by Prior, D. P.
The sonorous drone of Droom’s voice whittled away at the heavy dark threatening to engulf Carnifex. Little by little, the black-dog mood retreated to the edges of his mind, and the room was gradually bathed in light, not only from the twin candles on the table, but from the shimmering daylight coming through the window, reflected from the walls and walkways of the ravine.
By the time Droom reached the end of the list, where he pronounced the name of Lord Cranek Thane with slow deliberation, Carnifex was back to his old self. Anticipation of the memorial was always worse than the reality, and now it was over, he was starting to wonder why he dreaded it so much. But he swiftly quelled the question, because he already knew the answer. It was a visceral knot he felt deep within his chest that tightened and twisted the more he tried to unravel it. Why a knot, he could never fathom. It should have been an empty space, a void left from never having known his mother.
“Good old Lord Cranek,” Lucius said with evident relief Droom had finished. “It would be nice to think he really was a Dwarf Lord.”
“Your ma thought so,” Droom said.
Lucius shook his head. “Whatever. The important thing is, you loved her, I loved her, and Carn… Well, you know what I think, brother. I tell you every year. She would have wiped the floor with you and beaten your ass raw with the flat of her axe.” He softened it with a genuine smile, and his eyes were brimming with tears. “I wish you’d known her, Carn, but at least she knew you. She used to tell me she could feel you kicking inside her.”
Carnifex knew he meant well, though it hurt like a knife through the heart. “Thank you, laddie. And thank you, Thumil and Cordy.”
They both nodded, faces fixed in masks of seriousness, as if the merest expression of emotion would bring the house down around them.
“And thanks for my present,” Carnifex said, shoving Cordy off the barrel and hefting it into his arms.
Cordy rolled to her feet, as he knew should would. She was the best of them at the Ephebe. She could fall as well as she could take a punch—
Carnifex’s head exploded in splinters of white. Pain lanced through his jaw, and he bit his tongue, tasting blood. He dropped the kilderkin on his foot and yelped as it bounced onto its side and rolled across the room.
… And she could give a punch that would crack a baresark’s skull.
“Sorry, Carn,” Cordy said. “Was that too hard for you?”
Carnifex rubbed his jaw and shook the grogginess from his head. Hoary spangles swirled in a giddying maelstrom then started to disperse. “Not at all, lassie; it can never be too hard. A woman of your experience should know that.”
She raised her fist again, but there was a big stupid grin on her face. She cocked her head, as if to say, “You ready for the next thump?”
“So,” Thumil said, marching over to the kilderkin and lifting it. “An early morning taste of beer, then off to Grimark’s pie shop for a spot of breakfast?”
“Oh, yes,” Lucius said.
Aristodeus gave Thumil a tight smile, then said to Lucius, “We really should get started. I haven’t got all day, and I need you to get me access to the Scriptorium.”
“Let’s stay for a quick birthday beer, at least,” Lucius said. “And we can pick up a pie or two on the way.”
Cordy lowered her fist and smothered Carnifex in a hug. “Happy birthday, Carn.” Her eyes filled with damp sincerity. “I love you… as if you were my brother.”
She smelled of musk and something sweet, some kind of flower scent. The softness of her breasts crushed against him made him feel suddenly awkward, and he held her out at arm’s length.
“As long as you don’t love me like I love my brother.”
“Hate you, too,” Lucius said.
Thumil carried the barrel into the kitchen, and while Cordy tapped it, Carnifex saw Droom to the front door and waved him off to work.
When he came back to the kitchen, and the beer started to flow, he found Aristodeus leaning against the door jamb. At first, Carnifex thought it was a show of petulance, because Lucius hadn’t immediately jumped when he’d said so, but then he realized the philosopher’s expression was more pensive than impatient. Aristodeus caught him looking, and tried to disguise his anxiety with a smile.
“Laddie?” Carnifex said. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Aristodeus closed his eyes and let out a long trickle of breath through his nostrils.
“Do you ever wish you could change things in some way, Carnifex?”
Carnifex opened his mouth to say he did, every year: He wished he could avoid the roll call of Thane family names, and the reminders of the mother he’d never been held by, but Aristodeus speared him with a look that cut right to the bone.
“I mean, what is to come,” Aristodeus said.
Prickles of ice formed all the way up Carnifex’s spine. His voice came out in a faltering quaver. “You know what that is?”
Aristodeus looked at him long and hard. Something like sadness drifted across his eyes. In the background, Thumil and Lucius were hazy blurs, raising their tankards in Carnifex’s direction. Cordy stepped in close, clear as day, and handed him a beer. He took it in numb fingers.
And then he realized Aristodeus wasn’t going to answer his question. Instead, the philosopher stepped back into the hallway, as if he wanted to be alone. But as Carnifex took his first swig of beer, and felt the lifting of whatever innominate dread had come over him, he heard Aristodeus mutter to himself:
“The future isn’t set in stone.”
It sounded like he was trying to convince himself.
THE MINES
As night fell the next day, Carnifex led his platoon from the barracks on the top tier of the city. They split into twelve groups of two and dispersed across the walkways and plazas for an hour’s roaming patrol. On every level, all the way to the bottom of the ravine, other troops of Red Cloaks would be doing the same.
Levels were assigned by lots to keep things fresh, and tonight, Carnifex had won the jackpot. There was nothing like being beneath the stars and the moons with no walkways overhead to obscure the view. It fired his imagination. One short climb up the zigzagging pathway cut into the chasm wall, and an entire world awaited: Aethir, so full of untapped mysteries, like the nightmare realm of Qlippoth across the Farfall Mountains, and the civilization of humans that dominated the lands of Malkuth above the ravine. And up there somewhere, inside his artificial mountain made from scarolite, was the Technocrat, Sektis Gandaw, the cause of Maldark’s fall from grace, and the real reason for the dwarves’ self-imposed exile. Maldark had been led astray, and his betrayal had brought Aethir to the brink of destruction. And not just Aethir, too, the way Rugbeard used to tell it when he read the youngsters history from the Annals: all the worlds. All of Creation. Everything there was.
Carnifex strolled with Kal toward where the walkway connected with the chasm wall, a mere few hundred feet from the lands above. His heart raced with the thought of all the things that awaited him, should he make a frantic dash to the lip of the ravine and flee across Malkuth. It was the same childish fantasy he’d indulged every time he’d patrolled the first tier, and as on every other occasion, he quelled the thought with a sobering dose of reality. A dwarf leaving Arx Gravis was about the only thing that would incite the Council to action, these days. It was a transgression punishable by death.
When they reached the wall, they began a circuit of the ledge that ran about the perimeter. It had been craftily built by the Founders to blend in with the natural rock, and spanned the chasm at two ends with the narrowest of bridges. Water fountained from an artesian well bored into an overhang, and joined the flow atop a sprawling aqueduct. As they passed beneath the arches, bulges shifted at intervals against the walls: the Krypteia’s assassins blending with the stone in their concealer cloaks. Those that were assigned the task had a job for life, tucked away in the shadows and recesses of the upper level, ready to raise the alarm, ready to do by stealth what the
Ravine Guard couldn’t achieve by force.
“Evening,” Carnifex said as he passed one.
There was no response. There never was. It was a point either of pride or duty, but the shoggers never spoke, least not to anyone outside their shifty outfit.
Kal said nothing, either, until they reached the mouth of the tunnel that led to the scarolite mines.
“Gives me the creeps every time I come up here, Carn. It’s too open. Too exposed.”
Carnifex leaned a hand on the wall and peered inside the tunnel. Glowstones ran the length of its throat, receding into the darkness. It was the route Droom took to work most days.
Miners were the only dwarves who got to leave the ravine, but even they never set foot on the soil of Malkuth. They had to remain underground the entire time. The Council wouldn’t risk contact with the denizens above, and the chance of another deception. Because that’s what history said it was, Maldark’s betrayal: a deception of the Demiurgos, the Lord of the Abyss. Since that time, any action, it was felt, any decision concerning the affairs of the world, was fraught with peril. Maldark had been so convinced he was right, that the dwarves no longer trusted their own discernment. If Maldark, the wisest of the ancestors, didn’t know he was being tricked, how could the rest of them? Even centuries later, the tremors of the near catastrophe rumbled through dwarven society. It was safer for them not to act, for them to hide away and keep to themselves.
“You hear me, Carn? I said, it puts a creep in my crotch coming up here. And the idea of going through that tunnel to the mines: I don’t know how your pa does it.”
“It’s what the Council wants you to feel, laddie.”
Carnifex turned around and sat in front of the opening, feet dangling from the ledge. Down below, the soft light coming from the brightening glowstones bathed the ravine in a warmth that belied the crispness of the air. He reached behind and picked up a sliver of rock from the tunnel floor, then held it out above the drop, and let go. It threaded its way through the spaces between walkways until he lost sight of it past the seventh, where he’d been on duty the night of the break-in at the Scriptorium.
“Shouldn’t do that,” Kal said, slumping down beside him, and repeatedly flicking nervous glances over his shoulder at the tunnel. “You might hit someone.”
“What do you think helms are for, laddie?” Besides, at this time of night, no one who wasn’t a Ravine Guard had any business being out and about, save for the Krypteia, and he couldn’t give a shog about hitting them.
They sat in silence for a long while, Carnifex lost in dreams of what lay outside Arx Gravis, Kal nervous and unable to settle.
“We still training when we get off?” Kal finally said.
“If you like, but not before breakfast and a snatch of snooze.”
“No, then,” Kal said. “Last time you said that, you were still snoring when the suns set, and then it was time for work again.”
“Aye, but it only happened the once, and I put it down to the ale. Some shogger switched my Ballbreakers for Ironbelly’s; turned my guts to rancid mush. Tell you what, I’ll fix us some eggs and ham at my place, a quick snifter of mead, and then we can load up on kaffa before we hit the weights. Dead lifts, this time, and I want to see five-hundred from you.”
“Five hundred pounds? You’re yanking my beard.”
“Laddie, I frequently pull five-hundred with just one—”
A wailing cry rolled down the tunnel behind them, rising in pitch and volume.
“What the shog?” Kal said, leaping up and drawing his sword.
Carnifex stood and hefted his axe to his shoulder. “That’s the night warden’s klaxon, laddie. Signal the men, then lead them after me. Make sure a runner wakes the marshal.”
Thumil would know what to do: he was the one to write the protocols. If the Krypteia in the concealer cloaks hadn’t already dispatched someone, Councilor Grago would be alerted, too, and he’d want his Black Cloaks on the scene. It would be better for everyone if Thumil arrived first and took control.
“You’re not going—”
“It’s our job to respond, laddie.”
With that, Carnifex entered the tunnel and started to run.
He’d only ever heard the klaxon in training before. No one had expected to hear it for real. It meant there was trouble in the mines. Real trouble. For if anyone sounded the alarm and there wasn’t, there would be hell to pay.
Kal’s whistle peeped behind him, and already he could hear the stomp of boots tramping across the walkway in response.
Carnifex’s heart thudded wildly in his chest. In part, it was from the running, but most of it was from the thought he was leaving the ravine for the first time.
The tunnel turned a bend and then opened onto a low cavern. A track led off into the distance. It was formed of iron rails and scarolite sleepers. Either side of it, the floor was elevated into platforms. Other tunnels joined the cavern from various points, each linked to a different location in the city. This was the depot Droom had spoken about, where miners going to work would enter the train that ferried them back and forth. Only, there was no train, presumably because it was at the other end, along with the night warden.
The klaxon’s keening soared to a deafening pitch that echoed along the tunnel walls and spilled out into the ravine. With a quick look behind to confirm Kal was following, Carnifex jumped down onto the track and ran along it. He’d gone barely a hundred yards when the klaxon ebbed away, and a point of silver shimmered up ahead. It was accompanied by a whoosh of air and a rumbling growl as it rapidly swelled in size.
The snub nose of a carriage came into view, speeding toward him. Gasping, Carnifex was momentarily frozen with the realization it was the train heading his way. Sparks flew from the tracks, and metal screeched. The train began to slow, but too little, too late. At the last instant, Carnifex sprang for the platform and rolled his legs out of the way. The snaking body of the train juddered and swayed amid a coruscating shower of argent, and slowly, torturously, it petered to a halt.
Kal came tearing down the platform with four Red Cloaks in tow as Carnifex climbed to his feet.
“You all right, sir?” Ming Garnik said, sprinting ahead of the group.
“Fine, laddie, fine.” Truth was, Carnifex was shaking from limb to limb. A split second later, and he’d have been a crimson spatter across the rails.
A silver panel in the side of the carriage slid open with a rush of air, and a bedraggled dwarf shambled out onto the platform.
“Rugbeard?” Carnifex said. “You’re the night warden?”
“Am now, for what it’s worth.”
Night warden of the mines was a far cry from being the principle teacher of the Annals; it was a long way to fall.
Rugbeard swayed on his feet, then took a lurching step toward Carnifex.
“I know you, son?” His voice was slurred, and his eyes were unfocused. They had a yellowish tinge, too, same as the skin of his face.
“Course you know me. Carnifex. Carnifex Thane. You taught me the Annals as a boy.”
“Never heard of him.”
“And you made me my training weights, remember?” Donkey’s years ago, when Rugbeard had set up his own forge so he could experiment with the metalworking techniques recorded in the Annals. He’d come up with a few innovations, not least of which was a set of iron plates of different poundages that could be added to a barbell. Apparently, it’s how the Founders had trained for strength and power all those centuries ago. Knowing Carnifex had a passion for lifting, Rugbeard had worked with him on the design, and left him with the finished product.
“That was you?” Rugbeard said. Then a light went on in his eyes. “Carnifex Thane! Droom’s boy.”
“What’s going on?” Kal said. “Was that you that set off the klaxon?”
“Cranked it, you mean.” Rugbeard flexed his elbow and gave his biceps a firm rub. “The effort half killed me.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a slender metal flask,
spun the cap off, and took three quick swigs. “Scared the shog out of me, it did.”
“The klaxon?” Carnifex said.
The other four Red Cloaks were peering inside the carriage Rugbeard had stepped out of. They would never have seen such a thing before.
“Thumping, from down in the shaft,” Rugbeard said. “Deep down, I’d have to say. Rattled the headframe. Damned near caused a cave-in.”
“An earthquake?” Muckman Brindy said, stepping away from the carriage. His fingers stroked the hilt of the sword sheathed at his hip.
Rugbeard shook his head. “Thumping, I said. And footfalls. Heavy footfalls. There’s something down there, I tell you, and I wasn’t about to stick around and find out what it was.”
“You’re sure, laddie?” Carnifex eyed the flask as Rugbeard once more brought it to his lips.
“Oh, aye,” Rugbeard said. “Blame it on the booze, why don’t you? Ol’ Rugbeard’s pissed out of his brain as usual, and can’t tell fact from fiction, is that what you’re thinking? I tell you, I heard thumping, and if you don’t believe me, go listen for yourself. You ask me, I reckon it’s Shent, up to his old tricks again.”
“Shent?” Kal said.
“The Ant-Man. Him from the Annals. Back when Sektis Gandaw made us dwarves to mine the scarolite he built his mountain with, he created ants the size of horses to guard the tunnels. Then he took a human and melded it with one of them, so it could keep the rest under control.”
Carnifex remembered the tale from his youth. “But the Ant-Man left the mines centuries ago.”
Rugbeard shrugged, and took another swig. “So, now he’s back.”
Carnifex wasn’t convinced. “And he thumps so hard, he can near-collapse the shaft?”
“Maybe.” Rugbeard snorted and returned the flask to his pocket. “What else could it be?”