by D. P. Prior
Abednago waved her quiet. “The little the Sedition have gleaned about Thanatos makes it clear your people would not last two minutes there. It is a death world, a planet where everything is anathema to life: plagues, insects, plants… Thanatosians.” He shot a look at Shadrak. “You met one, I understand, in New Londdyr.”
“Mephesch tell you that?” Shadrak said.
Mephesch was the leader of the Sedition. Nameless knew him well from his visits to Sektis Gandaw’s mountain.
Abednago nodded. “On the rooftops in New Londdyr, wasn’t it? A slender black figure with elongated fingers and no facial features. It was fast, I hear. Impossibly fast. Membranes beneath its arms that enabled it to glide. By all accounts, you were lucky to survive.”
“It wasn’t just luck,” Shadrak said.
Nameless said nothing. He knew how much the creature had disturbed Shadrak. He’d been shocked at how perfect a killer it was. But the assassin was right, though: luck may have played a major part, but it was still skill that had won the day. Skill, and instincts as keen as a razor’s edge.
“So, what’s the point?” Cordana said. “If we can’t survive on Thanatos, what makes you think—?”
“The Dwarf Lords could have survived,” Abednago said. “And still might. You forget, they were dreamed by the Cynocephalus to stand against the worst of the nightmares. They are untainted by the experiments of the Technocrat. There are none tougher.” He looked pointedly at Nameless. “And some have blood that is the purest of the pure.”
“The blood of the Immortals?” Cordana asked.
Nameless felt himself blush at that, but he recovered with a grin and a flex of his biceps. It’s why the Axe of the Dwarf Lords accepted him, and no other dwarf he’d met could touch her.
Abednago nodded. “The elite among the Dwarf Lords. King’s blood, they used to call it.”
“So, laddie,” Nameless said, hefting Paxy to his shoulder. “You want me to bring them back? Have them wage war on this wee dragon thingy?”
“If they’ll come,” Abednago said. “Because, if any of them survived, if they continued to breed, who’s to say how a world like Thanatos could change a people?”
Nameless chewed that over for a moment. How indeed? He’d seen positive the effects hardships could have. You only had to look at Nils. Then again, you only had to look at Silas to see how he’d been perverted by Blightey’s grimoire. Abednago had a point. Even if they made it to Thanatos, even if they found the mythical Dwarf Lords, there was no telling what kind of reception they would receive.
He turned to Cordana. “Anything has to be better than waiting around for the shields to fail and the water to come crashing in.”
“Sounds a half-arsed plan to me,” Shadrak said. “I mean, even if you get them to come here, what makes you think they can do anything against that monster?”
Nameless had a sudden flash of intuition. “Lord Kennick Barg. Old Rugbeard once told me the story.”
Abednago clapped his hands. “Exactly!”
“Although, that was a red wyrm,” Nameless said. “And it only had one head.”
“Well?” Cordana said, turning up her palms and raising her eyebrows.
“The Dwarf Lords of Arnoch used to patrol the skies in giant balloons,” Abednago said. “They were filled with gas that was lighter than air. Only trouble was, one lick of flame and the gas would go up, boom! Even the dragon guns on the walls were no match for this particular wyrm, and so Lord Kennick Barg—”
“He went up in a balloon to face it,” Nameless said. It was hard to suppress the swell of pride he felt in telling the tale. After all the self-loathing the dwarves had endured when they were convinced they were no more than discarded experiments of the Technocrat, Sektis Gandaw, things Nameless had learned revealed the truth of who they were, and there were few better examples than the self-sacrifice of Lord Kennick. “The wyrm turned its flaming breath on him, and the balloon exploded, taking the dragon and Lord Kennick with it.”
“And that’s your plan?” Cordana said.
One of the councilors—he must have been newly appointed, because Nameless didn’t recognize him—said, “Not so fast, now. We still haven’t discussed—”
Cordana silenced him with a snap of her fingers.
Shadrak chuckled. “Reckon you twats need a new form of government.”
“You don’t say, laddie,” Nameless said.
Cordana fixed them both with a withering stare.
“Well, it’s part of a plan,” Abednago said. “I found some sort of ballon in the central tower. It’s massive, over four-hundred feet long, and built around a framework of steel. It has some sort of propulsion system that my people say is so ancient, even they cannot fathom it fully. The turret atop the tower opens like a flower’s petals. I think it must have been some kind of hangar. If we could get the balloon working, and if we could find some gas to fill it… If we could steer it… If we could create a diversion so the ballon could get far enough away not to catch Arnoch in the blast… If we could get all five of the dragon’s heads to converge on it…”
“That’s a lot of ifs, laddie,” Nameless said.
“Well, it’s better than none,” Weasel said. “I mean, I’d at least give you odds on it, as opposed to the certain death of everyone in the city if we do nothing.”
Cordana glared for a moment, before she said, “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but Weasel is right.”
“In that case,” Weasel said, producing a notepad and a pencil, “who’s game? I’ll give you a thousand-to-one.”
“I object,” one of the councilors said, dismissing Weasel’s attempts at cashing in on the crisis with a shake of his head. A chorus of agreement went up from the others.
“Well, I don’t,” Cordana said.
“Then, you are nothing but a dictator,” a runt of a dwarf with a nasally voice said. It was Nip Garnil, Nameless was sure of it: older and thinner, but definitely him.
“If I am, you’ll be first for the chop,” Cordana said.
“See, see!” Garnil said, turning to his colleagues.
“Laddie,” Nameless said, stepping toward him. “Shut up.” He’d never liked Garnil. Never liked his pa, either.
Garnil started to protest, but the other councilors lowered their eyes like dutiful children.
“There’s a reason Arnoch used to have a king,” Abednago said with an exaggerated sigh.
“I vote we go,” Shadrak said. “So, don’t say I ain’t democratic.” The look on his face was anything but humorous. His eyes were bloody pools, seething with determination. He meant to see this through, whatever it took. Not on account of the dwarves, either. This was all to do with his foster mother. Something had awakened in the assassin that was as troubling as it was surprising. “Given I lost my plane ship bringing Nameless here, I don’t reckon you can refuse me.”
“I don’t see there’s much choice,” Cordana conceded.
The councilors started to jabber again, but she raised her voice. “There is no choice.”
One of the soldiers advanced a couple of steps. “My Lady Voice…”
“Kal?” Nameless said. “Kaldwyn Gray?”
Kal acknowledged him with a nod, then said to Cordana, “The Red Cloaks are with you.”
Horrified looks passed between the councilors, but Cordana held up a hand.
“We’re all in this together, Councilors. In times of crisis, difficult decisions need to be made, and made fast. Forgive me if I screw up, but right now, we must act, if there’s to be any hope of survival.”
“My Lady Voice,” Abednago said, “I will need a team to repair the balloon.”
“Cut the arse licking, Abednago,” Cordana said with a huff. “The title sounds sarcastic coming from your lips.” Nevertheless, she apparently concurred. She jabbed a finger at Councilor Winso. “Make it so.”
Winso flicked looks left and right at his colleagues, then nodded his compliance.
“Three more days,
you say?” Cordana asked Abednago. “Until the shields give way and we drown?”
“If that,” the homunculus said.
“Right, well, what are you waiting for? To the portal room. Now.”
“Uh hum,” Weasel said, holding out a hand, palm up.
“Ah, yes,” Abednago said. “I promised him payment for services rendered.”
“Did you now?” Cordana said.
“From King Arios’s coffers. I thought—”
“I thought leaving the city without permission was punishable by death,” Cordana said, taking in the other councilors. “Or has the law been changed behind my back?”
Heads were shaken.
“I’m good, I’m good,” Weasel said. “What I did was for the sake of Arnoch. I don’t expect to be paid for it.” He flipped a gem into the air and caught it. It was the stone he’d taken from Arecagen’s staff. Somehow, he’d stolen it back from Shadrak.
Weasel ambled off through the soldiers, whistling and tossing the gem as he went.
“Heh!” Shadrak growled, only just cottoning on.
Nameless draped an arm over his shoulders and squeezed him tight. “You live and learn, eh, laddie? There’s none shiftier than Weasel, not even a homunculus.”
Shadrak seethed and shook his head, but then he chuckled, and Nameless laughed with him.
Abednago led the way through the open double doors into the throne room.
The forest of fluted columns that supported the vaulted ceiling had been meticulously restored. The dais rising like an island at the room’s center had a new throne at its summit, an intricate amalgam of granite and gold. It stood vacant, awaiting a king to fill it.
That had been the plan in the aftermath of the victory over the Lich Lord: to restore the monarchy to Arnoch. The Council had offered the crown to Nameless in gratitude and restitution, but he’d known they were acting emotionally, given all they’d been through. And besides, what would he want with a citadel to rule? He’d sooner take a tavern and a gym any time. When he’d declined the offer, the dwarves had appointed Old Moary regent, and now that he was dead, they’d apparently fallen back on what they knew best, a prevaricating council that preferred standing still to embracing the challenges life had to offer.
Three arches opened onto torchlit corridors that led off of the throne room. Each had a single guard, the best that could be done, considering the dwarves’ decimated numbers since the massacre at Arx Gravis.
The councilors and soldiers followed behind, but when Abednago opened a concealed panel in the rear wall, Cordana told the bulk of them to wait outside, and only Kaldwyn Gray and one other followed them through, a soldier with a mace and a shield as big as a dwarf was tall. And Nameless realized who it was.
“Duck!” Nameless gripped him by the wrist.
Playing along with the old joke, the dwarf hefted his massive mace and dipped at the knees. But it was a name, not an action. Or at least, it had become a name. Shog knows what his parents had called him.
“It’s Grimwart now,” Duck said. “Kryptès Togal Grimwart.”
“I prefer Duck.” Nameless did his best not to show it, but it felt like a slap in the face. More than that, he felt something of infinite value had been lost, discarded in favor of… “Kryptès, you say, laddie?”
Duck was armored in bands of scarolite, which Nameless had not seen since his Ravine Guard days, and then only on the members of the Krypteia, the Council’s secret service. The ore was beyond the means of any regular dwarf. Under the economy of equal distribution mandated by the Council, everyone had the same meager entitlement, so long as they fulfilled their responsibilities to the state, based on aptitude and tradition. But, apparently, there was always a little more on hand for those closest to the Council, or those the Council needed to enforce the status quo.
As if waking from a daze, Nameless clapped eyes on the black cloak Duck wore. Not Duck, he reminded himself. He was starting to see it now: Kryptès Grimwart. Clearly, he’d gone up in the world since his valiant fight against Blightey’s feeders. Or down, depending on how you looked at it.
Trying to suppress the hint of trepidation he felt, Nameless said, “Well, whatever we’re to call you, it’s good to see you again.”
“You, too, Nameless,” Grimwart said, clapping him on the back. “You, too.”
THE PORTAL
The homunculus, Abednago, led them down flight after flight of stairs and along twisting passages that would have made the interior of the plane ship seem like the straight and sure path to the Wayist afterlife, if you believed in such things.
Thought of the plane ship reminded Shadrak of what he’d lost. No more skulking about beneath cities, emerging when and where he liked to get a job done, and then slinking away again, unseen.
But every step they took was a step closer to Kadee. Her tanned and wizened face floated just behind his eyes; not the vision that haunted him whenever he did anything wrong: a memory this time, full of fondness and longing. Was it possible she still existed, in spite of what he’d seen? In spite of her wasting away before his eyes? He’d scattered her ashes himself, and yet the Archon had promised she was still alive, waiting for him on Thanatos.
He couldn’t begin to guess how that was possible. But for all his faults, the Archon hadn’t been a liar. Manipulative, maybe, and almost god-like in his powers, but Shadrak had observed nothing to make him doubt the Supernal Being’s integrity. And he’d not only seen Kadee, heard her in his mind. He’d interacted with her; asked questions and received answers.
But in those snatches of vision, there had been a hint of menace in the background: dark skies, trees that seemed to grope and writhe; looming mountains of shadow. Was that the death world Abednago had described? Had Shadrak already glimpsed Thanatos?
The thing that niggled him most, though, was how this Abednago knew so much about Thanatos. From what Shadrak had gleaned, even the Archon was baffled by its existence. If that were the case, it seemed unlikely the homunculi would be familiar with it.
Nameless walked a few paces ahead of him, flanked by the two soldiers he’d apparently known, one in a red cloak, one in black. The black-cloak had a mace you could brain a giant with, and a big shield, but he seemed amiable enough, and kept trying to joke with Nameless.
Nameless, though, had eyes only for Cordana, the white-robed Voice of the Council. Shadrak remembered her from before, when he’d put an end to the butchery at the ravine city. She’d not thanked him at the time, but you could hardly blame her. The streets of Arx Gravis had been rivers of blood, and there were so many heads on spikes, her husband’s among them.
Now, though, when she glanced at Shadrak, there was something like anger in her eyes, as if she were pissed he had nearly killed her old buddy, Nameless. After everything Nameless had done to her and her family, after nearly wiping out their entire race, she still hovered over him like a protective mother. No, more than that, Shadrak realized: she was sweet on him. Thinking about it made him want to vomit. Not just the fact of the tragic history between the two, but the thought of their beards getting tangled up when they kissed. You had to wonder if she had a hairy chest and nipples, too.
The husk girl clung to Nameless like a shadow. It might have been that she feared being displaced now Nameless had Cordana to think about. Whatever the case, she clearly preferred the dwarf’s proximity to Shadrak’s. He couldn’t say he blamed her. He’d almost sold her to Master Arecagen. Probably still would, if he had the chance again, and if the scut produced the money.
But he hadn’t forgotten what Abednago said about her still growing, maturing into… into what? From what Shadrak had seen so far, she was inhumanly strong, and she’d walked through the blaze of dragon breath as if she were out for a gentle stroll. He’d have to keep a close eye on her, that’s for sure. First hint of danger, and she’d better hope she was as immune to a bullet through the head as she was dragon fire.
Abednago was in hushed conversation with Cordana: someth
ing about his people—the Sedition—reporting a disturbance in Gehenna, the underground realm of the homunculi. Shadrak heard mention of the Cynocephalus, the dog-headed ape credited with dreaming the world of Aethir into existence. Its dreams had worsened, from what he could make out, and the five-headed dragon was the result. More than that, something had frightened the Cynocephalus badly. The word that stood out for Shadrak, though, was “purposefully”. Abednago suspected the dwarves were being targeted.
The soldiers exchanged looks, but Nameless seemed deaf to what was being said, lost in his own world. At first, Shadrak thought he’d fallen into one of his depressions, but then he noticed the way the dwarf’s fingers clenched and unclenched around the haft of his axe; the way he kept stealing looks at Cordana then lowering his eyes.
“Who would want to target us?” Cordana said, but Abednago merely shrugged and gestured with a hand that they’d arrived.
The homunculus led them down a flight of worn and pitted steps, through a creaking door, and into a vast oval chamber.
The central floor space was taken up by an arch made from scarolite. The dark ore’s green veins had been carved into glyphs and sigils that shimmered in a repeating sequence. Above the arch, a metal ring held a circle of crystal spheres that winked on and off, one after another, dappling the floor with shifting splotches of violet light. Ozone was heavy in the air, and the hairs on Shadrak’s arms stood up on end.
“There’s usually a corresponding portal at the destination site,” Abednago said.
“Usually?” Cordana folded her arms beneath her breasts and glowered.
“Has to be,” Abednago said. “This is homunculus lore, and I’ve never seen one without its twin at the point of arrival.”
“So,” Shadrak said, sensing the glimmer of an answer to his niggling question, “homunculi have been there before?”
Abednago shifted uneasily; tried to disguise it with a frown and a shrug.