Revenge of the Lich (Legends of the Nameless Dwarf Book 3)

by D. P. Prior

  Contents

  Copyright Page

  Blurb

  Part 1: The Ant-Man of Malfen

  Part 2: The Axe of the Dwarf Lords

  Part 3: The Scout and the Serpent

  Part 4: The Ebon Staff

  Part 5: Bane of the Lich Lord

  Dramatis Personae

  Acknowledgements

  Also by D.P. Prior

  Feedback and Special Offers

  Copyright © 2016 D.P. Prior. All rights reserved.

  The right of D.P. Prior to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All the characters in this book are fictional and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not be, by way of trade or otherwise, lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form, binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed upon the subsequent purchaser.

  LEGENDS OF THE NAMELESS DWARF

  1. CARNIFEX

  2. GEAS OF THE BLACK AXE

  3. REVENGE OF THE LICH

  4. RETURN OF THE DWARF LORDS

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  The survivors of the slaughter at Arx Gravis flee their ravine city, leaving its walkways and canals awash with blood.

  Convinced there can be no atonement for what he has done, the Nameless Dwarf joins forces with a whiskerless thief, a guilt-driven assassin, and a consumptive wizard. Together, they pursue the dwarves into the lands of nightmare across the Farfall Mountains.

  But the companions bring troubles of their own, not least of which is an ancient grimoire that leads them inexorably toward a forest of tar, and an evil from Nameless’s past that threatens his entire race.

  The last hope of the dwarves comes from the unlikeliest of sources: a mythical city beneath the waves, an axe from the age of heroes, and the Nameless Dwarf, in whose veins flows the blood of legends.

  You can view a large scale MAP OF AETHIR on the web.

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  PART ONE

  THE ANT-MAN OF MALFEN

  “The gates of Hell are open night and day; smooth the descent, and easy is the way: but, to return, and view the cheerful skies; in this, the task and might labor lies.”

  (Virgil, The Aeneid)

  NILS

  Nils Fargin ducked into the tavern’s porch and pushed his rain-drenched hair out of his face. He shivered and hugged himself. How the shog could clear sky turn into a sagging sheet of blackness in just the blink of an eye?

  The cracked wooden sign groaned in protest as the wind buffeted it back and forth. Its crude painting of a flaming skull leered down at him and set his guts to churning. Looked like a glimpse of the afterlife, the sort of thing that should have made a guildsman think seriously about the straight and narrow. Fat chance of that, Nils reckoned.

  His teeth chattered as he squinted up at the lettering. Where the Abyss had the cold come from? Only minutes ago it’d been sweltering. If he’d known it was gonna be like this, he’d have packed his sheepskin jerkin and knitted hat. He could almost hear Mom’s nagging voice all the way from New Londdyr: “What did I tell you, Nils Fargin? You’re just like your father: you never listen, the pair of you.”

  His eyes watered with the effort of reading. He could make out “The” and was half sure the last word was “Skull”. Didn’t take no genius to work out the one in the middle was “Grinning”, then. His chest swelled with pride. See, he hadn’t let no one down. He’d done his job, no messing.

  Nils gave a quick butcher’s at his companion, who waited beneath a barren yew. The dwarf’s face was swamped by a mass of sodden hair and beard. He, too, was hugging himself for warmth, but other than that, he stood stock-still. So still, in fact, he appeared as rooted as the tree. His somber clothes, all blacks and browns, merged with the charcoal skies. Sticking up above the dwarf’s shoulder was the cloth-wrapped head of an axe. He carried a bulging pack on his back. Whatever was inside had scraped and clanged as they walked.

  Shifty bastards, dwarves, Nils thought, not for the first time. Canny, his dad called them, and tough as mountains. Least they had been till they’d upped and left Malkuth, abandoning their ravine city of Arx Gravis following the overthrow of their bloodthirsty tyrant. Far as Nils knew, his nameless client could be the last of his kind, because if the rumors were true—if the survivors of Arx Gravis had set off across the Farfall Mountains into Qlippoth—there was slim to no chance of seeing them again. Not that Nils gave a shog. He was just saying.

  The thrumming of the rain on the tin porch gave way to the fierce pelting of hail and sleet. The racket was deafening, but the dwarf didn’t seem to notice. He was a stony statue set beneath the tree to glare at the tavern door, a warning to the scumbags and toe-rags within. Either that, or he was cursed, barred for all eternity, and wanting nothing more than to enter into the warm, smoky interior so he could get drunk on ale.

  Least that’s what Nils thought taverns were like. Seemed that way in the stories—the sort of place a weary traveler could hang his hat, put his feet up, tamp down a pipe, and neck some grog. Might even be a serving of hot broth and a buxom wench to ease away his travel sores.

  Nils didn’t know nothing about none of that. What he did know was that he was bone cold and just wanted to get the job over and done with, warm himself by the fire, and then get as far away from the borders as he could. Didn’t matter how shogged up it was, his folks’ home back in New Londdyr suddenly seemed like one of the mansions in paradise the loony Wayists were always preaching about.

  He lifted one leg at a time to brush off the dried mud he’d picked up on the trail. It’d been five days of hard going across some of the wildest land in Malkuth. No one came to the Outlands unless they was desperate. Either that, or they had dealings with the proprietor of the only tavern for miles around. The dwarf, Nils figured, was the former, whereas Nils himself, being a professional, was most definitely the latter. He might never have been in a tavern before, might never have snogged no woman, and he might have only had his first shave a week ago, but at that moment, Nils Fargin was someone important.

  Since Shadrak the Unseen had fled New Londdyr following the assassination of the newly elected mayor, Mal Vatés, Nils’s dad had been top dog in the underworld. Anyone who wanted a job doing came to Buck Fargin and his Night Hawks. Theirs was a guild to be feared, and Nils was rightly proud of that. Mind you, back home, Nils was a little fish in a big pond. Out here among the brigand settlements, it was a different story. Big fish, little pond, he nodded to himself. No, more than that: he was a bloody shark.

  And so, with a final look at the dwarf and a last minute straightening of his collar, Nils puffed out his chest, sucked in a deep breath, and pushed open the door of The Grinning Skull.

  The pelting on the tin roof gave way to the hum of voices, the clatter of spoons in bowls, the jingle of change, and peals of barking laughter. The place was heaving, thick with smoke. Hops were strong in the air, blending with sweat and the scent of ripe apples—or maybe it was cider.

  Nils took a step into the throng and found his face pressed against something soft and warm. Sweet musk inflamed his nostrils, sending a delicate thrill along his spine.

  “Steady there,” a husky voice said.

  He drew his head out of a mountain of cleavage, barely able to take his eyes off the milky flesh pushed up above a black leather bodice
.

  The woman was looking at him with her head cocked and one eyebrow slightly raised.

  Nils pretended to peer over her shoulder, as if he were searching for someone in the crowd, but he still managed to notice her cat-like eyes and the scar running down one tanned, high-boned cheek. Her hair was glossy and black, tumbling loosely over her shoulders.

  He squeezed past, mumbling an apology. He at her arse as he went, noting its lift and the way it stretched her leather britches. He didn’t miss the length of steel strapped to her hip, neither, nor the bone hilt of a dagger sheathed on the other side.

  Nils didn’t have a clue what to do next, but he was a quick learner, so his dad always said. He’d work it out. Back in New Londdyr he’d picked a few pockets as the drunks spilled out of the bars, and they’d been good pickings. Those were city-folk, though, all dolled up and dandified. Nothing like this crowd. These were hard folk—bandits, thieves, and assassins. These were his kind of people.

  He took another big breath and fingered the pommel of his sword as he peered through the milling bodies. He knew Jankson Brau was a mage of some sort, but it seemed unlikely he’d be decked out in a pointy hat and silk robes. Best place to ask was at the bar, he supposed, and so he squirmed through the drinkers and leaned over the counter, first crossing his arms one way and then the other.

  He caught the barmaid’s eye and opened his mouth to order. He weren’t sure what to ask for, but everyone else seemed to be clutching flagons overflowing with froth.

  “Ale—”

  The word was swept away in the hubbub, and the barmaid turned to a swarthy no-neck with a head like a leathery egg. Nils was about to protest but thought better of it when the bloke shot him a smile like a gaping wound. His forehead was a deeply furrowed ledge, and his close-set, hard eyes were cold and glittering. The man’s great bulk was at least as much muscle as fat. Nils winked his approval that he was welcome to be served first.

  Someone roughly pushed past him to get to the bar, and Nils found himself straining on tiptoe in an attempt to attract the barmaid’s attention.

  “Buy you a drink?”

  It was the black-clad woman again, her mouth pressed close to his ear. Nils hadn’t seen her approach. He’d heard nothing, either, above the din. He was starting to feel exposed and vulnerable, but nevertheless, he couldn’t resist breathing in her scent.

  “Nah, I’m all right, love.” Nils raised his purse and jingled it at the bar.

  Silence fell around him in a small circle that swiftly spread like ripples across the surface of a lake. The only sound that remained was the striking of flint on steel as a grimy young girl tried to light the fire.

  “Put it away.” The woman took hold of his hand between hers and pressed it down.

  She gave Nils a motherly smile, but he couldn’t help noticing how her lips glistened, how the tip of her tongue peeked through and wetted them. He dropped his gaze to her swollen breasts and then lowered it again until he was staring at her boots. He felt his cheeks burning, and knew he’d gone red as a strawberry.

  “Mina.” She broke the silence without raising her voice. “Ale for my young friend here.”

  “Right you are, Ilesa,” the barmaid said with a shake of her head.

  The moment she pulled on the pump and the amber liquid splashed into the tankard, the hubbub resumed, and Nils no longer felt the entire tavern was looking daggers at him.

  “All that money you’re carrying,” Ilesa said, passing him the ale. “You looking to hire someone?”

  “Hardly,” Nils said, taking a sip and doing his best not to wince at the bitter taste. “I’m up from New Londdyr on a job.”

  He watched her closely to gauge the reaction.

  Her pupils widened slightly but she remained stony-faced. “What kind of job?”

  Nils tapped the side of his nose with his finger. “Oh, you know the sort of thing. Guild business.”

  “Really?” Ilesa said. “Well, I guess you must be someone. Not like this rabble, eh?”

  Nils glanced around the room, pretending to drink the ale.

  “Yeah. Could say that.” He leaned in close so that he could whisper. “Not everyone, though, eh? You don’t exactly look like local riffraff. Reckon you must be someone, too. Where you from, Brink? Lownight?”

  “Portis.” A shadow passed behind her eyes, and for an instant, her focus turned inwards. She looked away across the room, at nothing in particular.

  “Listen, I’ve got things to do,” she said. “Enjoy your drink, and don’t go waving that money about anymore.”

  “Sure,” Nils said, raising his tankard. “Oh,” he called to her back. “Do you know where I can find Jankson Brau?”

  A corridor immediately opened up between the drinkers, leading to a long table beside the fire.

  Three men sat one side of the table, all wearing studded leather and armed to the teeth. Opposite them sat a robed and turbaned man, who Nils took to be a merchant. You could tell by the swell of his belly under his velvet robes, and the jewels dripping like sweat from gold chains beneath the rolls of his chin. He was flanked by a hunched-over scribe and a lean man in eye-glasses, whose hands clutched a bulging pouch as if it were a chicken’s neck. Between the two groups, at the head of the table, sat a man in robes the color of blood. He was wearing a crooked, pointy hat.

  “I think he’s making it easy for you,” Ilesa said. “Good luck,” she cast over her shoulder as she strutted away with a mesmerizing roll of her hips.

  Jankson Brau was studying Nils with the intensity of a rattlesnake about to strike. His eyes were unnaturally blue, like polished sapphire, and ringed with a disturbing corona of yellow. The tip of his sickle-shaped nose almost met the rising curve of his chin, and sandwiched between the two was a narrow slit of a mouth. It was an ancient face, bloodless and mask-like.

  Nils’s heart fluttered down to his stomach like a trapped bird. His mouth was dry, so he took a swig of ale, coughed, and then tried to meet Brau’s gaze.

  “Buy you a drink?” Nils said, doing his best to imitate the confidence Ilesa had exuded when making the same offer to him.

  Roars of laughter went up around the tavern, and the corridor began to close. Nils slipped through and stood at the edge of the table.

  “Why would I need you to buy for me what is already mine?” Jankson Brau’s voice was thin and lisping.

  “Point taken,” Nils said. He racked his brains, thinking about what his dad would say next.

  “Don’t bother,” Brau said, without changing his expression. “Your father’s an idiot who’d struggle to articulate a request for somewhere to shit.”

  Nils’s mind reeled. How had Jankson Brau known what he was thinking? The pointy hat drew his eyes, as if it made everything perfectly obvious.

  “My dad’s head of the Night Hawks in New Londdyr.” Nils stuck out his chin and checked to see who was listening. “I bet you wouldn’t say that to his face.”

  The three goons snickered, but Brau showed no reaction besides drumming his fingers on the tabletop. Tongues of fire sparked off at the contact.

  Without warning, Brau swept his arm toward the fat merchant and his men. As if struck by a hurricane, they flew across the room on their chairs and crashed into a huddle of drinkers. The merchant scrambled to his feet and hurried outside, followed by the hunchback. The man in the eye-glasses stooped to pick up the coins that had spilled from his pouch, thought better of it, and bowed and scraped his way to the door. No one complained in the slightest. Apparently, the punters of The Grinning Skull knew better. A couple of them even reset the chairs at Brau’s table before nodding and backing away.

  Brau turned his palm up to indicate that Nils should sit.

  “Little men often carry big ideas of who they are,” he said as Nils seated himself opposite the armed men. “In the case of Shadrak the Unseen, I’d say he wasn’t too far from the mark; but he’s the exception rather than the rule.”

  Brau inclined his head to
ward Nils. His eyes shimmered; the coronas were pools of piss.

  “While it is admirable for a son to look up to his father, it is far more important that an operative in your line of work learns how to see clearly. Your father is an arse. Am I making myself understood?”

  Nils gulped and felt his face flush again, only this time for a different reason.

  “Clear sight,” Brau went on, as if he didn’t really expect a response. “Take the example of our friend, Ilesa. Your brain was addled by the size of her breasts, am I right?”

  Nils shook his head but couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “You’re not the first. I’m sure they are magnificent.”

  There were nods and grunts of agreement from the three heavies.

  “But,” Brau said, raising a finger to emphasize his point, “they are not real.”

  Nils frowned his lack of understanding.

  “She’s a half-breed,” Brau said. “Half a husk; a shifter. She changes her appearance to get what she wants. Now that she knows you’re not looking to hire, she’s probably as flat-chested as you are.”

  “Shame,” one of the heavies said.

  “Shut up, Danton.” Brau didn’t even spare the man a look.

  Nils twisted his neck to peer over his shoulder as someone started strumming a banjo and crooning in a voice like a suffocating bear. The crowds started to pull away from the fire to stand in a rough semicircle about the musician. Tankards were raised, a chorus of whoops and jeers went up, and then most of the tavern was singing along.

  “Entertainment,” Brau said, stifling a yawn. “Keeps the masses distracted. Keeps them in their place. But I guess you know that, what with you being a big man from the big city. Must have been terribly exciting during the siege.”