by Prior, D. P.
“Wouldn’t matter if he was,” Thumil grumbled. “No one’s to touch him, or it’s my head on a plate, which I guess is what he meant. Don’t forget that report now.” He clapped Kal on the shoulder and started up the steps.
“What did he mean?” Carnifex said more or less to himself. “The Demiurgos? What’s that old demon got to do with anything?”
“Don’t go there,” Thumil said. “I’ve heard more sense from a goat’s arse than Stupid’s mouth. Nothing but riddles and paradoxes. Don’t waste your time trying to fathom anything he says.”
You must forget in order to find the truth of who you are… Just thinking about it hurt Carnifex’s brain. Maybe Thumil was right, but that didn’t stop the vague sense of worry scratching away at the base of his skull. Forget what? Who he was? Something he knew?
Cordy brushed the back of Carnifex’s hands with her fingertips. “You see that Black Cloak fleeing the scene?”
“Aye, lassie, I saw the shogger.” Eyes and ears everywhere, like they wanted you to believe. But fleeing like that… You had to wonder.
Cordy cast a worried look after Thumil. “What’s going on, Carn?”
He shook his head. If he knew that, maybe he wouldn’t have felt the creep of impending dread. Why had Stupid singled him out? How had he known his name? And then there was the recent slurry of incidents: first the break-in, then the golem, and now this. Arx Gravis wasn’t exactly known for excitement, and yet, these past few days there had been one thing after another. What he was certain of, though, was that there was more to this than just a chance brawl with a disgruntled baresark and his mates.
“Come on,” he said, starting after Thumil. “I could use that nightcap he mentioned.”
The three barely spoke a word as they made the arduous climb up the Aorta’s stairwell. Carnifex found himself counting, just so he could remind himself there was a finite number of steps. Cordy was panting and wheezing, every now and again pausing to clutch at her throat. It could be the baresark had damaged her windpipe. If he hadn’t already done it, Carnifex would have killed the shogger for hurting her. He’d kill the whole damned lot of them, every last baresark stinking up the foot of the ravine, if they dared touch her or Thumil again. He didn’t like thinking like that, but he tried not to be too hard on himself. The drink was still doing its work, in spite of his battle lust burning off the alcohol. Its numbing effects might have left his limbs, but the downward tilt it had on his mood would linger a while yet.
It was gusting up a storm by the time they reached Thumil’s home on the fourteenth level. The neighboring houses were squat blocks of deeper darkness against what was left of the night. The glowstones on the walkway shed just enough light to pick out their outlines.
Thumil opened the front door and ushered Cordy and Carnifex in first.
“Give me a moment,” he said, shutting the door behind him.
He fumbled about in the dark of the entrance hall, muttered a curse as he dropped something, but finally managed to get a spark to take in his tinderbox. He transferred the flame to an oil lamp using a taper, and soon the hallway was bathed in flickering light and long shadows.
“Come through to the hearth room, and I’ll get a blaze going.” He went in ahead of them and froze in the doorway.
Carnifex peered over his shoulder. “What is it? Oh, shog.”
The furniture had been overturned, and Thumil’s belongings had been scattered all over the floor.
Cordy pushed past them into the room. She let out a long whistle. “Always said you were a messy bastard, Thumil.”
He glanced at her, and their eyes locked. Something was shared between them, but Cordy turned away and set about picking things off the floor.
“Leave it, Cordy,” Thumil said. “I’ll do it in the morning.”
“Check the rest of the house?” Carnifex said.
Thumil nodded, and together they went from room to room. It was the same everywhere: complete and utter carnage.
“They take anything?” Cordy asked when they returned to the hearth room.
Thumil shrugged. He seemed too stunned to care.
“Want to come back to mine, Thumil?” Carnifex said.
Again, that shared look with Cordy.
“No, son. Thank you, but no. I’ll be all right here. I doubt whoever it is will come back.”
“Well, I’m staying with you,” Carnifex said.
Cordy righted a divan and sank down onto it. “Me, too. You still good for that drink?”
Thumil retrieved a cask and some tankards from the mess in the kitchen. “You have to think it’s a warning,” he said, coming back in and handing out drinks. “I mean, all my tokens are still there, in the bedroom chest; my weapons, my golden helm. It’s a piss poor burglar that would miss all that.”
“Who would want to warn you?” Carnifex said. “And why?”
“One of your disgruntled whores?” Cordy said, taking a sip. “What is this? It’s helping my throat.”
“Urbs Sapientii mead,” Thumil said. “That’ll be the honey.”
Carnifex gave an impressed look at the tankard he’d been clutching, half-forgotten. “Might as well see what I missed out on for my birthday.” He wet his lips and ran his tongue over his palate. It was sweet and bitter at the same time. He took a swig. And it had a kick like a ravine goat. No wonder Droom had kept it for himself.
“Just for the record,” Thumil said. “I don’t have whores.”
“Whore’s the pity,” Carnifex said, plonking himself down beside Cordy.
“No,” Thumil went on, “this has the feel of the Krypteia about it.”
“The Black Cloaks?” Cordy looked at Carnifex, and his mouth dropped open.
“You didn’t see the figure in the shadows of the Aorta, did you, Thumil?” Carnifex said.
Thumil frowned. “Figure?”
“A Black Cloak. Ran down the steps as soon as Kal and the others showed up.”
“I didn’t notice,” Thumil said. “Must have been too busy having my face broken at the time. Either that, or it was the concussion.”
“You been upsetting Grago?” Carnifex said.
“No more than usual. But I may have shown Baldar Kloon up a little the other day.”
“That scut?” Carnifex said. “Actually, you’re right. I don’t think me punching him helped matters much. But that little runt? He wouldn’t, would he?”
Thumil took a slug of mead. “You’d be surprised. Don’t you go doing anything stupid now, Carn. Let me handle it. Grago’s an arse, but he’s a lawful one. I’ll have a word with him, see what can be done.”
“You think this Kloon was behind the baresarks?” Cordy said.
“Let’s hope so,” Thumil said. “Otherwise, what happened tonight might just be the start of worse to come. Those shoggers get fired up again, and there will be blood.”
“Bah,” Carnifex said, “there’s hardly any baresarks left. They haven’t recovered from the last time they got cocky. They want blood, I’ll give them blood. If they’ve got an ounce of sense, they’ll learn from what happened tonight. Three of them, I put down. How’s that, then?”
“Actually,” Cordy said, “it was two. I got the last one.”
“True, lassie, true. But it was my axe.”
DROOM THANE, NÉE SCREEBANK
All that talk of blood led to Carnifex dreaming of blood: rivers of it pouring down the walls of the ravine, dripping from the walkways, and turning the waters of the Sanguis Terrae red. He woke with a start and reached for his axe. It was there beside him on the floor.
On the floor? Where the shog was he?
He blinked, eyes adjusting to the dawn light bleeding through the shutters. Of course: Thumil’s. The divan Cordy had slept on was empty, save for the blanket that had covered her.
Someone had tidied the room. Cordy, no doubt, but she’d done a good job not to wake him. Mind you, the amount he’d had to drink, he’d have slept through a dragons’ farting contest. Not
that anyone had ever seen a dragon, and it wasn’t likely they ever would. Assuming such monstrous beasts even existed, they’d be confined to Qlippoth on the other side of the Farfall Mountains, along with all the other creatures of nightmare. But they still made for good yarns to frighten children with. Least, that’s what Droom had done to him and Lucius growing up.
He thought about making himself a kaffa, but when he passed Thumil’s bedroom door and found it shut, he decided not to risk waking him with the noise. The faint sound of snoring came from within. The marshal needed his rest after last night. Carnifex knew him of old: the instant he woke, Thumil would be off to the Dodecagon to report what had happened, and once in uniform, he’d stay working till the suns went down, and beyond.
No, Cordy had got it right when she’d done a bit of tidying up and left them to sleep. She was a good lass. Actually, the more he thought about it, there was no one better.
Carnifex let himself out and strolled back to the Aorta so he could make the descent to the Sward two levels below.
When he arrived home and set his axe down in the hallway, the house was empty, save for Aristodeus sitting at the kitchen table with Yyalla’s scarolite helm in front of him. He was so rapt examining it, that he didn’t even look up.
“Kaffa?” Carnifex said, crossing to the hearth and filling the kettle from a keg of water.
Aristodeus jumped out of his seat and touched a hand to his chest. “Don’t do that.” His blue eyes sparkled fiercely, but then dulled to gray in an instant. He let out a sigh and lowered himself back into his chair. “I’m so sorry, Carnifex.”
“No need to apologize. Lucius not up yet?” It would be a miracle if he was.
“I mean, I’m sorry about your pa.”
“What’s he done now?” Carnifex said. He started to make a joke, but he saw something in the way Aristodeus was looking at him. Icy fingers clutched his heart, and he backed up against the hearth.
Aristodeus stood and approached. His movements were awkward, as if he were out of his depth. “There’s been an accident… at the mines.”
“No,” Carnifex said. “No, no no.”
“The gallery he was working in collapsed. At least twenty were injured, but your pa…”
Carnifex sank down onto his haunches.
“I’m truly sorry, Carnifex,” Aristodeus said, crouching in front of him. “For this, and for what is to come. Believe me, I am working night and day. If I can find a way to…” He held a hand up, fingers quivering, as if he were trying to grasp something intangible.
Carnifex looked at him blankly. He was aware the philosopher was trying to tell him something, but he could think of nothing but Droom. A yawning chasm rose up to swallow him. Aristodeus was speaking again, but his words were muffled and barely comprehensible.
“Forgive me. I’ve said too much already. Just know, whatever happens, that I am trying. Have trust, and I will see you through, one way or the other. You are far too valuable to lose.”
“Lucius,” Carnifex said. He felt the burn of tears welling at the corners of his eyes, but they wouldn’t fall. “Does Lucius know?”
Aristodeus turned back to the table, his gaze lingering on the scarolite helm. When he replied, he sounded distracted, thinking about something else. “He’s gone to the mines, to help bring back the… to bring your pa home.”
“How?” Carnifex said. He didn’t intend it, but his voice came out tinged with anger. “How did you know?”
“They sent a runner.”
“And you were here… in the guest room?”
Aristodeus traced the lines of the engraved “Thanus” on the helm. “What? No, I never like to impose. I let myself in and out, same as always. If you must know, I’ve been making enquiries, about the golem, about your brother’s obsession with the Axe of the Dwarf Lords, and about this helm.”
“That’s my mother’s. Who said you could touch it? My pa?” Mention of Droom caused Carnifex’s guts to clench. The breath caught in his throat, and he fought back a sob.
Aristodeus steepled his fingers and drew in a long, slow breath. “You have to understand, Carnifex, difficult times are upon us. We must be prepared.”
“For what?”
“Everything. I don’t expect you to understand, but this is a pivotal moment.”
“More of your patterns?”
Aristodeus nodded, then fished about in his robe for his pipe. He popped it in his mouth, realized he hadn’t filled it, and instead took it out again and wagged it as he spoke.
“I’ll be honest with you. More than patterns. Glimpses. Snatches of the future. But which future is still to be determined.”
“You know a dwarf called Stupid?” Carnifex said. “Because he sounds a lot like you.”
The widening of Aristodeus’s eyes betrayed that he did.
“What does he mean,” Carnifex said, “‘some names are best forgotten’?”
The philosopher’s mouth hung open. “Is that what he told you? What else did he say?”
“That I had to forget in order to find the truth of who I am, and ‘Beware the wiles of the Demiurgos’.”
“Forget,” Aristodeus muttered, “to find the truth.” He glanced at Carnifex. “Of who you are, or what you will become?”
“And that is?” Carnifex said.
Aristodeus closed his eyes. He rested one hand atop the scarolite helm, and with the other, he put his pipe back in his pocket. “Anything I say to you, any careless word, could play into the enemy’s hands.”
“What enemy?”
“No one you need concern yourself about.”
“What enemy?” Carnifex repeated. He pushed himself to his feet.
“Who do you think it is your precious Council has been afraid of all these centuries?”
“Maldark the Fallen. They don’t want to make the same mistake he did.”
Aristodeus shook his head. “Beyond Maldark. What was the reason for his fall?”
“Sektis Gandaw, the Technocrat.”
“Beyond him,” Aristodeus said. “The root of all deception, all hubris, all megalomania.”
“The Demiurgos? That’s your enemy? A myth?”
“I thought the same as you, for a very long time. But things change. Knowledge grows.” He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “People change.”
“I don’t need this,” Carnifex said. He turned back to the hearth and snatched up the kettle. “I just want my shogging…” His hand trembled, and he had to set the kettle down with a clang. “I just want my kaffa. Is that too much to ask?” His lips quivered, and hot tears streaked down his cheeks.
Aristodeus half rose from his chair, but Carnifex held up a hand.
“Don’t. Just stay where you are.”
“One more thing,” Aristodeus said, sitting down again. “One more thing, and I’ll say no more. Promise me you’ll do nothing rash. Whatever happens in the next few days, take Stupid’s advice: beware. If Lucius asks you to do anything, come to me first.”
“Shog off,” Carnifex said.
“I mean it. I’m trying to help him. Guide him, so he doesn’t get blindsided. Everything is in flux, but the future I’ve seen… it doesn’t end well. Not for you, not for him, and not for Arx Gravis.”
“And what about the future my pa spoke about? The one the homunculus prophesied?”
Aristodeus rolled his eyes.
“He said that through me and Lucius our people would become like the Dwarf Lords of legend.”
“Yes, dead!” Aristodeus said. “Isn’t that what happens in the story? The Destroyer came among them, and the city of Arnoch sank beneath the waves, never to be seen again.”
That wasn’t what Droom had meant. He’d said hope would arise from his boys. Only, it was hard to see how? What hope could they offer Arx Gravis? Carnifex knew what he was: a half-decent brawler with an appetite for ale. And Lucius was little better, only his appetite was for things to stuff his face with. About the only good thing about them both was D
room, and now even he was gone.
“I’m not listening to any more of your nonsense,” Carnifex said. “I’m off.”
“Where?” Aristodeus said. “Where are you—?”
“To the mines. To a tavern. How the shog should I know? All I know is I can’t stand another second in your company.”
“Then I’ll leave. This is your house, after all.” Aristodeus stood and turned to go, but at the same instant, the front door banged open, and footsteps came down the hall.
“Do you want me to…?” Aristodeus said.
“No. Sit back down, and stay out of this. This is family business.”
Carnifex went out into the hall. The tail end of a procession passed into the hearth room. Rugbeard was at the back, and he turned to look at Carnifex with red-rimmed eyes.
“I’m sorry, son. Really, I am.”
Carnifex made his way down the hall as if he were still dreaming his dream of blood. Every step was like wading through an oozing canal of crimson. He wanted to say something to Rugbeard, felt like he was the one that should be doing the consoling. In the end, all he could manage was a pat on the old dwarf’s shoulder, and then he entered the hearth room.
Four miners stood up from the stretcher bearing Droom that they’d just set down on the floor. Lucius was there, too, back to the door. He was staring into the cold hearth. He’d not even taken the time to get dressed: he had on his night robe and slippers, caked over with a layer of dust from the mines. He turned slowly, as if he were dreading doing so. His eyes met Carnifex’s, and his chin began to tremble beneath his beard. The lenses of his spectacles had steamed up from the temperature change coming indoors.
“Carn?” he said, sounding almost bemused. “Oh, Carn.”
Carnifex crossed the room and embraced him. Lucius shook and shuddered as he sobbed. Carnifex felt the pressure to cry building up within him, too, but something was blocking the tears from falling as freely as Lucius’s—anger, fear, dread; he couldn’t tell, his emotions were so tangled up. All of them, maybe. And then he knew; knew what it was that had him choking on his own grief: it was abandonment he was afraid of. The fear of being alone. Shog, he’d never have believed it before this day, but it’s something his mother had left him: a gaping void, into which he’d have pitched long ago, had Droom not been there to steady him.