their resolve ebbed the instant the great helm turned on them, and both took a step back. Three more dwarves filtered through the doorway, outflanking the Nameless Dwarf and paying Shader no heed.

  Outside, voices were raised with agitation, and above them, Thumil could be heard saying, “It’s all right, Captain. He’s all right. No, that won’t be necessary. Did you hear me? I said no.”

  A burly dwarf with a salt and pepper beard and a horned helm pushed his way inside, a double-bladed battle axe over one shoulder. Shader recognized him from the walkway, and it looked like the recognition was mutual, the way the dwarf scowled at him, no doubt remembering the shock he’d got from the gladius.

  The other dwarves watched him for instructions, spear tips trembling in hands slick with sweat.

  “Captain Stolhok!” Thumil yelled, but the newcomer slammed the door, and the sound from the corridor died in an instant.

  The Nameless Dwarf turned his back on Stolhok, shaking his helmed head.

  “What’f up, fogger,” Stolhok said, “fcared to fafe someone who ain’t fcared of you?” Spittle accompanied his every word and clung like ale-froth to his mustache.

  Shader almost laughed, but immediately battened down the hatches on that particular sin.

  “You might consider substituting ‘frightened’ for ‘scared’, laddie,” the Nameless Dwarf said, “and ‘fight’ for ‘face’.”

  “What?” Stolhok looked to his men, who all shrugged. Then the penny dropped. “Why, you fogging piefe of fit!”

  Stolhok swung his axe in a vicious arc. Shader stepped in, went for his wrists, but before he could blink, the Nameless Dwarf spun on his heel, crashing an elbow into Stolhok’s nose and following through with a skull-jolting punch with his other hand. Stolhok’s knees buckled, and he dropped like a stone, a fountain of blood spurting from his ruined nose. The Nameless Dwarf’s hand snaked out to snatch the axe before it hit the ground. He held it for a moment, turning it over and over. The semicircle of spears shook, and worried looks passed between the dwarve
s.

  “Now look here,” one of them said. “We don’t want no trouble now, do we lads?”

  “That’s right,” said another. “Just put the axe down and move to the bench, and no one needs to get hurt.”

  Reversing the axe, the Nameless Dwarf clanged its head against the floor and leaned his weight on the haft.

  The dwarves skittered back against the walls, spear tips wavering.

  “Don’t know about you, laddie,” the Nameless Dwarf said to Shader, “but I’m parched as a parrot and stiff as a morning glory. Quick flagon down at the Queen’s Beard, then I’ll take you over to the scarolite mines. How’s that sound?”

  He strode toward the door, but before he could lay a hand on it, a guard darted in and took a jab at him. The axe swept down so fast that Shader only realized what had happened when the spear tip clattered to the floor, and the dumbfounded guard was left staring at the splintered end of his shaft.

  The others shuffled forward, but Shader raised a hand and they stayed where they were.

  “Bugger,” the Nameless Dwarf said, pounding the side of the great helm with his fist. “How’m I gonna drink in this bucket?” He turned on the guards. “Any of you lads know a good blacksmith?”

  They all exchanged looks.

  “Won’t help, my friend,” Shader said. “It’s fused to your skin.”

  The Nameless Dwarf ran his fingers along the seam connecting the helm to the base of his neck. “Bloody shogging shogger,” he grumbled, shoving the door open and stepping out into the corridor. “Where’s that bastard philosoph… Oops.”

  A dozen spear tips came at him at once. He twisted past two, batted a third aside with his axe, and hacked down. Someone screamed, and a hand sploshed to the floor, fingers still wriggling. A spear glanced off his chainmail, and another grazed his shoulder. He roared and swung the axe like a scythe. The spearmen scurried back, but the Nameless Dwarf was relentless, stepping in close and bashing away with the flat of his blades.

  “My hand!” a pale-faced dwarf screeched. “He lopped off my shogging hand!”

  Someone started blowing short, desperate blasts on a trumpet.

  The dwarves in the cell crept toward the Nameless Dwarf’s back, but Shader stepped in front of them.

  “Out of the way,” one of them snarled, “or we’ll gut you like a pig.”

  The clash of axe on armor was deafening. Shader risked a glance over his shoulder. Four guards were down, and the Nameless Dwarf was bleeding from a score of cuts. He caught sight of a white robe, but then a rustle of movement forced him to turn back. He sidestepped a spear thrust and wrapped his chains around his assailant’s neck. The others poked at him, but he kept the sputtering dwarf between himself and their spear tips.

  Another clang came from behind, followed by a dull thud.

  “Don’t hurt him,” Thumil cried. “He’s using the flat.”

  “Not on my shogging wrist, he didn’t!”

  “Don’t hurt him? What about us?”

  Shader dragged his captive to the doorway then shoved him back into the cell, pulled the door shut, and slid a bolt across.

  Heavy footfalls were pounding down the corridor to the left, and that seemed to give the guards renewed courage.

  “C’mon, lads, we can take him,” one yelled, and lunged with his spear. It struck the Nameless Dwarf in the guts, snapping a link on his hauberk.

  “Laddie,” the Nameless Dwarf growled, “I’m trying to give you a chance.” He took hold of the spear haft and yanked, pulling the wielder into a crunching headbutt with the great helm.

  “Stop!” Thumil cried, waving his arms and stepping between the Nameless Dwarf and the dozen standing spearmen. “Please stop!”

  “You’ll do no such thing!” yelled Grago, just coming into view at the head of a column of heavily armed red-cloaks. “Kill him and anyone who gets in the way.”

  The Nameless Dwarf backed up against the door beside Shader. “Crouch down and put your hands on the ground.”

  He raised the axe and Shader understood. The blades came down, sending up stone chips and dust, and shearing straight through Shader’s chains. He went to snatch up a spear from an unconscious dwarf, saw he had a dagger in his belt, and grabbed that instead.

  “Ready?” the Nameless Dwarf said, stepping away from the door and twirling his axe like a baton.

  The spearmen parted to admit the newcomers. Banded armor creaked, swords glinted in the unnatural light, and hard eyes glared from visored helms. They were packed into the corridor, four abreast with shields locked, and Nous only knew how many ranks deep.

  Thumil stepped in front of them. “Stop, in the name of the council.”

  A couple of spearmen grabbed him and pulled him aside.

  “Ready.” Shader said, licking his lips and turning the dagger over and over in his hand.

  The shield wall advanced, inexorable as the tide.

  “One.” The Nameless Dwarf rolled his shoulders.

  The red-cloaks picked up pace, hammering their swords against their shields.

  “Two.”

  A shout went up from the phalanx, and they started to jog.

  “Thr—”

  Thunder boomed, light flashed, and smoke billowed, flooding the corridor.

  Hands gripped Shader’s arm. He raised the dagger, then his jaw dropped.

  “Come on,” Rhiannon said, “let’s go.”

  Shadrak strode through the roiling smoke, blasting away with his pistol. He was like a ghost, part in, part out of reality. All Shader could see were his hands and face, his blood-colored eyes. Screams went up from the red-cloaks, and then they were panicking, bumping into each other in their hurry to retreat.

  “Friends,” Shader explained to the Nameless Dwarf. “Quickly, come with us.”

  The great helm swiveled between Rhiannon, Shadrak, and the routed red-cloaks.

  “Ah, shog,” the Nameless Dwarf said. “I could’ve had them.”

  Thumil staggered from one side of the corridor to the other like a blind man. A cluster of guards crawled about looking for their spears, and from somewhere deep in the scattered phalanx, orders were barked.

  “What the shog’re you waiting for?” Shadrak said, backing toward Shader. He whipped a piece from the handle of his pistol and snapped another into place. “Move!”

  They tore along the passageway, which sloped deeper and deeper into the ravine.

  “Other way,” the Nameless Dwarf panted. “Only fifty of ’em, give or take. I tell you, I could’ve—”

  “Someone shut scuttle-head up,” Shadrak hissed. “I’m trying to concentrate.” He ran his hands over the left-hand wall, muttering and cursing. “It was here. I shogging know it was here.”

  “After them!” Grago’s voice rolled down the corridor behind them, and the tramping of boots on stone sounded every bit like an approaching avalanche.

  “Sure that’s only fifty?” Rhiannon asked, casting a worried look over her shoulder.

  “Give or take, I said.” The Nameless Dwarf walked past Shadrak and stepped right through the wall, as if it wasn’t there. An instant later, his helmed head popped back through. “I take it you were looking for this, laddie. You have to have the knack, see, because they shift.”

  “How the shog—?” Shadrak started.

  “Old miner’s trick. My pa was… Ah, never mind. Coming?”

  Rhiannon went next, as if she did this sort of thing all the time.

  “After you,” Shader said to Shadrak.

  The assassin’s cloak merged seamlessly with the passageway. His eyes flicked past Shader as the first of the dwarves came into view up the incline. He unfastened a belt and handed it to Shader along with the scabbarded gladius. “Guess you might be needing this.”

  Shader buckled it on, and they stepped through the wall, emerging at an intersection. For habit’s sake, he pulled the prayer cord from his pocket and hurriedly tied it to the belt.

  “Pub’s this way,” the Nameless Dwar
f said.

  “Yeah, well the walkway ain’t,” Shadrak said, heading in the opposite direction.

  “After a drink, laddie.”

  Shadrak whirled round, gesturing with his pistol for Shader and Rhiannon to follow him. “You do what you like, pan-head, but we’re getting out of here.”

  The dwarf growled, and Shader approached him with hands raised.

  “You can’t drink in that thing, remember?”

  “I’ll get a reed. A long twisty one to poke through the eye slit.”

  Rhiannon sniggered. It was the first good humor Shader had heard from her in a long time. He gave an answering laugh of his own, but her eyes immediately hardened, and she turned to follow Shadrak.

  At that moment, a sword poked through the wall, followed by a bearded head encased in a visored helm. The red-cloak’s eyes widened, and he started to yell something as he stepped into the corridor… right into the Nameless Dwarf’s fist.

  “Ah, shog it, laddie,” the Nameless Dwarf said to Shadrak. “Have it your way, but you owe me a pint.”

  “Whatever,” Shadrak said, raising his pistol as another dwarf started to separate from the wall.

  “No!” the Nameless Dwarf said. “No killing. These are my—”

  Shader stepped in and brained the emerging red-cloak with the pommel of his gladius.

  “Come on!” Rhiannon said, setting off down the corridor.

  “You lot go on ahead,” Shadrak said. He produced a glass sphere from a belt pouch. “This’ll hold ’em.” He caught the eye slit of the great helm watching him. “Don’t worry. No one’ll get hurt. Trust me.”

  “Hmmm,” the Nameless Dwarf grunted, but he started after Rhiannon anyway.

  Another head peeked through the masonry. Shadrak launched himself into the air and delivered a jaw-cracking kick, and stone formed back over where the head had been.

  “Best get going,” he said to Shader before lobbing his globe through the wall. There was an answering muffled boom, and then he tore off after the Nameless Dwarf, his cloak merging with the tunnel, making it seem the stonework itself was rippling.