The Unweaving

by D. P. Prior

  SHADER

  Book Three

  THE UNWEAVING

  D.P. Prior

  First Edition, 2014

  ISBN 978-1-63068-373-3

  Copyright © 2014 D.P. Prior. All rights reserved.

  The right of D.P. Prior to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All the characters in this book are fictional and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not be, by way of trade or otherwise, lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form, binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed upon the subsequent purchaser.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to my beta readers:

  Ray Nicholson, for a great chapter by chapter breakdown, and for offering suggestions for that problematic scene.

  Valmore Daniels, for a detailed and fearless critique, throwing in some much-needed early copy editing, advising on US English usage, and helping to improve the clarity of a few chapters.

  Cover art and interior sketches: Anton Kokarev

  Cover design and manuscript formatting: Valmore Daniels

  Map of Aethir: Jared Blando

  Map of Sahul: Theo Prior

  Map of The Nousian Theocracy: Mike Nash

  Interior sketches: Patrick Stacey

  Photo of the author: Theo Prior

  Conversion of italics from Pages to Word: Paula Prior

  A DWARF WITH NO NAME

  Dwarven City of Arx Gravis, Aethir

  One year before

  The Battle of the Homestead

  So much blood.

  Canals of it running through the streets of Arx Gravis. It dripped from the walkways and bridges like diseased rain, making the waters of Sanguis Terrae, the great lake at the foot of the ravine, a perfect match for its name. It even flowed along the corridors of power all the way to the Dodecagon, and though he knew the council chamber better than any other dwarf, knew the twelve stone doors were hermetically sealed, Thumil kept expecting the first trickle of red to seep through them, pool beneath the debating table, and rise till it drowned him and Cordy, that bald bastard Aristodeus, and … He looked at the once familiar dwarf twitching with nerves or damped down rage at the head of the table, scarcely dared take in the black axe clutched to his armored chest in white-knuckled hands. Looked and went blank. He couldn’t say it. Couldn’t say the name. It hardly seemed to fit anymore.

  He straightened his blood-spattered robe. Hard to believe it had once been white. What must he have looked like now? Nothing like one of the Council of Twelve, that’s for sure. Any illusions he might have had about status, about being untouchable in dwarven society, had scattered like rats before a mouser.

  All he could focus on was those dead eyes that used to have the hue of walnut, at once sad but twinkling with good cheer. Now they were black as the Void and just as hungry. Hungry for more slaughter. Hungry for the murder of his own kind. They saw Thumil watching, narrowed when he squeezed Cordy’s hand, wringing out what little strength was left in her. Then they flitted left to right, hunting out betrayal in the shadows beneath the amber glow-stones set into the lintel above each door. Used to be those lights gave the chamber a homey cheer, like the warm embers of the hearth in Kunaga’s, where they’d grown drunk together, set the place heaving with bawdy songs and uproarious wit.

  Thumil blinked back tears, met that tortured gaze that asked if he were friend or foe; read in that grimacing face the accusation of betrayal, the desperate need to trust. Those eyes had been ready to kill him, that much he knew. Didn’t matter how close they once were, if it hadn’t been for Cordy, he’d have been a head on a spike, along with all those other dwarves.

  She’d always had the persuasion, Cordy. Only woman alive who could have got him to the altar, but even she’d nearly fallen victim to the black axe. Whatever trust their old friend still had in her was teetering on a knife’s edge. There’d been no mercy in that demonic glare. None whatsoever.

  The eyes were feverish now, fixed right on him, daring him, willing him, begging him. Shog, the poor bastard looked a mess, beard all matted and streaked with froth, face carved with frown lines like scars. But that’s all it was now: a face. Thumil couldn’t allow himself to give it a name. The mere thought that this butcher was once a person, once a friend, brought bile to his throat, sent spasms through his innards that made him double up.

  Cordy let out a sob, gripped his hand tighter. Her palm was greased with sweat. Could have been gore, for all Thumil knew. Shog, she’d seen enough of it. The specks of crimson on her dress gave testimony to that, and there was a corona of roseate mist that swirled about her. Thumil blinked and it was gone. Must have been his eyes. Must have gotten blood in his eyes.

  How he loved her at that moment, needed her, knew with all his heart it was the two of them against the world. He put his cheek to her beard, sought the comfort of its soft bristles, but it was lank, cold with the perspiration of fear, or perhaps the wetness of congealing blood. He couldn’t bear to look, preferring instead the way his mind chose to picture her. How blessed he was to have her as his wife. How cursed in everything else. Maybe together they could keep the darkness at bay, forget what they’d seen, what they’d been forced to do; because it was a betrayal, however you looked at it, but it was the only choice they had. The only one they’d been given.

  Aristodeus stepped behind the butcher, holding the black great helm aloft, flecks of green glimmering on its casing in the half-light. There was a collective intake of breath and then silence as the philosopher lowered the helm.

  Thumil’s heart lurched. He wanted so much to say no. What if the killing could be stopped some other way they’d missed? Council wasn’t used to making emergency decisions. Trick him, was all the bald bastard offered—him and his homunculi friends. Trick him and kill him, or trick him and take his name, shame him like no other dwarf had been shamed, then shut him in the dungeons till a cure could be found. Thumil winced. There was no cure for evil like the black axe brought. Maybe killing would have been fairer to everyone.

  He stretched out his hand, but Cordy put a restraining arm around his shoulders.

  “No,” he rasped, the word not passing his clenched teeth. He forced his lips open, groaned way back in his throat, felt his friend’s name worming its way up from his guts, spilling into his mouth… and then it was gone as the helm covered the head and was sealed in place by a sparking theurgy from Aristodeus’s fingertips. Locked tight, just like the shogger said it would be, never to be removed.

  Aristodeus stepped back, rummaging in the pocket of his robe. “Well,” he said, producing a pipe and wagging the stem at Thumil like he was making a clever point to a student, “that’s that taken care of. You dwarves are safe as houses now, touch scarolite.” He rapped his knuckles on the helm.

  “Huh?” a muffled voice came from inside.

  Two of Aristodeus’s homunculi emerged from a wall, as if they’d been hiding inside the very stone. Thumil blinked and shook his head. Was it an illusion, like the concealer cloaks employed by the ravine city’s assassins, or something more innate to their nature as spawn of the Abyss? One had hair like fleece, twisted into long gray ropes. The other’s was a spray of slick black tendrils, surmounting an overhanging forehead and eyes like distant stars. They were carrying a rectangular block of crystal, which they set atop the table. With almost surgical care, one of them pried the butcher’s fingers from the haft of the black axe, while the other lifted the cursed weapon free. The barest
hint of a smile curled at the creature’s gnomic face before it placed the axe on top of the crystal and gave a satisfied nod as it sank into the block, settling in the middle.

  Cordy gave Thumil a look full of concern, but the best he could manage was a shrug. Never liked dealing with homunculi. Never trusted them, but the philosopher had convinced the council there was no other way. Smug bastard probably thought he had them worked out, just like he did everyone else. Even now, he was tapping out the bowl of his pipe and refilling it, seemingly without a care in the world.

  “See you again, Nameless Dwarf,” said the homunculus with the dreadlocks, voice tinged with regret—or was it sarcasm?

  “What’s that?” the butcher asked, pivoting his head so he could get a better look through the narrow eye-slit of the great helm.

  Thumil didn’t like the way the others were already calling his old friend the Ravine Butcher, but ‘Nameless Dwarf’? Is that all he was now, a dwarf with no name, a dwarf who, according to Aristodeus, never had one, not at any point in time?

  Didn’t make sense, as far as Thumil was concerned, but he couldn’t deny the reality. One minute the name had been on the tip of his tongue, the next it was as if it had never been. How could he have known this dwarf all his life, known his father, Droom, and his mother, Yyalla, and yet not have a clue what to call him? How many years had they fought together? Drunk? Shog of all shogs, Thumil even knew his brother, Lucius. Had known, rather. Poor old Lucius had gone to the seethers for starting all this black axe business. Small price to pay, Councilor Grago had argued: one isolated action by the council to avert a major catastrophe. Old Moary had tried to prevaricate, as always, but Grago had scared them into action. First time in hundreds of years, and the taste of complicity was like vinegar to Thumil. Once was enough for him, and most of the other councilors had agreed. He wasn’t about to make the same mistake again; wasn’t about to watch his friend put to death. Grago wasn’t happy about it, but what could he do without a majority vote?

  “Nothing,” Aristodeus replied to the helmed dwarf, holding something silver to his pipe and pressing with his thumb. Flame sprang up, and he swirled it around the bowl, sucking in air and smacking his lips. He returned the silver flame-maker to his robe and puffed out a couple of smoke rings. He gave a curt nod to the homunculi.

  The little creatures picked up the crystal block containing the axe and carried it straight through the wall. Aristodeus winked at Thumil.

  Thumil frowned after the dreadlocked homunculus, eyes boring into the stony surface that seemed to have swallowed him. There was something about how he’d uttered those words: ‘Nameless Dwarf’. Thumil rubbed his beard. A shiver passed along his spine. It sounded oddly familiar, like it had always been there and had come home to roost from some ill-defined future. Cordy must’ve sensed his unease, gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. Was it a description or a name? Had the homunculus chosen it for him, or was it meant as a joke? Thumil caught himself nodding vigorously. A descriptor and a name, he decided. Had to be. Had to call him something. Wasn’t a person otherwise.

  “How are you feeling?” Aristodeus asked.

  “In need of some mead or a flagon of ale,” came the voice from within the helm. “A big bottomed lass and a stout drinking pal. We’ll soak up the booze with a spit-roasted cow, and sing bawdy songs in the best bars in town…”

  Thumil opened his mouth to join in the refrain then clamped it shut, tears streaming down his cheeks. Cordy hugged him so tight she nearly crushed the life out of him.

  “Shogged out our brains,” the Nameless Dwarf bellowed. “Nothing’s the same as a brawl and some mead and a beer-drinking dame.”

  How many times had they sung those words together, terrorizing the taverns of Arx Gravis?

  “Thumil?” said the voice from within the helm. “Thumil, is that you?” The eye-slit turned toward him. “Who’s the lucky lassie?” He turned to Cordy. “Like the beard, gives me something to… Cordy? What’s wrong with me? I didn’t recognize… I mean, hang me for a shogger, you two were married last time I looked.” His hand snaked out, took Cordy’s. “There, see! A ring to match that golden hair of yours. Lassie, forgive me, I’m not myself. You too, Thumil. Am I forgiven?”

  “Aye,” Thumil said, sniffing back some snot and wiping the tear tracks from his face. “Course you are.” He looked down at his feet, at the dark stains creeping up from the soles of his boots. His eyes followed the trail of bloody footprints to the door they’d entered by, now sealed like a sepulcher.

  “No, wait. Something’s wrong,” the Nameless Dwarf said. “You’ve been here all along. Me, too. It’s all a blur. Can’t even remember my own name.” He shook his helmed head from side to side, slapped at it with his palms. “Must’ve fallen out my ear.” Bang, bang, bang. “Shog, it’s lost. Help me get this thing off my head, will you? My name… I’ve lost my shogging name. Gods of Arnoch, do you know how stupid that sounds?”

  Aristodeus stepped to the side of the chair, pipe clamped in the corner of his mouth. The eye-slit focused on him.

  “Can you find it for me, laddie?”

  “No,” the philosopher said around the stem of his pipe. He glanced at Thumil, gave the impression of sighing. “No, I’m afraid it’s gone.”

  Thumil closed his eyes, sought the narrowest crack in all the torment through which to slither away and once more know peace, but it was a hollow hope. None of them would ever know peace again after what they’d witnessed, after what this poor, cursed soul had done, Lord have mercy.

  The Nameless Dwarf slumped forward in his chair, catching the face of his helm in his red-stained hands.

  Aristodeus turned away, as if he had better things to do, casting casually over his shoulder, “Tell them it’s safe to come in now, Councilor.”

  Thumil extricated his fingers from Cordy’s one at a time. She must have been holding her breath, for she exhaled so sharply it sounded like air escaping from a corpse. He couldn’t look at her right then, but he knew she’d manage. She was strong enough. Stronger than him. All that held him up was Aristodeus’s command. He followed the bloody path to the door and slapped the stone with his palm.

  “Thumil?” Old Moary’s muffled voice came from outside. “That you?”

  “It’s all right to come in now,” Thumil called, barely recognizing his own voice, it rasped so much.

  There was a dull thud as the mechanism kicked in, and then the door clunked and ground its way up into the ceiling. It was a disconcerting thing, learning the Dodecagon could be locked from the outside. Normally, the councilors wanted to keep others out while they were debating. Made you wonder who’d instructed the engineers. Made you wonder even more what the original purpose of the chamber had been, back in the days of monarchy before Maldark the Fallen, before the Council of Twelve took over the reins of Arx Gravis.

  “Is he held?” Throam Grago said, pushing his way into the chamber first. “Has the axe been removed?”

  “The Council of Twelve?” the Nameless Dwarf said, sitting bolt upright and taking in the white-robed dwarves bustling through the doorway, then looking around the room as if for the first time. “The Dodecagon? Shog, this must be serious. What have I done, drunk the last bottle of Urbs Sapientii mead? Wait, no, Thumil, that would have been you, you sozzled old shogger.”

  Thumil dipped his head, clamping his eyes shut to hold in the tears.

  “Yes, yes, Councilor Grago,” Aristodeus snapped. “Just as I said it would be.”

  “Then we have him,” Grago said. “To the seethers!”

  “Oh, it is serious,” the Nameless Dwarf said.

  Aristodeus sighed and rolled his eyes. He crossed the chamber and made a show of inspecting the stonework, all the while puffing on his pipe.

  “That’s not what we—” Thumil started, but he sounded tired, defeated, even to himself.

  “Pish,” Grago said. “Never mind what was said. We are talking about the survival of our race. Risks, Councilor Thumil. The ris
ks must not outweigh the benefits.”

  The rest of the councilors made their way into the Dodecagon, eyeing the butcher in the helm warily before gathering together in a tight clutch, as if they were afraid to sit at the same table as him.

  “The ends justify the means,” Tor Garnil said, as if it were a fact. “Councilor Grago is quite right; it’s all a matter of proportionalism. If you take, for example, the paradigm of the—”

  “My husband was speaking,” Cordy said in a voice like a whiplash.

  Thumil winced. They had her riled, and that was never a good thing.

  “My dear lady,” Garnil said, “your husband is an elected member of this council, whereas you are not.”

  “Look, you ignorant shogger,” Cordy said, advancing on Garnil, fists clenched.

  Garnil took a step back, right into Castail, who was in the middle of a hushed debate with Yuffie, couple of conniving backstabbers that they were.

  “Wait, my dear,” Thumil said, instantly regretting it.

  “Don’t you ‘dear’ me,” Cordy said. “I’ve had a gutful of death already, and I won’t let you stand for any more of it, Thumil, do you get it?”

  Old Moary coughed into his fist, wiped the spittle from his gray beard. “Well, I don’t know. I mean, what if—”

  “No, Councilor,” Grago said. “No more ‘what ifs’, no more prevarication. We are on the brink. On the brink, I tell you. The time for inaction is past. For too long have we cowered in the shadow of Maldark’s sins, afraid to even take a shit without months of debate. We must—”

  A long drawn-out groan reverberated from the Nameless Dwarf’s helm. “Lucius?” The helm pivoted left then right. “Oh shog, Lucius went to the seethers. Poor old Lucius.” The eye-slit came to rest on Thumil. “Thumil? Have I...? What have I...? Oh, no!” He went suddenly rigid, and his arms shook as he gripped the edge of the table. “Thumil, Cordy, was it me? Oh no, was it me?”

  “Yes, it was you, you evil shogger,” Grago said. “It was you all the way, cutting down decent dwarves, chopping them into pieces, sticking their heads on spikes. Why, had you forgotten? Wasn’t it important enough to remember?”