The Nameless Dwarf Omnibus

by D. P. Prior

  Silas’s lips continued to move to the rhythms and tones of the spell on the page before him. His tongue curled around words never intended for human utterance, gargled sounds he dimly recognised from the lectures of Magister Arecagen: the barbarous names of the goetic theurgy ascribed to Otto Blightey, the Liche Lord of Verusia.

  “Silas, if that’s you, hang on …”

  The open grimoire continued to compel his attention and draw it inwards, away from the noise from without. Symbols swirled on the page, sigils and letters—the words of the warding. A thrill ran up his spine; a pleasant tingling pricked under his skin. Good, his flesh seemed to say. Gooood. The chatter of his usually frenetic mind dissolved into a stillness he could only think of as white. It felt serene. It felt satisfying. It felt so, so good.

  The smell of roasted flesh wafted through the crimson web of mist covering the mouth of the burrow. The wolf-men had died instantly, the fur retracting inside the skin until two lifeless humans remained. Silas wasn’t sure if his spell—the book’s—had effected the transformation, or if it was the rising of the twin suns. Whatever the cause, he was certain of one thing: they were lycanthropes, the werewolves he’d read about in the books of folklore he’d hungered after as a child. He shouldn’t have been surprised, not after the zombies they’d encountered once they’d crossed the Farfalls; not after the legends he’d studied at the Academy concerning the Dark Side of Aethir. Whatever phantasms invaded the human mind during sleep, the son of the Demiurgos dreamed darker. After all, was it not said that many of the things that came to a man at night were the distant echoes of the Cynocephalus’s nightmares?

  He watched the red tendrils of magic pulsing like malignant veins. They almost seemed hungry for someone else to try the entrance. Silas knew he should banish the spell, leave the burrow and look for the others, but was it worth the risk? Could even Nameless have survived the wolf-pack? Ilesa?

  A remembered echo rose from the depths: Silas, you in there? It had been Nils, he knew that now, far away, speaking to him from another place—or had it been right outside? A ripple zipped through Silas’s heart. What if Nils had touched the ward?

  He could see nothing but the two naked corpses shimmering in the hellish glow of the web. Was there a third body out of view? He scanned the page for the words of banishment, but the letters were a blur.

  I’ll be right back, Nils had said.

  See, he can’t have touched the ward. He’s quite all right.

  Yes but … Who is this? Silas stared at the grimoire, then cast a look over his shoulder into the darkness behind.

  And besides, what do you care? Why do you even need him when you have all you need right here? All you ever dreamed of, and more.

  “Who is this?” Silas whispered, dropping the book and inching back further into the burrow.

  Read, said one of his own thoughts, so loud it could have been a voice, but a voice from between his ears. Read more.

  “Stop it.” Silas tried to get further away but his limbs wouldn’t obey. He began to shiver, and at the same time cold sweat beaded on his skin. “Stop it!”

  You know you want to. It will make you feel better. You know it will. Come back to me. Read. Reeeead.

  “No,” Silas said, his voice hoarse and broken, and then he felt the almost tangible snap of chains restraining his will. “Yes.” He reached out a hand, crawled towards the grimoire on his knees.

  Have I not kept you safe? Given you the power to defeat your enemies? Is that not proof enough that I am your friend?

  “Yes. Yes it is.” It had to be. Nothing else made any sense. How much had he already learned form the pages of Blightey’s book? How much had his power grown? Without the book’s aid, he’d have been impotent against the zombies. Without the warding it had shown him, the wolf-men would have feasted on his flesh. He drew closer, fingers extended, straining, stretching out for it.

  Something growled in the darkness behind. Dimly, Silas was aware of a great bulk surging up from the depths of the burrow. It snarled, and he heard the rush of air as it lunged. He winced and braced himself against a strike he was sure would end his life there and then, but the grimoire skidded across the ground and made contact with his fingers first. A wave of oily blackness rolled through his arms and spilled from his back. There was a strangled cry, a pulpy splosh, and then a heavy thud.

  Silas scrabbled round to face it and gasped. The steaming carcass on the floor of the burrow was white and thickly furred, with ears as long as a man was tall. Pinkish eyes rolled up slowly into its head, and its jaw sagged open to reveal two sabre-like teeth.

  See, his errant thoughts gloated. See how good we are together.

  “Yes,” Silas said, turning his eyes back to the grimoire. “Yes, I see.”

  All I am, I give to you. This time the thoughts seemed to emanate from the book itself. I will reveal every secret. Every secret.

  “Show me.” Silas stroked the open page as if it were the skin of a lover. He lifted the grimoire, closed it gently and cradled it. “Show me.”

  Heat welled at the base of his spine, shifting, turning—uncoiling. It rushed from vertebra to vertebra like it was climbing a ladder, until it reached his brain and erupted with the intensity of a small sun. Every muscle in his body cramped rigid and Silas screamed silently in some hidden compartment of his mind.

  The fire in his skull contracted suddenly and shot from his eyes in twin beams of argent. Where the streams converged, a flickering figure appeared in the air to the accompaniment of crackling static. It blinked in and out of sight, a ripple ran from its head to its toes, and then it snapped into focus.

  A man stood before Silas, limned with silver. He was dressed like the pictures of the Ancients in a pinstriped jacket and matching trousers. A deep crimson cravat drooped over the lapels and completely covered his neck. A long face that tapered to a prominent, dimpled chin sat atop it, as if an afterthought. The skin was ashen, the nose sharp and aquiline, and the eyes were void, the irises as black as the pupils. Coiffed white hair swept away from a high forehead and fell below the shoulders; it was stained with greasy yellow streaks. The man wore a gold ring with the biggest stone Silas had ever seen—amber, by the looks of it, and with something dark and many-legged encased at its centre. The fingers of both hands were long and thin, interlaced as if in prayer, but held just above the level of the crotch.

  The head swivelled, as if looking for an interlocutor, and then thin, cracked lips parted to reveal the decaying stumps of brownish teeth.

  “My dear, dear Worthy. You have received the Word and heeded it. You have faithfully followed my statutes and been obedient unto my laws.”

  “What laws? Who—” Silas said, but the man continued as if he hadn’t heard; as if Silas were not there.

  “If you are watching this, it is because I no longer endure and the Void has come to claim me.” The voice had a rasping quality, the barest hint of a lisp. “It is also because you have in your possession the book of my life, my theurgy, and my ordinances, and it has deemed you worthy.” A grin tugged at the corners of the man’s lips, and the skin of his sallow cheeks stretched thin and seemed about to split.

  Blightey? Silas opened his mouth to ask, but the man raised an elongated finger and wagged it. The eyes remained focused elsewhere.

  “Remain silent, and hearken to my voice.”

  An icy thrill ran through Silas’s veins and he clamped his mouth shut. He dared not blink lest he missed something—a gesture, an expression, the merest sign in the depths of those inky eyes. His limbs began to shake, and sweat streamed down his face.

  “Whilst you can see me, I am unable to respond. Call me a vision, call me a ghost, if that will help you comprehend, but know who I am, my Worthy. Know that I am Dr Otto Blightey, once considered a saint, when such accolades were spoken of; a man of science when it was fashionable; a conjurer, warlock, alchemist, and sorcerer; a necromancer who has walked the dark places of the cosmos and set foot where angels wo
uld not dare tread.

  “But what has it all been for if I do not perdure? And know that I have not done so, not if you are hearing this. Not if you have set eyes upon this phantom. I did not lie when I said I had entered the Void, for that is the only place that could deny me existence. I have passed beyond salvation, but there is one last thing I can achieve, if that is what is ordained.” Again, the grin, and this time it was accompanied by a gurgling chuckle. “For even in death I would reach out my right hand and bequeath you the knowledge of millennia. The universe may have finished with me, let me slip from the mind of the Creator, but my wisdom will endure. And it is you, only you, who can receive it, for you are the Worthy, the one the path was prepared for; the one who is to come.”

  Me? Silas willed himself to speak, but his lips did not respond. Me? I am the Worthy?

  Of course! Who else? Who else had dared read from the book? Who else had the knowledge to decipher its secrets? Who else had the courage to seek what it promised in the nightmare realm of Qlippoth?

  Blightey’s eyes gleamed like polished obsidian. “You. You are the Worthy, not some arbitrary chosen one, but a conqueror of wisdom, the one who pulls himself up by his own bootstraps. Your way has been hard …”

  The chains fell away from Silas’s will. “Yes! Yes it has been hard.” No one understood how hard. All the hours of study, the doubts, the warnings.

  “But you have prevailed. You have great knowledge. Hidden knowledge. The knowledge that has been the preserve of but a few in all the epochs of man.”

  “I do,” Silas said, riding a wave of euphoria that threatened to burst through the top of his head. “I have secret knowledge. No one else …”

  “And yet there is so much more.” Blightey looked up, as if at an endless sky, then dropped his eyes to gaze upon ponderous depths. “Death is no end, my Worthy. No end at all. Not to one who has reached into every dark pocket of existence and harnessed every occult law found therein to his purposes. Beyond the grave there is so much more, an infinity of wisdom that only an immortal could ever hope to acquire. All you need is faith, my Worthy. Faith in me.”

  “I have it,” Silas said, blood whooshing in his ears. “I have faith.”

  “You have read of the ebon staff …”

  “Yes!” Silas thumbed through the pages of the grimoire, seeking the reference that had led him to cross the Farfalls. “I am searching for—”

  “… and you have quested for it, as indeed you were meant to.”

  Meant to? But—

  “But now you are ready. There is a diagram at the very centre of my book, a sigil covering both pages.”

  Silas flicked through it until he came to the middle, where dark stitches ran like a sutured scar between the leafs, reinforcing the brown resin that glued the book together. Ten circles in various faded colours were joined by intersecting lines, each labelled in a blockish script he’d seen in one or two of the older grimoires, but had never comprehended. There were more of the ancient letters within each circle, and at the foot of the page there was an inscription in Latin, which translated as, ‘It is a tree of life to those who cleave to it.’

  “Gaze upon it, my Worthy. Do not take your eyes from the page. Do not even blink. If the Lord of All Things himself dares distract you, strangle him for a cursed dog.”

  The apparition of Blightey began to fade.

  “Stare at it, oh most worthy. Stare and do not falter. If you succeed in this, the way will become known to you. The staff will be yours, and it will unlock the final secrets of my book.”

  Silas felt, rather than saw, Blightey vanish. His eyes were riveted to the pages, and nothing this side of the Supernal Realm would make him look away.

  Nothing at all.

  ***

  “Shog,” Nameless said. “Now look what I’ve gone and done.”

  A vast, undulating shadow moved with frightening speed beneath the surface of the lake. The water above bubbled and churned, falling away in a V-wake that extended back to the shore, where Nils was still visible, scrambling to his feet and waving like a lunatic.

  “Think we get the message, laddie,” Nameless muttered as he hefted his axe and set himself, one boot on a knob of rock that was lapped by gentle waves.

  “Get back from the water,” Ilesa said.

  Nameless looked at her over his shoulder. The island grew to a peak some thirty odd feet above the lake. It was like a fist of rock that had burst to the surface, and Ilesa stood above him at the base of the pointing finger. Her back was to the pinnacle, and she stared wide-eyed down at the approaching horror, dagger in one hand, sword in the other.

  “Not till I’ve taken at swing at it,” he growled, raising his axe.

  A colossal scaled head broke the surface and twirled skywards on a sinuous neck. Eyes like evil suns glared venomously, and the jaws parted wide enough to swallow a mule. It swayed and then lunged, fangs like scimitars glistening in the dawn light.

  “Smile, you ugly shogger!” Nameless bellowed.

  He swung the Axe of the Dwarf Lords overhead and brought it down with thunderous force on the monster’s skull. It was like striking steel. The axe bounced off, spinning through the air even as Nameless lost his footing and tumbled straight towards the waiting maw. He flailed about for something to grab onto. He found nothing, but something found him: Ilesa’s fingers wrapped around his wrist, stronger than he’d imagined, and she yanked him away from the water’s edge.

  Nameless rolled to his knees and held out a hand to catch the axe, which seemed to wait for him in midair. His goat was well and truly gotten, and he was damned if a shogging snake was going to make a fool of him. He stood with a snarl and spun to face the serpent, but its hissing head was already barrelling straight at him. Nameless twisted aside at the last second, but a curved fang caught his mail hauberk and sent half a dozen links clinking to the rocks.

  “Retreat, you stumpy bastard!” Ilesa said, leaping down and weaving her blades through the air in a glittering blur.

  The serpent reared up and watched the display, head swaying, body coiling and rippling in the water.

  “I’m not done yet.” Nameless spun with the axe, throwing his entire body weight into a concussive blow against the monster’s lower jaw. The jolt that ran up his arm felt like he’d been struck with a war-hammer.

  “OK, fair point, lassie,” he said, backing onto higher ground.

  Ilesa stepped away from the serpent, still twirling her blades. The monster’s great head shook, as if it were clearing the effects of too much grog, and then it lunged at her. Nameless gawped as Ilesa backflipped, landing with perfect poise right beside him.

  “Up,” she said, and led the way with the easy grace of a panther.

  Nameless didn’t need telling twice. He felt the blast of the serpent’s breath on his back as he climbed the natural steps towards the pinnacle’s top. He had visions of razor-sharp fangs ripping out the seat of his breeches—or worse.

  “Can’t reach us up here,” Ilesa said, sitting on the summit and leaning her elbows on her knees, weapons held limply.

  Nameless wasn’t so sure. He pressed his back to the rock and kept his axe ready.

  The serpent’s head darted towards them but pulled back at the last second. Ilesa was right. It barely came up to their ankles. It roared and shook its writhing body, spraying them with brackish water.

  “Sorry, shogger,” Nameless said. “This dwarf’s not for eating. Go catch yourself a fish.”

  The jaws gaped so much Nameless thought its head might split. It flicked out its tongue, hissing like a forge bellows, thrashed about in the lake, and then dived beneath the surface with an almighty splash.

  “That told him,” Nameless said, sitting down beside Ilesa. “So, lassie, this is cosy.”

  Already the thrill of battle was ebbing away and the darkness was crowding out his good cheer once more. He couldn’t afford to let it cripple him this time, not stuck out in the middle of a lake with a monstrous serpent h
unting them. “Know any good songs?”

  Ilesa turned her nose up, then looked down at her feet. Nameless could tell she was still struggling with what had happened earlier, back when she’d almost left him to the wolf-men. He reckoned she’d more than made up for it with the serpent, though. He knew people. He knew she’d come out right.

  “About what happened earlier, lassie.” Ilesa stiffened, but Nameless pressed on. He needed to keep talking before the dark mood robbed him of the power of speech. “You did good.”

  Ilesa snorted and turned her back to him, glaring out over the settled waters of the lake. Her shoulders were bunched up about her neck, and the slightest tremor rippled through her bodice. She may have been crying.

  “More than good,” Nameless went on, giving his voice a jollity he didn’t feel. “You did as much as anyone could, given the circumstances. So what if you panicked? That’s just the way of things. People aren’t much different to animals, when all’s said and done. Got our need to survive, same as they have.”

  “Drop it,” Ilesa muttered. She sniffed and wiped her nose with her forearm.

  “What I mean to say is—”

  “I said drop it.” She spun round to face him, not attempting to hide the dampness in her eyes. “I know what I am, got it? No pussyfooting around by you is going to change that. You stayed for me and I returned the favour by trying to leave you behind. Big shogging deal. That’s what I’ve always done. Always will. Brau employed me as an assassin, for shog’s sake. What do you expect?”

  Nameless laid his axe against a rock and rubbed his new growth of beard. The damned thing hadn’t stopped growing since he’d found the axe. Maybe the Pax Nanorum didn’t like the thought of being wielded by a hairless dwarf. Seemed like a good idea at the time—to wear his shame like a badge. The deeper they went into Qlippoth, though, the more his sense of purpose returned, the less patience he had with self pity. It wasn’t his way. It wasn’t the dwarvish way either. He might not have seen himself as much of a dwarf, but King Arios had in his city beneath the waves; and according to him, the axe had too.