by D. P. Prior
“I see you’ve come a long way,” Silas said. “I’m starting to think your people might have a point.”
“It’s not…” Nameless started, jabbing his finger at Silas’s pocket. “Not the same. I mean, it’s a thing. It’s not natural.”
Silas sneered. “Classic demonization strategy. Sounds like the Ravine Butcher talking.”
“That’s not fair,” Nils said.
“No, laddie.” Nameless dropped his chin to his chest. “It’s fair. Just promise me one thing, Silas, and we’ll be good. Don’t enter the forest while I’m gone. It’s no place for the boy, and you know it.”
“Where are you going?” Silas asked.
“Back the way we came.”
Silas was torn between elation and despair. With Nameless out of the way, he could go where he liked, but without him, how would he get past the guardians? And then an idea struck him. The dwarf would do anything to keep Nils safe, that much was obvious.
“But what about the assassins?” Nils said.
Nameless shrugged. “I’ve not seen or heard a thing from them since we left the foothills leading away from the volcano.”
Things were just getting better and better, as far as Silas was concerned. “They’ve given up?”
“I doubt that. These shoggers have a reputation to keep. No, they’re probably just holding back till we exhaust ourselves. Most likely, they’re waiting for us to sleep.”
Nils drew his sword. “Then we take turns keeping watch. I’ll go first.”
Nameless raised a tremulous fist to his mouth. His eyes were unfocused, devoid of hope. “No, laddie. I can’t allow it. Even I barely saw the others, and I’m a dwarf, used to their stealth.”
“But my eyes are—”
“Nameless is right,” Silas said, sensing his opportunity. “No one disputes the fact that you have the eyes of an eagle, young Nils, but it is a particularly devious form of camouflage they are using.”
Nils sniffed at that, but his shoulders sagged, and he returned his sword to its scabbard.
“I’ll backtrack,” Nameless said. “Perhaps they won’t expect that. Maybe if I’m quiet—”
“You, quiet!” Nils said. “Shog, Nameless, you might as well drive a herd of cattle toward them. What if they hear you coming? Can you take them? All five of them?”
Nameless drew in a deep breath and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they had a steely set. “Whatever happens, laddie, don’t go into the forest. Remember our plan?”
“But I ain’t having it. If you go, I—”
“Remember our plan?” Nameless said again, hammering each syllable home. “Loop back to the volcano. I found some lava vents up above the talus. Some of them have been worked. Looks like they connect with tunnels beneath the roots of the mountain. You might be able to travel through them. I’ve a hunch they might be one of the permanent footprints Stupid—the fellow in motley back at the gorge—was talking about.”
“Worked?” Nils said. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“My people once had plans to turn parts of Mount Sartis into a forge. They were going to divert the lava flow into specially prepared smithies, and our engineers drew up designs to shield them from eruptions. They never got to test it. Place was infested with goblins, and the dwarves had no stomach for war back then. Thing is, it wasn’t an original idea. Legends say the Dwarf Lords of Arnoch used the heart of a volcano to smelt their ore and power the city.”
“You think they were here?” Nils said.
“Someone was. I’ve seen the city of Arnoch. Seen the magnificence of its construction. A people who could build that might have had the ability to tame a volcano.”
“So, let’s all go,” Nils said. “Circle round behind those shoggers. Maybe after a rest I’ll—”
“It’s me they want,” Nameless said. “I doubt they’ll come looking for you. Either I’ll kill them, or…”
He turned away from them and headed back the way they’d just come.
“Or what?” Nils cried. “Or what?”
But Nameless kept on walking until he passed from view.
“Now, young Nils,” Silas said. He felt the weight of the hand leave his pocket, saw it flop to the ground, blood oozing from the binding around its stump. “You’re coming with me.”
“Shog off. Didn’t you hear what—”
The hand sprang like a frog and latched onto Nils’s face. The lad recoiled and beat at it with his fists, but it clamped itself over his mouth and nose and wouldn’t budge. It was as if it had become part of him.
“I can’t breathe,” Nils gasped.
The hand poked two fingers into his nostrils, and he was reduced to gurgling chokes.
“Shush,” Silas said. “Not a word. I’d prefer it if you came to no harm, but I’m not the one calling the shots. Clearly, my friend here agrees that you should tag along. I’m sure if you do as you’re told, he’ll relax his fingers and allow you to breathe. Only enough for the walk, mind,” he said to the hand. “Now, boy, do behave, and let’s get going.”
Nils’s breaths came in tortured wheezes, but he followed like an obedient dog when Silas headed toward the forest of tar.
Silas felt bad about it. Really bad. But needs must, and whichever way you looked at it, he needed Nameless’s help. Nils was the bait that would ensure he got it.
Of course, Nameless could have been right. Maybe he wouldn’t survive the assassins, but there was no point dwelling on that. If the dwarf died, Silas was as good as dead himself. He’d seen visions of the demons guarding the way to the staff, and he didn’t have a hope of defeating them. The worst thing was, if he didn’t make the attempt, he’d die anyway. He knew without a shadow of a doubt, the book would have no further use of him, and would simply let the illness take its course.
It was a desperate gambit, but it was the only chance he had. He had to believe the staff could cure him. Had to. But belief had never come easily to him. What little hope he’d had was trickling away like the lifeblood of a slaughtered lamb.
Face it, Silas, he thought grimly. You’re buggered.
NAMELESS
All he’d wanted was to help his people, tell them it was safe to go home. How had it gone so wrong?
Nameless growled deep in his throat. That was a question that didn’t deserve to be answered. Silas was right, he was just an ignorant grunt. Whatever made him think he could set things right with the dwarves of Arx Gravis, after what he’d done? It went wrong the minute he’d gone after the black axe.
That was Lucius’ doing, a whispering voice said from the pit of his mind. He started it.
Wouldn’t that have been easy? Blame someone else. The problem was, where would it end? Who was ultimately to blame? That bald bastard Aristodeus, for teaching Lucius seditious ideas? Droom and Yyalla, for raising such an inquisitive and rebellious child? Their parents before them? Was it the restrictive nature of dwarven society? Perhaps Maldark the Fallen was responsible; after all, he was the one to screw things up so badly in the first place. Or was it Sektis Gandaw’s fault for duping him? Shog, why not just go to the root of all the crap and have it out with the Demiurgos in his icy prison at the heart of the Abyss?
The fact was, none of that sat right with Nameless. He’d made his choices, and he needed to take responsibility for them.
He tried to snap out of it, focus on the terrain ahead. He hadn’t noticed when they were running, but the ground had a salt and pepper quality. He crouched down to scoop up some loose earth, letting it fall between his fingers. Half ash, half charcoal, or so it seemed. The whole expanse laid out before him was nothing but a wasteland, a kind of dead space between the forest of tar and the volcano.
He quickened his pace, glaring at the hazy air and daring it to form into an assassin. Oh, they had stealth on their side, but they’d still have to be good—very good—if they were going to bring him down while he wielded the axe. He’d always been a natural, gifted with lightning reflexes and ba
lance that would have been the envy of most dancers. With the axe, though, he knew he was even better. Either his opponents had all grown suddenly slower, or his reactions were now so fast, it made them seem so. It didn’t exactly give him hope. He’d seen dwarven assassins at work before, knew how lucky he’d been to survive this long. The point was, he’d take a few more with him before he went down, because they’d need the skill of Shadrak the Unseen to catch him fully unawares, and that wasn’t very likely at all. Shadrak was one of a kind.
The dust and ash eventually gave way to cracked earth as he moved back into the foothills bordering the volcano. Last place he’d glimpsed a pursuer was the shallow valley he was just dipping into.
In spite of his fatalism, Nameless took a firmer grip on the axe. His muscles were already burning with the anticipation of sudden defense. Where were they hiding? Why were they taking so long? Surely five of them had the confidence to take down a lone dwarf, even one with his fearsome reputation.
He stiffened as he spotted a gray shape at a bend in the valley floor. At first, it looked like a fallen boulder, but Nameless had seen enough of dwarven camouflage to recognize a concealer cloak, the hood pulled up to cover the head. The assassin lay motionless. Had he seen Nameless coming? Was he pretending to be part of the scenery, waiting to strike as his quarry drew near?
Fingers curling and uncurling on the axe haft, Nameless crept toward him, eyes flicking left and right, in case the others were close by. This had all the hallmarks of a trap. Ten paces away, and the assassin still hadn’t moved. Five, four, three…
A dark puddle was soaking into the earth beneath the assassin’s head. His heart quickening, Nameless lunged in and grabbed the hood, tugging the dwarf onto his back. He raised the axe to strike and then frowned. The assassin’s eyes were dull and lifeless, an expression of surprise etched into the bloodless face. A slender gash ran from ear to ear across his throat.
Stepping over the corpse, Nameless rounded the bend and found another, this one supine, a dark patch staining the front of his jerkin.
The other three were further along the valley. They must have split up, one of them apparently trying to reach higher ground and then sliding down with a puncture wound in his back. They’d been isolated and slaughtered, one at a time.
It was unthinkable. What manner of foe could have done this?
He shielded his eyes against the emerging suns and squinted.
A large bird—perhaps an eagle—spiraled up on the thermals and soared toward the volcano with long lazy beats of its wings. Something about the bird made his heart hammer in his chest. Before he knew it, he was running through the valley and scrambling up the incline at its end.
The volcano was still some way off, and he could no longer see the bird. He was about to turn back, when someone stood up on a ledge halfway to the summit. Nameless took another lumbering step, but the figure slipped away out of sight with the grace of a cat.
It had been a woman, he was sure of it. She’d been silhouetted by the suns, obscured by the misty haze that cloaked the volcano, but he’d seen long hair, a slender frame, and clothing of dark leather.
“Gods of Arnoch,” Nameless said, shaking his head. “Ilesa.”
He was torn. He wanted so much to run after her, but he needed to get back for Nils’s sake, and to stop Silas from doing something stupid. He waited a moment, hoping against hope that she’d reappear, turn back into a bird and swoop down to him. For that’s what she’d done, he was certain of it. Ilesa had finally grown her wings.
The hope quickly faded, though. If she’d wanted to make contact, she could have done so at any time. Obviously, she’d been following. Obviously, she’d been the one to deal with the assassins.
Nameless screwed his face up, his muscles bunching in frustration. Why couldn’t she just come back and see for herself that he didn’t blame her? Why did women have to be so shogging complicated?
Hefting the axe over his shoulder, he headed back through the valley and out onto the plains of dust and ash. His thoughts were filled with memories of old friends, friends he’d left behind, friends he’d lost. Shadrak could be anywhere between Urddynoor and Aethir. Kaldwyn Gray loathed him with a passion. Cordy was about as far from being a friend now as you could get, even though she and Thumil had practically been family. And Thumil himself, poor old Thumil…
The inky blackness of the forest of tar appeared like a blot on the horizon before he realized he’d been lost in recollection and regret. He hurried the last half a mile, keen to find his companions and lead them away from the beckoning dark. But when he found the spot he’d left them in, there was no one there. Instead, two sets of footprints led through the ashen ground straight into the trees.
NILS
Nils’s vision was all blurry. The shogging hand was practically smothering him, and it weren’t no joke. He was dizzy for want of air, and his heart rat-tat-tatted in his ribcage like a demented woodpecker.
The deeper they moved into the gloom of the forest, the worse it got. Trunks of oily blackness corkscrewed into the sky, their twisted limbs knotting overhead to shut out the light of the suns.
Silas led the way along a narrow path of black grit that crunched underfoot and released puffs of yellow gas. Whispers passed among the trees to either side. They were packed so tightly together that not even a mouse could have squeezed between them.
He would have asked Silas what the bleedin’ hurry was, if he could speak. The wizard’s energy had bounced back, by the looks of it, but Nils had been on his last legs before they entered the forest. It weren’t exactly getting any easier, neither, what with a finger up each nostril and a clammy palm over his mouth. First Nameless and now him. Who the shog did Silas think he was, going round controlling folk against their will? Nameless shouldn’t have stood for it, should have snouted him when he had the chance. It was all well and good being so understanding and the like, but it hadn’t exactly helped the situation none.
Silas stopped dead in his tracks and turned a slow circle. His eyes were so red, they seemed to burn from their sockets. He was breathing ten to the dozen, ragged, panting half-breaths that rattled in his throat.
“Listen,” he said, holding a hand to his ear.
Nils could hear it right enough: a whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, like the sound of a windmill’s sails chopping the air.
“You feel that?” Silas said.
At each beat, warm air wafted over Nils. He nodded, but quickly stopped when the hand tightened its hold. If it shoved its fingers any further up his nose, it would skewer his brain, and that wouldn’t be no good for studying. Still, at least if it did any more spell-hunting through the grimoire, the pages would get stuck together. You had to be thankful for little victories.
“Careful now.” Silas continued warily along the path. “We’re very, very close.”
The heat grew with every step, until Nils was sweating like a pig.
The path came to an abrupt end, but then the trees in front flowed aside in a slick, squelching wave to reveal an archway made of warped bones.
The whole thing appeared to have been melted together. Before the archway were dozens of skeletons, their clothes charred and covered with mildew. Within the arch, an enormous flaming sword spun a vicious circle, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.
“This is it,” Silas said, taking the grimoire from its satchel and leafing through it. “The first guardian. There’s a question in here, a riddle of sorts. Blightey made it up to jog his memory. Ah, here it is.” He squinted at the page, coughed into his hand, and read: “Seven men of Verusia headed into a templum when it started to rain. The six who ran got soaked to the skin, but the one who stayed still remained dry. Why?”
Nils tried to speak, but the hand squeezed hard. He knew that word—templum—it was in the Liber Via. “It’s a temple,” he wanted to say, but then realized that Silas would have already known that. After all, he was the one who’d taught him.
“Don’t!” Silas sa
id, jabbing a finger at him. “Don’t make a sound. I’m concentrating.”
Shog you, then, Nils thought.
“Now templum’s just Ancient Urddynoorian for temple,” Silas said, steepling his fingers and starting to pace.
That’s what I was gonna say!
“So why would seven men go to the temple?”
To pray? What else would you do at a temple? Now hang on a minute…
Nils started to grunt and hop from foot to foot. They hadn’t exactly had temples back home in New Londdyr. It weren’t so long ago the Senate had banned all religion. But they hadn’t banned funerals. He remembered going to one, when Gramps kicked the bucket. There’d been these six geezers carrying the coffin. That was it. That was the answer.
“I won’t warn you again,” Silas said. He turned to face the flaming sword. “The seventh man prayed harder?” Nothing. “He was the holiest?” No change. “He was standing under a tree? No wait, he was in a carriage. Yes, he drove to the templum in a carriage.” Nothing. “With a roof?”
Nils rolled his eyes and turned his palms up.
“This is getting ridiculous,” Silas said. “Presumably, Blightey wants the Worthy to get to the staff. Why’s he have to make things so bloody difficult?”
It’s not difficult, dung-brain. You’re just a stupid plonker, is all. Nils started coughing as loud as he could, given his predicament. Surely, that would be hint enough.
“Right, that’s it!” Silas said, ripping the hand from Nils’s face and cramming it into his pocket. “If you’ve got something to say, say it. Go on, spit it out.”
“Coffin,” Nils blurted, at the same time trying to get a good lungful of air, in case Silas put the hand back.
“Yes, I know you were, and probably just to annoy me. Now, what was it you wanted to tell me?”
“He was in a coffin—the seventh man. That’s why he was still. The other six were pall… pall… carrying it.”
“Pallbearers?”