by D. P. Prior
Nameless scowled at the cryptic answer. Where he came from, folk called an axe an axe and had done with it. “Speak clearly, or not at all.”
“We are kin, your people and mine,” Abednago said. “Though many among the homunculi would deny it at all costs. We share a common ancestry.”
“Kin?” Nameless looked into the homunculus’s inscrutable eyes and felt cold fingers inching their way up his spine. “No, the dwarves of Arx Gravis are just the results of Gandaw’s meddling. He moulded us from humans brought from Earth.”
“Melded would better describe it,” Abednago said. “Melded you with the blood of the homunculi.”
Nameless couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He recalled the pain Shadrak went through upon learning of his origins as one of the spawn of the Demiurgos. How could such a thing have been concealed from the dwarves all this time?
Abednago gave the slightest of nods. “My people may be deceivers, but they are also obsessed with purity. Many could not abide the thought of our blood being tainted with that of another race. They used your mixed blood against you, brought out the latent deception.”
Nameless choked back his anger. He had no right to it. “They were the ones that tricked me?”
“The accounts of the false Pax Nanorum were planted deep in the archives of Arx Gravis. The weapon itself was inspired by the original, though its powers were drawn from the Abyss.”
“And the Liche Lord’s armour? The Shield of Warding, the fire giant’s gauntlets?”
“A deception of a higher order; nothing to do with my people. You stumbled onto a much bigger game with that.”
Nameless had so many questions he wanted to ask, but each one was dashed like a breaking wave as the next formed in its wake. “But why …” he struggled to find the words. “Why did Gandaw make us a mockery of the dwarves of Arnoch? Why not leave us in the form of humans, or even homunculi?”
Abednago sighed and steepled his fingers. He looked down at his feet, and when he raised his eyes once more there was a new depth of sorrow in them. “You are right to believe Sektis Gandaw shaped what the dwarves of Arx Gravis became, but you are wrong about their true origins. Gandaw brought many people from Earth. My people share his guilt in that, for we piloted the plane ships that brought them to Aethir. The dwarves of Arx Gravis, though, were moulded from different matter. Remember, the blood of the homunculi runs in your veins, like a fault-line at the core of your being. Your people were not aware of this. Is it not possible they were deceived about the other half of their ancestry, too?”
Nameless’ mouth hung open as he finally pieced together what the homunculus was telling him. “The dwarves. The survivors of Arnoch …”
“Were the founders of Arx Gravis,” Abednago said. “You are born from the race of heroes.”
Nameless’ mind was awash with the implications of what Abednago was telling him. It all made sense, like the missing piece of a puzzle that had niggled away at the deepest stratum of dwarven consciousness for untold centuries. But one thing still troubled him. “Why? Why did he do this to us? Why taint us with the blood of …” The words trailed away when he caught Abednago’s wounded expression. Nameless grimaced. He hadn’t meant to offend the homunculi.
“Sektis Gandaw couldn’t tolerate mystery of any kind,” Abednago said, looking away. “He loathed the denizens of Qlippoth with all his being for he had not created them; nor did they fit his theories of the cosmos. He would have unwoven the dwarves along with all of creation had he possessed the power at the time. Instead, he decided to use them in an experiment upon my people, whom he also did not comprehend.” Abednago fixed him with those deep, starry eyes. “Gandaw’s way was always to vivisect mystery with the aimless blade of his warped science. I suppose he thought that, besides learning something of the homunculi in the process, he might also sow the seeds of the dwarves’ destruction within their own blood. You see, the nature of my people is deception; it is the stuff we are formed from, but it proved inimical to the survivors of Arnoch. They were the ones deceived. Deceived as to who they really were.”
“But…” Nameless couldn’t grasp the enormity of what he was hearing. “But Gandaw didn’t create the homunculi. Why did he not seek to destroy them as well?”
“It was in his mind. It was ever in his mind, but Gandaw was not the only player. He was as prone to deception as any other human. My people worked with him, served under him, but all the while he fell foul of a far darker plan than any he could have dreamed of.”
“I don’t… I don’t understand.” Nameless’ head was ready to burst from all the ideas bubbling to the surface. What did this mean for the friends he’d left behind? For Shader, Shadrak, and Rhiannon? Had his vision been so blinkered? What was he to do? How could he ever hold such knowledge in his head without his skull splitting? He began to reel with giddiness.
“Think only of the moment,” Abednago said. “Even the homunculi cannot fathom all the ways of the Demiurgos. Besides, there are forces in the cosmos that surpass even him. Your path grows clearer, dwarf with no name. You know what you must do.”
“Find them?” Nameless asked. “That’s what I was trying to do. But what if they won’t listen? What if they are still afraid of me?”
“You have the Axe of the Dwarf Lords now. How could they not listen? Find the survivors of Arx Gravis before it is too late and the nightmares of Qlippoth destroy them. Find them, Nameless, and keep alive the legacy of Arnoch.”
Nameless nodded. “You’re right,” he said. “I will do as you say, for I have no other purpose. But first you must do something for me. If you’ve been watching me so closely, you’ll know I did not cross the Farfalls alone.”
***
“I can’t find it,” Silas protested for the umpteenth time. “When are you going to get it?”
Nils was cradling Ilesa’s head, stroking her drenched black hair. “She’s dying, Silas. You have to try.”
It was worse than that. Silas had read that much on the page the instant he’d snatched up the grimoire. He’d found it immediately, probably as a result of the cyclops creasing the page, although part of him worried that the book might be making things easy for him now. If that were the case, it was as fickle as it was beguiling. Truth was, he’d found the page easy enough, but he was damned if he was going to use it. He already felt the pull of the grimoire, felt like it had shackled his neck and tugged on the chains so that he had no choice but to read it. With a supreme effort of will he had closed it. Supreme. He was the master, after all.
“You must try, Silas,” Nils said. “You’re not even looking.”
Silas started to open the book, bit his lip, and changed his mind. He slipped it back in its bag. “I can’t, Nils. I just can’t.” He got to his feet and backed towards the steps. “I’m sorry, Nils. This book’s too dangerous. I’m going to find that cliff, fling it into the sea.”
“No,” Nils said, gently laying Ilesa’s head on the ground and standing. “Do it for her, please. You owe her.”
Silas almost laughed at that. Would have done if he’d not been so frightened. After all, he’d started out as a bit of a rogue himself, and everyone knew there was no honour among thieves.
“Sorry,” he said. “I tried.”
He turned and ran up the steps—straight into an armoured chest as solid as a rock.
“Try harder, laddie.”
Silas backed away, his hands flying to his mouth, which he knew was gaping like an idiot’s. “Nameless! Oh my word, Nameless!”
The dwarf glowered at him, hefted the axe that was slung over his shoulder. A new axe, by the looks of it, shoddier than the old one and utterly dull, save for the swirls on the blade and some writing on the haft that was obscured by Nameless’ hand.
“Like I said, laddie, try harder.”
There was no give in his voice, and he seemed as rooted as a mountain. The idea of a spell came to mind, but Silas knew he’d be dead before it left his lips. He’d seen this side
of the dwarf before, but he’d never experienced it first hand.
“I’ll … I’ll do my best.”
“Can’t say fairer than that,” Nameless said, sauntering past him into the cavern.
Nils rushed to the dwarf and embraced him, then quickly drew back and coughed. “Good to see you, Nameless,” he said in a ridiculously deep voice.
“You too, laddie. You too.”
Silas pulled the grimoire from his bag. It felt as heavy as stone. He crouched down beside Ilesa and thumbed through the pages. As he found the right one, Ilesa choked and then her breath began to rattle.
“Hurry,” Nils said. “She’s not gonna make it.”
“She will, laddie,” Nameless said with quiet confidence. “She will. Isn’t that right, Silas?”
Silas was too focused to respond. He pored over the text with frenzied haste, located the incantation and began to mouth it. Dark energy washed through his veins like sludge from a sewer. He gagged and would have stopped, had he been given the choice. There was a rush of cold air, a sigh from Ilesa, and a resonant, self-satisfied hiss that echoed around Silas’s skull. He slammed the book shut and returned it to its bag.
“Shog, you look like shit, Silas,” Ilesa said, rising to her feet. “And where the hell did you come from?” she asked the dwarf.
“That, lassie, you may never believe. Suffice it to say that I have not been idle. Indeed, if our good wizard here could magic us up some grub first, I’d like to be on our way.”
“Not a chance,” Silas said, slumping to the floor. “I’m spent.”
“Nonsense,” Nameless said. “Quick leg of ham and a dram of whiskey and you’ll be your old self in no time.”
Silas wished that were true. He’d experienced physical exhaustion before and knew Nameless had a point, but this was something different. This was something that went much, much deeper.
“What I don’t get,” Nils said, scratching his head, “is how we’re ever going to find them dwarves in this place.”
“My thoughts, too,” Ilesa said. “Brau said there were no maps here because hardly anything stays the same for long. Apart from the village where we … Hey, that’s a point. How come you haven’t got it? You were bitten, same as us.”
“Felt like dung for a while back there,” Nameless said, fingers drumming on the haft of his new axe, “but seem to have shrugged it off. Dwarven constitution, don’t you know.”
Silas forced himself to sit and did his best to give Ilesa his most sardonic smile. “Don’t know what we need a map for, not when we’ve got a tracker with your skills. I mean, after all, wasn’t it you that led us straight into the thick of the zombies in the first place, not to mention that blasted crone?”
Nameless laughed, a deep rolling belly laugh. “Yes, laddie, I’d quite forgotten. Had yourself a real good time there now, didn’t you?”
Silas felt his cheeks burning and glared.
“I can track anything over any distance,” Ilesa said, hands on hips. “Which is a damned sight more useful than your lame party tricks.”
“He turned into a bird once,” Nils said, sounding like he was actually on Silas’s side for a change.
“Do it now, then,” Ilesa challenged.
“Too tired,” Silas said.
“Hah!”
“Give me a day or two and I’ll show you what I can do,” Silas said. “In the meantime, why don’t you track, Missy Tracker?”
Nameless started up the steps and then turned back to them, infuriatingly full of energy and obviously raring to go.
“No need,” he said. “I’ve been doing a spot of tracking myself.”
“You?” Ilesa said. “So what do you need me for?”
Nameless blushed and gave a little cough. “Remember that thing you did with the height and the beard? But seriously, I have stumbled across a trail. Well, it was a bit more than a trail. The mud just over the other side of this ridge was so churned up I’d hazard a guess a small army passed through there not more than a few days ago.”
“Yeah,” Nils said, “but an army of what? Don’t reckon I want to go following none of these nightmare creatures. Certainly not an army of them.”
Nameless grinned. “Ah, but what would you say if I told you I found this?”
He produced an earthenware jug from his pocket and unstoppered it. “Urbs Sapientii mead.” He took a glug.
“Urbs what?” Silas said.
Nameless wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Old name of Arx Gravis. This stuff is legendary. Thought there was none left. I would offer to share it, but I’m afraid there’s only a sip remaining.” As if to demonstrate, he upended the jug and took another glug, glug, glug for what seemed an eternity before flinging it against the wall where it shattered. “Bit more than a sip, then, but you can understand. It’s been a hard day.”
Ilesa and Nils joined him at the top of the steps, both fully recovered by the looks of them. Silas groaned and dragged himself upright. He put the grimoire back in its bag and thought for a moment he was going to fall. Blasted thing weighed him down like an anchor. He was going to ask Nameless to carry it for him, but a niggling voice warned him against that. Only a wizard of his aptitude had the knowledge and the willpower to master the book. It was a heavy burden, but it was his to bear. In the end it would all be worth it. Just think of the secrets it would reveal, the places it would lead him to in this undiscovered land of nightmares.
“Go on,” Nameless was saying to Ilesa. “Just take off a few inches and stick them on your rump. Do it for old Nameless’ sake.”
Ilesa looked away, scowling like she wanted to kill someone, but then she turned back and draped her arm around the dwarf’s shoulders.
“For you, anything,” she said in a husky voice as the pair of them went on ahead.
“Splendid,” Nameless’ voice rumbled through the cavern. “I think this calls for a song.”
“Need a hand?” Nils asked as Silas struggled up the steps.
“No … thank you. You go on ahead. I’ll catch up. Oh, and Nils, let’s crack on with your reading in the next few days. You got anything to practise with till I recover?”
Nils swung his pack over his shoulder and gave it a pat. “Book Nameless gave me. Should keep me busy for a while.”
“Good,” Silas said. “Off you go now. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be right behind.”
Nils gave him one last lingering look full of concern, shrugged, and then hurried after the others.
Silas could barely put one foot in front of the other. He was sorely tempted to leave the book behind, take another path while he still had the chance, but he didn’t. Like a lightning struck tower, his ill mood passed in an instant and he was suddenly brimming with his old confidence. He skipped up the steps to join his companions, the book, like an old familiar friend, banging gently against his side, light as a feather.
THE SCOUT AND THE SERPENT
THE SCOUT AND THE SERPENT
Ilesa’s lungs were burning up, her breaths no more than ragged gasps. It was only the howls from the dark spaces between the trees that forced her on. One false step now and she’d be ripped to shreds. It was just like before, back home in Portis, when the wolf-men had changed her life forever. She couldn’t give a damn about the dreams of a deranged god at the heart of Aethir. This was more like a nightmare of her own.
Nameless turned back to wait for her, axe gripped tight in white-knuckled hands, deep-set eyes scanning the forest behind her. The dwarf was tireless, and his stumpy legs could move faster than Ilesa would have imagined.
She summoned energy from a fast-emptying well and surged towards him. Only it wasn’t a surge, really, it was more of a lurch. Her knees buckled and sent her crumpling to the dirt. She couldn’t go on. Her strength had fled, her fear along with it. She was only dimly aware of the howls piercing the chill night air, the ghostly glow of Raphoe, largest of the three moons. She could feel the closeness of the trees, smell the scent of the pines. The loa
my earth might just as well have been a soft bed. She was numb with exhaustion. What did it matter if the beasts fell upon her, ripped her throat out and devoured her flesh? Everyone had to die some time, and right now dying felt so much easier than—
“Up, lassie. Come on, up now.” A strong hand clamped about her forearm, pulled her to her feet like a father might lift a child that had fallen and grazed its knee. At least any normal father.
“Please …” She trembled with the effort of speaking. “I can’t go on. Too hard. It’s just too hard.” She slipped from his grip and lay back down.
She could hear them crashing through the undergrowth, growling, roaring, panting. They were close. Too close.
“Go,” she said. “Leave me.”
“Change.” Nameless stepped over her to face the oncoming threat. “Make yourself smaller.”
“What?” It was hardly the time for—
“The dwarf thing,” Nameless growled. “So I can carry you.”
Her mind swam with images that rose to the surface like ink in water and then faded away. Davy. She saw her little brother Davy, bruised and beaten, eyes aghast at what the bastard had done to him—what she’d failed to protect him from.
Another chorus of howls ripped through the night.
“Quickly,” Nameless snapped. “They’re here.”
She shut her eyes tight, the better to focus. The image was weak, but she’d grown familiar with the form of late. She felt a wave of nausea roll up from her stomach to her head; felt her limbs contracting, her face broadening. Itchy hair sprouted from her chin and cheeks.
Nameless grabbed her roughly, slung her over his shoulder, and then he was off, pounding the ground with his boots. She looked up and saw the first of the wolf-men burst through into the clearing, a huge grey male with slobber drooling from its black lips. It roared when it saw them, nostrils flaring, curved fangs glinting in the silver light. She thumped Nameless’ back and he whirled.
“Shog!” He lowered Ilesa to the ground and took a two-handed grip on his axe. “Crawl on, lassie. Let’s see if these mongrels like the taste of cold steel.”