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

by D. P. Prior

  Nameless spun to face Silas Thrall, limping toward him, willowy and gaunt, looking just as dead as Shent.

  “You survived, then,” Nameless said.

  “Barely, and thanks to you, it seems.” Silas handed Nameless his pack. “Dug it out from under the ants. Here, let me tend your wounds.”

  Silas held his palms toward Nameless, and greenish light effused from the fingertips.

  Nameless snarled and stepped back.

  “Trust me,” Silas said. “It’ll close the wounds and prevent the rot from setting in.”

  Nameless shouldered his pack and forced himself to relax. Wherever the green light touched him, he felt his injured flesh tingle and knit together. A wave of warmth passed through his bones, and then Silas took his hands away.

  “There’ll still be scarring,” he said, “but I’m sure you can live with that. What will you do now?”

  Nameless hadn’t thought that far ahead. “Suppose I’ll carry on into Qlippoth.”

  Silas’s eyes narrowed. “Qlippoth? But—”

  “That’s where they fled. My people.”

  “And you wish to find them?”

  Nameless sighed. “I wish to help them.” Tell them there’s no need to run anymore. “They face extinction in Qlippoth. Either I’ll persuade them to return to Arx Gravis, or I’ll cut down every last horror that stalks them.”

  “I see,” Silas said. “But the Cynocephalus dreams darkly. It may be a task to surpass even your talents with the axe. Perhaps we should journey together, as Qlippoth is where my studies have led me.”

  “You study the dark paths?” Nameless felt his hackles rising. His mind threw up scenes from the snow-dusted forests of Verusia—the sentient mist, probing, caressing, hunting; the docile citizens of Wolfmalen; and the looming evil of Blightey’s castle with its picket of impaled victims groaning upon their spikes.

  “No, no!” Silas said. “Indeed, no. I’m a student of antiquities. A collector, if you get my meaning.” He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together and winked. “If I’m not very much mistaken, our friend Shent here was a bit of a collector, too.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that somewhere along these tunnels there must be a stash of treasure, otherwise what’s the point of being the underworld boss of the most corrupt town on Aethir?”

  Nameless nodded absentmindedly. He felt weakened from the battle, and defenseless against the stultifying darkness that was already settling over his mind. “Think there’ll be any armor?”

  “Only one way to find out,” Silas said, checking his satchel was fastened and giving it an affectionate pat. “Although it’s bound to be a bit on the large size, as far as you’re concerned. Coming?”

  They started off along one of the tunnels, squeezing past the bodies of more gargantuan ants that seemed to have simply rolled over and died.

  We are the same, Shent had said—both creatures of Sektis Gandaw. Nameless wondered if that’s why he’d killed the Ant-Man. Something had possessed him, and this time, there was no black axe to blame. He might have been stripped of his name, might have yearned to piece his identity back together, but there were some things it was better not to be reminded of.

  Nameless stopped and ran his eyes over the carcasses of the ants. At least they’d finally given up the ghost of their unnatural existence. The dwarves wouldn’t be far behind, if Nameless couldn’t bring them out of Qlippoth. Maybe it was better that way. Maybe—

  “Malfen’s a unique place,” Silas said. “It’s sort of where Gandaw’s Aethir ends and the Cynocephalus’s begins. The threshold between science and magic, I like to think. Two kinds of insanity—Gandaw’s monomania and the Cynocephalus’s paranoia. Just think, one step the other side of Malfen and we’re in another world.”

  Nameless ran a hand over his shaven head. The black mood was tightening its grip. If he didn’t do something soon, the paralysis would set in, and then he’d be no good to anyone. If there was one thing Nameless knew about himself, really knew, deep down in the marrow, it was that he denied certain needs at his peril—needs that were written in his blood as surely as those that led the Ant-Man to feed on human flesh.

  “Do you reckon there are any good taverns in Malfen?” he asked, rubbing his clammy palms together.

  “Taverns?”

  “I’d give my right arm for a flagon of ale.”

  Silas nodded. “That’s the most welcome suggestion I’ve heard all morning. Can you hold on until we’ve finished off here?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Be strong, my friend,” Silas said, clapping him on the shoulder. “And just think how much more you’ll enjoy it.”

  They roamed the network of tunnels for an hour or more but failed to find the treasure trove Silas had hoped for. Just as they despaired of coming away with anything of value, they happened upon the skeleton of a dwarf suspended by its feet from the ceiling of a cramped cell.

  “So, Shent wasn’t lying. They did pass through here,” Nameless said in a hushed voice.

  “Been picked dry.” Silas patted the skull and gave a curious look that made Nameless wonder if he’d had an idea and thought better of it.

  “Looks like you were wrong about the armor,” Nameless said, stooping to examine the dwarf’s chainmail hauberk that had been dumped in the corner. It was missing links, and scabby with rust. No doubt one of the family heirlooms donned by a desperate civilian during the slaughter at the ravine. As he picked it up, a rat scampered out and ran across his foot.

  “You going to wear that?”

  A dead man’s armor? A dead dwarf’s?

  Nameless stood before the dangling skeleton and reached in his pack for Thumil’s Liber Via.

  Silas peered over his shoulder as he turned the pages. “Now there’s a surprise,” he muttered, nose wrinkling with distaste.

  Nameless struggled to make sense of the Old Dwarvish, seeking out the passage Thumil had read at Droom’s funeral. Giving up, he slammed the book shut and closed his eyes in silent prayer. Not to any god. Not to anyone at all. It just seemed the right thing to do.

  When he’d finished, he pulled on the armor and strode from the cell.

  Silas was first out of the grille, the giant, Arik, hauling him through by the collar and flinging him to the flagstones.

  As Nameless reached the top rung, Arik sneered down at him, huge head almost filling the opening, teeth all brown and misshapen.

  “Shent let you go, did he?”

  In reply, the head of Nameless’s axe smashed into Arik’s teeth. The giant grunted and spat them out in a shower that pattered against Nameless’s armor in a spray of crimson.

  “You shogging little runt!” Arik roared, grabbing hold of the axe-haft and pulling Nameless from the hole.

  Nameless felt his nose break as the giant’s fist pounded into his face, the other hand wrenching away his axe and slinging it aside.

  “Get up!” Arik growled, flexing the slabs of muscle on his chest.

  Nameless made a show of clambering weakly to his feet and shaking the grogginess from his head. He held up a hand for time and wiped the blood from his nose.

  Arik put his hands on his hips and spat out another tooth.

  “That all you—”

  Nameless kicked Arik in the knee, snapping it backward with a sickening crack. Arik toppled straight into the path of a bludgeoning right hook that turned his head and sent him reeling to the ground.

  “Pugnacious little fellow, aren’t you?” Silas said, handing Nameless his axe.

  Nameless snorted, wincing at the pain from his nose. Nevertheless, his black mood was starting to lift. It was as if someone had opened the curtains onto a bright new day. It wouldn’t last—he knew that from experience. Just had to grab these moments when they came.

  He took hold of his nose and gave it a sharp yank, clicking it back into place.

  “Shog, shog, shogging, shog and shog!” he cried as blood poured from his nostrils and tears fill
ed his eyes. Within seconds, his sight cleared, and the last vestiges of the dark that had been threatening to engulf him dispersed.

  “Pugnacious? Me? You haven’t seen anything yet.” He beamed at Silas. “Coming?” he called over his shoulder as he ambled ahead.

  “Eh?”

  “Tavern, remember? We’ve got us some serious drinking to do. By the mythical Dwarf Lords of Arnoch, I feel a song coming on.”

  “I can hardly wait.”

  “Then you shan’t,” Nameless declaimed, before breaking into a booming shanty that sent Silas’s hands to his ears and the rats of Malfen scurrying for cover.

  NILS

  Nils shuffled from foot to foot, glaring across the street at The Wheatsheaf. It must have been an hour now. Travid Yawl had pleaded for the extra time so he could call in a few debts. There had been a lot of hard-faced men in the tavern, but none of them had lifted a finger to Nils, not even when he’d drawn his sword and stuck the point against Yawl’s throat. Oh, they were scared of the Ant-Man, no doubt about it, and now they were scared of him, too.

  “Time’s up,” Nils growled, wrapping his fingers around his sword hilt. He was gonna enjoy this.

  He bounded up the wooden steps and reached for the door handle. No sooner had he touched it, than the door swung open and knocked him on his arse.

  A dreadful din gushed out of the tavern as Nameless and Silas staggered onto the porch.

  “A salty slug and a harlot’s hug,” they sang, “then we won’t need booze no more, no more, then we won’t need booze—no more!”

  Nils’s mind did a somersault as he stood and straightened his shirt. “Nameless,” he said. “Silas! Thank shog you’re all right.”

  Nameless appeared to be holding Silas up, but he let go as his eyes fell on Nils. “Ishn’t that the boy from the shitty?” he slurred.

  Silas toppled to one side but managed to thrust one foot out to keep his balance. “You backshtabbing little bashtard!” He pointed a shaky finger at Nils and squinted.

  Nils waved his hands in front of him. “No, you don’t understand. I was coming back for you. Why do you think I’m here? I was getting help.”

  Silas half-staggered, and craned his neck to look at the door. “In there?”

  “Yes,” Nils said. “In there.”

  Silas furrowed his brow and swayed. “Nah,” he said, and then bent double as he threw up.

  Nils saw his opportunity and turned to flee, but a heavy hand clapped down on his shoulder.

  “Oh, no,” Nameless said. “You’re not going anywhere. I have a special job for you.”

  No slur? Just a moment ago, he’d been as drunk as Silas.

  Then Nils remembered the fight at The Grinning Skull, and his heart caught in his throat. He inched around so that he faced the dwarf and looked into his brooding eyes. Nameless was stone cold sober.

  “Here,” the dwarf said, shrugging off his pack and handing it to Nils. “Carry.”

  Nils felt powerless to do anything but obey.

  “And hold this,” Nameless said, passing Nils his axe.

  Nils stooped under the weight. How had the dwarf carried it all this way, never mind fought with it?

  “Pass him your bag,” Nameless said to Silas.

  Silas wiped the vomit from his face with his coat sleeve and made a feeble flick of his fingers. “No, it’s all right,” he said. “I’ll keep hold of it.”

  “Suit yourself,” Nameless said, before shooting Nils a big toothy grin. “Consider yourself duly employed, laddie.” He sauntered down the steps with Silas groaning and shambling behind.

  “What do you mean?” Nils said, struggling to follow. “I ain’t coming with you, and I ain’t carrying all this.”

  Nameless spun, his face chiseled stone. Nils tried to swallow but found he had no spit.

  “Repeat after me,” the dwarf said in an uncompromising tone. “I am a pack mule.”

  Nils shook his head. “No way.”

  Nameless raised an eyebrow.

  “I’m a pack mule!” Nils squealed. “I’m a shogging pack mule! Satisfied?”

  “Extremely,” Nameless said, turning on his heel and heading out across town toward the shadow of the Farfall Mountains.

  “Wait up,” Silas said, looking as green as a week-old corpse and stumbling along the cobbled road in pursuit.

  “Come on,” Nameless called over his shoulder. “It’s a perfect day for adventure. Let’s pass through the gauntlet of the mountains and into the promised land. Shog, if the mood doesn’t leave me, I’ll run the length and breadth of Qlippoth and have my people home before the suns set.”

  “Right,” muttered Nils under his breath. “Either that, or we’ll be torn apart the minute we cross the border.”

  A dark shape slunk out from behind one of the shacks flanking the road.

  Nameless seemed heedless of the danger. He was skipping in his excitement to reach the pass, and almost collided with the emerging woman.

  “Sorry, lassie,” Nameless said, looking suddenly timid and uncertain.

  Nils drew alongside Silas and looked the woman up and down. Swollen breasts, wide hips, and garbed in black leather like the strumpet back at The Grinning Skull. Only this one was short. Extremely short. Dwarfish, even.

  “By the tug of my beard,” Nameless said, and then rubbed his barren chin. “Are you—”

  Nils lifted his eyes to her face, half expecting to see whiskers and a mustache. “No,” he said with sudden realization.

  The dwarf lady’s eyes narrowed. Only, she wasn’t a dwarf lady. Nils shook his head and clucked his tongue.

  Nameless swung toward him.

  “No? What—” He turned back to the newcomer and then wagged his finger. “Ah,” Nameless said. “The lassie from the pub.”

  “Ilesa,” Nils said.

  Ilesa gave a lopsided smile and blew Nils a derisive kiss. “So, you’re going, then?” she said to Nameless. “Into Qlippoth?”

  “That’s where my path is leading me,” the dwarf said, his voice still straining at the edge of song. “Care to join us?” He eyed her up and down.

  “Would you like me to?”

  “Oh, please!” Silas groaned. “If this isn’t the most blatant beguilement I’ve ever—”

  Nameless thrust a hand over Silas’s mouth. “Well, you certainly possess rare talents.”

  Ilesa drew herself up to her full height—which was a tad below Nils’s shoulder currently. “I can track, hunt, and kill,” she said, her hands casually resting on the hilts of her weapons.

  Silas mumbled something beneath Nameless’s hand. It sounded like “Cook and sew?” to Nils, but he couldn’t be sure.

  “Only thing is,” Ilesa said, “I don’t come cheap.”

  “No,” Nameless said. “I don’t suppose you do; but I’ve a pouch of gold and a gladdened heart, so name your price.”

  “Thought you had no money,” Nils said. “Back at the Grinning Skull—”

  “Never show what you don’t have to,” Nameless said, pulling out a coin pouch. “Bald shogger gave it to me a long time ago. He never mentioned wanting the change back.”

  Ilesa held out her hand. “Two dupondii now, two more when we get back.”

  Nils scoffed. “You gotta be having a—”

  “Done,” Nameless said, fishing about in his pouch and slapping the coins in her palm. “On condition, mind, that you stay just the way you are.”

  “Sorry, it’s time limited,” Ilesa said, “but I’ll do the best I can.”

  “Hmm,” Nameless said. “Can’t say fairer than that.”

  The dwarf’s good mood was starting to get under Nils’s skin. He almost wished they’d get a move on. Surely Qlippoth couldn’t be any worse than this.

  “Welcome aboard,” Silas said. He proffered his hand to Ilesa then turned aside to puke his guts up.

  Ilesa wrinkled her nose and sidled up to Nameless. “Shall we?” she said, taking his arm.

  Nameless’s grin spread
from ear to ear. “Indeed we shall.”

  The dwarf and his phony dwarven bint left Silas doubled over beside the road, and skipped toward the looming iron gate that marked the edge of town. It was as if Nameless had dropped a heavy burden and found a new wellspring of youth.

  Nils strapped Nameless’s pack to his front, balancing the weight of his own on his back, and hefted the axe in both hands. He cast a longing look over his shoulder as he trudged after his new companions—not so much at Malfen, with its spew of ugly dwellings, but at the fractured gorges and rocky outcrops; the swaths of green and the distant plains that marked the outermost reaches of Malkuth—the only home he’d ever known.

  Tears streaked his face as he turned to his companions and lumbered after them toward the wastelands of the Cynocephalus’s nightmares.

  PART TWO

  THE AXE OF THE DWARF LORDS

  “The cave you fear to enter holds the treasure you seek.”

  (Joseph Campbell)

  NILS

  Face down in pig shite, covered head to foot in it, weren’t exactly the heroic stand Nils would have rightly wanted to take, but like Ilesa said, it was better than the alternative.

  It was all right for her. Nils would have given his back teeth to be able to change shape like she did. One minute she was there in all her curvy glory, all leather and flesh, and then she turned herself into one of them. He’d have chanced a look, but the thought of getting his arse bitten off by a walking corpse weren’t encouraging him none.

  “Hey, pig-boy, seems to be working,” Ilesa stage-whispered. “They’re wandering off.”

  Felt like Nils’s brain was being sucked out his ear when he turned his head and the shite didn’t want to let him go. Her back was still to him, but she made him gag all the same. Big strips of grey flesh hung from her bones, all slicked over with pus and stuff he didn’t want to think about.

  “Some tracker you turned out to be. Thought we was looking for dwarves, not these…What the shog are they?” Nils asked, fighting the cloying muck so he could stand.