Carnifex (Legends of the Nameless Dwarf Book 1)

by Prior, D. P.

  Carnifex forgot all about Grago as he set eyes on Cordy emerging from between two phalanxes. At first, he thought she’d come alone, but then he glimpsed Duck stepping into line with his confrères. Cordy entered the space before the oast house and took Thumil’s hand.

  She was immaculate in her white gown. The gold ties in her hair picked up the scant sunlight peeking through the clouds and glittered. The corset beneath her dress drew her waist in so tight, Carnifex could have encompassed it with his hands. It only served to set off the curve of her hips, the flare of her shoulders. Her tow hair cascaded in ringlets that fell into the golden braids of her beard, and the skin of her face, of her chest and shoulders above her dress, had the sheen of satin, the texture of olives.

  It was enough to test a dwarf’s loyalties, but his were forged in iron. Droom was his model in that, and he always claimed he got it from Yyalla. Friendship before self was the simple way of summing it up. No matter how hard it was. No matter the cost.

  A warm glow ran beneath Carnifex’s skin—not the scolding heat of envy he’d felt when Thumil had first told him; not the scorch of lust. He recognized it for what it was: the beginnings of acceptance; a taste of the happiness his friends could have, if freed from guilt at his loss.

  Thumil turned and nodded, and Carnifex stood, fumbling in his pocket for the ring. When he had it in hand, he went to Thumil’s side, and the three of them faced the oast house. Before them, the chamberlain opened the Liber Via and began to read.

  The reception in the Dodecagon was a staid affair, offset only slightly by the jaunty airs from a string quartet. Twenty or so round tables had been set up in the council chamber, at which special guests were seated. The Council of Twelve sat aloof from them at their debating table, with Cordy and Thumil in the center.

  The food was fancy but passable—roasted beef from Councilor Crony’s farm at the foot of the ravine; swede and carrots from the second level allotments; and Grimark’s shredded greens, which Thumil had taken a liking to. Wine from Councilor Castail’s family vineyard flowed freely, but Carnifex caused a stir when he requested beer instead. Fortunately, Cordy had anticipated the need and had arranged for a few kegs of Arnochian to be there just in case.

  Carnifex sat at a table with Lucius. Aristodeus wasn’t included on the list of banquet guests, but if anything, he’d seemed relieved. He had more work to do with the scarolite helm, but when Carnifex pressed him about the nature of that work, all he would say was “Precautions.” It didn’t go unnoticed, though, when he’d left the ledge on the fourteenth, that he didn’t go alone. The motley fool, Stupid, had gone with him.

  By his third tankard, Carnifex ceased to care about the glares Grago occasionally sent his way, and was more than happy listening to Lucius droning on about the disagreements he was having with Aristodeus. Apparently, the philosopher was now of one mind with Rugbeard, and considered the mentions of the golems and the Axe of the Dwarf Lords in the Annals a later interpolation at best, and a dangerous fake at worst. Lucius was adamant any later interpolation must have occurred after Rugbeard made his copy, which struck him as ludicrous and incredibly difficult to manage, given the way the parchment and ink was a perfect match for the rest of the volume. The alternative posited by Aristodeus, he said, was even harder to accept: it would have required nothing short of a magic wand to effect such a seamless alteration in the brief amount of time the book had been missing from the Scriptorium.

  “What if the homunculus exchanged it for a pre-prepared fake?” Carnifex said, beckoning a server for another refill.

  “I’ve already considered that,” Lucius said. “But it makes no sense. You said there was an empty space on the shelf, where the book was missing. The homunculus fled the Scriptorium but subsequently returned, and the space was filled. If he already had the fake on him, why would he leave and come back?”

  “Maybe he forgot it?” Carnifex said lamely. He nodded his thanks to the server and took a glug of beer. “Or maybe Jarfy disturbed him, and next thing he knew, I was on the scene. He fled, then doubled back to make the switch.”

  Lucius considered his words for a moment, then dismissed them with a shake of his head. He diluted his wine with water from a jug and took a sip. “If there’s a simple answer to a problem, it’s usually the right one. No, it’s all very well coming up with these fanciful theories, but why is no one but me willing to accept the obvious? The Annals have not been tampered with. I’m probably the only scholar in centuries to focus on the threads of myth that occur in the historical passages. Other than me, I suspect only Rugbeard has read all the pertinent parts. You’ve seen the state of him, Carn. It’s no secret his brain’s been pickled in alcohol for the best part of a hundred years. It stands to reason there are errors in his copy. That’s what Aristodeus and I have been doing these past few days: searching out discrepancies between Rugbeard’s version and the original. Do you know how many commas he’s misplaced? Changes the entire meaning of a sentence at times. And how a dwarf can introduce homonym errors in a verbatim copy just beggars belief.”

  “So, Rugbeard’s a piss head? That’s your theory?”

  “That’s about it,” Lucius said.

  “And it’s no coincidence a homunculus just happens to show up and borrow the very volume of the Annals that contains the passages in question?”

  “Exactly what Aristodeus says. Want to know what I told him? Let’s apply this scientific method you keep harping on about, I said—some half-baked philosophy he’s always invoking. Let’s follow up on the clues in the Annals and see for ourselves if the axe is there, in the depths of Gehenna.”

  “You wouldn’t,” Carnifex said. “You wouldn’t dare leave the city.”

  “And risk exile? Believe me, I would if I thought I’d find the Axe of the Dwarf Lords. I’d happily live out the rest of my days in a cave on the surface if I got to achieve that dream.”

  “You’re joking.”

  Lucius’s look said he was dead serious, but then he let out a peel of shrill laughter that drew raised eyebrows and one or two frowns from from the debating table. He poured more water into his wine glass and took a swig.

  “Don’t like the wine?”

  “It’s a bit strong.”

  Now it was Carnifex’s turn to frown. Too strong for Lucius? His tolerance of alcohol was as legendary as Droom’s cast iron gut and his ability to drink scolding kaffa.

  Suddenly, Lucius clamped a hand over Carnifex’s forearm. Their eyes met for a moment, and then Lucius dropped his to the tabletop. “I should have done better by you, Brother. Then you might not have fallen when you did.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Lucius indicated Carnifex’s face, which, while the swelling had gone down, was still yellow with fading bruises. “You could have been killed. You nearly were, in spite of winning the fight.”

  Carnifex set down his tankard and put his hand atop Lucius’s. “That was nothing to do with you, Lucius.”

  “Oh, it was. I should have been there for you after Pa died, but I was so caught up in my work. My obsession with the axe. I kept thinking, if only I could complete one line of inquiry, I’d be able to take a break and spend time with you, but something else always came up. I nearly lost you, Carn. You’re all the family I have left.”

  “And you’re all the family I have,” Carnifex said. He lifted his hand to touch his brother’s cheek. “It’s me that’s been the shogger, not you.”

  “But I’m the eldest,” Lucius said. “I should have been there for you.”

  “You’re here now, Lucius. And I’m here for you.”

  Thumil waved him over to the debating table. Carnifex sighed. Last thing he wanted was to join the councilors in some circular political debate, because that’s about all those codgers were good for. Except maybe Yuffie. He could probably spin a good yarn or two, but the mere fact he was implicated in the somnificus trade was enough to label him a scut in Carnifex’s book.

  He made his apologies t
o Lucius and fixed a smile on his face as he approached Thumil. Cordy rose and embraced him, and Thumil did the same from the other side, and then walked Carnifex around the table, introducing him to each and every one of the Councilors, all of whom already knew him from the debriefing after the break-in. He guessed Thumil was making an attempt to include him, and he was thankful for that, but just because a good dwarf was now head of the Council didn’t mean the rest of them weren’t tedious old shoggers.

  By the time the small talk was exhausted, and Carnifex’s face hurt from smiling, all he wanted was another flagon of beer and a good heart to heart with his brother. But when he got back to their table, Lucius was gone.

  TRANSGRESSION

  Carnifex didn’t stay long after Lucius left the wedding banquet. He used his injuries from the circle fight as an excuse and set off down the Aorta.

  Lights were still on in the Scriptorium when he passed it, but that was nothing unusual. Scholars were strange creatures who’d wake in the middle of the night with an inspiration they just had to follow up on straight away. He knew that well from the number of times Lucius had awoken him by slamming the front door on his way out. It was probably Lucius in the Scriptorium now, acting on his compulsion to eke out every last bit of information on the Pax Nanorum, even if just to prove to Aristodeus he was right. Because that’s what he’d do, rather than make good on his plan to go in search of it. Intellectually, he might have been considered something of a maverick, but physically, he was as adventurous as Droom had been. About the only risk Lucius was likely to take would be tasting the latest concoction to come out of Grimark’s oven.

  Carnifex was tempted to knock on a window to see if his brother really was there, but he swiftly changed his mind. Lucius had cleared off without even saying goodbye. And just when the two of them were finally starting to speak as brothers should. Shog him. Let him stay up all night reading books, but Carnifex was going home.

  Only, when he reached the twelfth level, he stepped off onto the main walkway and headed toward the Ephebe.

  How could he sleep? Not only was his mind still awhirl adjusting to the marriage of Thumil and Cordy, and not only was he starting to feel abandoned by his brother, but he was sick of the sight of bed. His injuries might have looked bad to others, but already the pain had subsided and the stiffness had left his joints. He needed to train, get his mind off of things, and who knows, maybe prepare for another bout in the circle. Agonizing as it had been, such raw combat had the makings of an addiction. He could see why Kallos had kept going for so long. King of the hill, who the others had to overthrow, if they were to make a name for themselves. Well, now that king was him, unless he never set foot in the circle again. But what would they do if he didn’t? Label him a coward and a scut? As he was starting to see it, there were worse ways to make tokens, if he was going to quit the Guard.

  He left the main walkway at the sprawling market plaza. The stalls were all shut up for the night, and besides a scavenging pack of chasm dogs—wild mutts that could climb as well as a ravine goat—it was eerily dead. A narrow walkway beneath an aqueduct took him in among cobblestone dwellings, where here and there hearth fires cast a homey glow through the slats of window shutters. From there, he switched back out over the ravine, taking the humpbacked bridge to the immense square platform that housed the Ephebe.

  It was a squat, five-sided building made from blocks of granite. Each side boasted its own entrance arch—the Ephebe was never closed, as dwarves were encouraged to train as and when they could. These days, most didn’t bother, unless they were in the Ravine Guard, in which case sparring, at least, was mandatory. The Black Cloaks had their own facility, hidden away in some undisclosed place set back in the ravine walls.

  When he passed beneath the arch on the side he approached from, amber glowstones winked on inside. It was a neat trick attributed to the Founders of Arx Gravis, who had been the ones to build the Ephebe. They had insisted on every dwarf attending from early childhood, until fit for a trade or ready to join the Guard.

  The interior was one vast space with climbing ropes and ladders, heavy bags filled with sand for punching and kicking, chalked-out circles for sparring, all manner of weapons, targets for crossbow work, spools of chain for lifting and dragging, and a wall for rock-face fighting practice. But it was to the lifting area Carnifex made his way. That was where he kept the weights and bars Rugbeard had made him, in case anyone else wanted to use them. Besides those he invited to train with him, people generally didn’t.

  He’d had Brann Mikil the Carpenter knock him up a plywood lifting platform after getting complaints he was chipping up the floor with his dead lifts, and it was there he removed his cloak and chainmail so he could train bare-chested. He limbered up, stretching out the knots in his muscles. He then worked up a sweat with some shadow-boxing, to burn off the alcohol from the banquet. Next, he put in half an hour’s bent-pressing, rocking a loaded barbell to his shoulder, gripping it dead center, and leaning away till he held it overhead in one hand. He worked both sides, increasing the weight by adding Rugbeard’s iron plates. When he reached two-hundred pounds, he felt ready for the real work he’d come to do, and started to load the bar up for his first set of dead lifts. Barely had he picked up his warm-up weight of six-hundred pounds, when a Black Cloak stepped through the archway opposite and strode toward him.

  “You’re needed at the Dodecagon. Now.”

  “Laddie, if they want a singer of bawdy for the post-banquet party, Thumil’s your man.” He dropped the barbell with a concussive thud and the clang and clatter of iron plates.

  “The celebrations are over. This is… serious.”

  With an unfettered sight, Carnifex grabbed his gambeson and put it on. “Let me guess: Grago?” The shogger was out for revenge for Kloon, no doubt.

  The Black Cloak shook his head. “The Voice sent me. I’m his designated bodyguard.”

  “Then shouldn’t you be guarding his body, rather than snooping about the Ephebe?”

  “He needed you found quick, and no shogger in the Red Cloaks had a clue where you were.”

  “But you did?”

  “It’s what we do.”

  “You mean,” Carnifex said, scooping up his chainmail and struggling into it, “you have a network of creeps you can tap into, and you already knew I was being watched.”

  The Black Cloak chose not to answer. “Come with me,” he said, turning on his heel and heading back toward the arch he’d entered by.

  “And who’s going to put away the weights?” Carnifex said.

  He caught sight of his red cloak bundled up beside the lifting platform. Duty told him to put it on, but belligerence told him otherwise. And besides, what did he need it for? Now was as good a time as any to let them know he was done.

  “Now!” The Black Cloak yelled, like he was used to being obeyed the first time he said anything, and was starting to lose his composure.

  Carnifex picked up his axe and followed him outside, where the chill night air felt freezing following the heat of exercise.

  Thumil and Cordy met him outside the Dodecagon, and Aristodeus was with them. Thumil dismissed the Black Cloak, but Carnifex had the impression the shogger wouldn’t go very far.

  Thumil’s eyes were haunted, and Cordy’s face was bloodless. What with her wedding dress and his white robe, they looked like a couple of ghosts, or dwarves who’d just seen one.

  Aristodeus’s head was uncharacteristically bowed, and he shook it as he continuously muttered to himself. His canvas bag was missing.

  “You haven’t lost my ma’s helm, have you?” Carnifex said.

  “What? No. It’s… Someone’s looking it over for me.”

  “Oh, aye?”

  “Carn,” Thumil said. “Thank you for coming.”

  “Did I have a choice?”

  “Stop it,” Cordy snapped. “Just stop it.”

  “Lassie? What’s up? What’s happened?”

  Thumil released her hand
and stepped toward him. “It’s Lucius, son. He’s gone missing.”

  Cordy said, “We think he’s left the city.”

  Carnifex pinched the bridge of his nose. He should have checked the Scriptorium. He should have gone home. At least then he’d have known something was wrong and given himself time to act.

  “I found this in the kitchen at your house,” Aristodeus said. He handed over a crumpled page from one of the Annals, but Carnifex couldn’t bring himself to look at it. “It describes a way to access the portal beneath the Sanguis Terrae. He must have left it for one of us, so we’d know what he was trying to do.”

  “I didn’t think he was being serious,” Carnifex said. He looked into Thumil’s eyes. “He told me tonight he wanted to go after the Axe of the Dwarf Lords, prove he was right, but I thought it was just bravado.”

  “He couldn’t have picked a better time,” Thumil said, “what with the Guard and the Black Cloaks distracted by the wedding. I don’t know what to do, old friend. Aristodeus bought us a little time by coming straight to me, but Grago already knows. He’s called an emergency session of the Council. They’re inside, waiting for me before they can begin.”

  “He’s after Lucius’s blood,” Cordy said.

  Thumil nodded. “And he has the power to insist. I think I can delay them, keep them arguing over points of law, but ultimately, he’ll get his way. The statutes are crystal clear on what happens if anyone leaves the city without the express authorization of the Council, and that’s not been given since the Mount Sartis incident.”

  Carnifex turned to leave.

  “Carn,” Thumil said. “You know if you go after him, you’ll suffer the same fate.”

  He spun back to face the three of them. “I know. And you knew that, too, but you summoned me all the same. You did the right thing, laddie, and I’ll not forget it.”