The Unweaving

by D. P. Prior

  “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.”

  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.

&
nbsp; “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 dwarves.

  “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.