by D. P. Prior
“Yes. I think.”
Silas turned back to the archway. “So, the answer’s coffin?”
The sword froze in mid-spin, winked a couple of times, and vanished.
“That, my dear Nils, is why I’m called the Worthy, whereas you are merely my pupil. When you’re not being an irritating turd, that is.”
Nils started to say something but then stopped himself. What would be the point? People like Silas had been doing that to him all his life—making him feel a dunce and taking the credit for anything he did well. Not only that, but a madness had crept into Silas’s eyes, the sort you couldn’t argue with unless you wanted a clip round the ear. Gramps had been the same, especially when he had a few beers in him. Made Dad’s always being away on for days on end that much harder, knowing that stroppy bastard was in charge.
“Come on,” Silas said.
“Shouldn’t we wait for Nameless? Thought you said—”
“Now, before it comes back.” Silas headed through the archway and continued along the path.
Nils had half a mind to leg it back the way they’d come. Problem was, it weren’t just the thought of the hand that kept him rooted to the spot; it was fear plain and simple. Fear of being alone in the forest, but also fear of what Silas might do. He was so changed, so driven, Nils was starting to wonder if he was the same bloke he’d met outside of Malfen. Wondered if he was a bloke at all, and not some demon from the Abyss.
“How’d you know it’s coming back?”
Silas glared over his shoulder, a barely suppressed snarl on his face. “I don’t, idiot boy, but it would be really bloody annoying if it did. Understand?”
“All right. All right. Keep your hair on. I just thought—”
“Well don’t. You’ll do yourself an injury.”
They followed the snaking track deeper into the trees. It wound about the thicker trunks, sometimes doubled back on itself, twisting and turning, always the slenderest of channels, barely keeping the knotted blackness at bay.
When they happened upon a clearing, Nils thought they’d arrived. He was almost relieved to get it over and done with, but Silas’s demeanor told him there was still some way to go.
“Perhaps we should wait here,” Silas said. “I don’t like the feel of this place. Reminds me of… When I was a child, my uncle had this—not my real uncle, you understand, one of my mother’s…” His voice trailed away as he stared into the trees. The redness had gone from his eyes. He looked suddenly frail again. Utterly human.
“What is it?” Nils said, moving to his side. “What’s it remind you of?”
Silas frowned at him, as if he didn’t understand the question. He ran a hand through his slick hair and sucked in a wheezy breath.
“Do you think it’s too late? I mean, if we left now…” He started to unshoulder his satchel, but the hand scurried up his coat and down his sleeve to take a firm grip on his wrist. Silas closed his eyes and shook his head. “Just an idea,” he said.
The hand released him and dropped back into his pocket.
“We’ll wait,” Nils mouthed, hoping the hand wouldn’t hear. “He’ll come. You’ll see.”
Silas swallowed and licked his lips. When he opened his eyes, he looked lost, clueless.
“Come on,” Nils said a little louder. “Let’s rest up.” If the shogging hand made a move, he’d stick it with his sword and stamp it underfoot. He was fast. It’d be as easy as… an easy thing.
“Yes, let’s do,” Silas said. Only, it couldn’t have been Silas. The voice came from the trees.
And yet, there he was, plain as day. Silas—a much fresher, naked version, who looked like he’d just stepped out of the bathtub—was walking toward them with his tadger in hand.
“Shog me for a shogging shogger,” Nils said. Just when he thought things couldn’t get no worse, there was two of them.
“Oh no, oh no, oh no,” Nils’s Silas was saying through chattering teeth. His entire body was shaking. “We’re going to die. We’re going to—”
“Crap!” Nils said as another figure emerged from the blackness. It was like looking in a mirror, only he doubted he appeared so clean after all his travels, and there was no way he’d be seen starkers. Not by no one. He gawped at where his double’s hands were cupped over its crotch.
“Knew you’d be embarrassed, like,” the naked Nils said. “So I kept the old maggot covered. Oops!” he squealed, raising his arms. A black vine uncoiled from where his thingy should have been and sprang.
Nils was too shocked to get out of the way, but the tip of the tendril stopped a hair’s breadth from his face, swaying like a snake about to strike. The end started to bulge, and then split as a mouth forced its way out.
Nils was shaking so much, he thought his joints would come apart and pitch him to the ground in a quivering heap. He’d have preferred it if they had. As it was, all he could do was stand and gulp and hope his bowels behaved, as a gristly tongue poked between the lips and moistened them—a tongue on the end of a vine that was his thingy. It darted out and gave his cheek a big slobbering lick, and then the tendril retracted to the double’s groin. Nils felt sick to his guts. He swayed and groaned, tried to keep it in, but then his stomach turned a somersault and he spewed all over his boots.
“You like that?” the naked Nils said. “I do hope so, because I’ve got a whole lot more for you.”
Nils pushed against his thighs and straightened up. He wiped the puke from his mouth with his shirt sleeve. He wanted desperately to run, but his legs threatened to buckle.
Silas was on his hands and knees, whimpering. His teeth chattered so loud, they could have shattered. His double was gyrating its hips over his buttocks, its monstrous thingy firmly in hand.
“My,” naked Silas said. “Don’t you think you’re a bit overdressed?”
“Well, if you want my opinion,” a deep voice rumbled from behind Nils, “I’d prefer it if they kept their clothes on. Two lily-white arses is already too much for this old dwarf. Four would probably finish me off.”
The doubles both hissed and backed away as Nameless entered the clearing, axe casually slung over his shoulder.
“Now, I would tell you to pick on someone your own size, but you see the problem.” He gestured to himself. “And before you tell me there’s another one of you hiding in there that looks like me,”—he glanced at his crotch—“I doubt you’ve got what it takes.”
A third figure slunk from the trees. From the waist down, it was misshapen blackness. The upper half was barrel-chested, the muscles of its shoulders and arms swollen and defined, but the bearded face was only part-formed, eyes wide with shock, mouth hanging open like an idiot’s.
Nameless flexed his arm and held it up for comparison, then shook his head and sneered.
The three doubles roared at the dark canopy of the forest. They began to whirl in tight circles, stretching out their arms as black wisps of smoke wrapped around them. They spun faster and faster, merging with each other and swelling to the size of a house.
Nils was blown back by some invisible wind, but Nameless grabbed his collar and held him firm. Nils caught Silas by the coat as he hurtled by.
The sparkle of humor left Nameless’s eyes. They grew hard and dark. Now they were the eyes of the Butcher.
“Stay here,” Nameless growled as the wind died down.
Standing in place of the three doubles was a giant formed from tar. It was vaguely human-shaped but had no face, and its hands were fingerless, two immense clubs.
“Nameless, don’t!” Nils cried. “It’s too big.”
The dwarf looked like a child as he strode toward the monster, picking up his pace, skipping, bounding into a charge.
A formless fist came straight at him, but he spun around it, smacking his axe into an ankle. It bit deep, but it was like a logger making his first cut. He drew back to swing again, but the other club-fist rushed toward him. This time, he dived and rolled. The fist crashed into the ground, throwing up grit
and a puff of yellow smoke. Nils staggered under the impact, almost lost his footing.
Nameless was relentless, hammering the axe against the same ankle, chopping with ferocious abandon. It was like water eroding a cliff, Nils thought, but then he saw that Nameless was doing some real damage, sending globs of black goo flying from the ever-deepening wound.
The tar-giant stamped, and Nameless tumbled head over heels. Before he could stand, a fist slammed into the earth beside his head. He dropped the axe and crawled out of the way of another bludgeoning punch. He rolled onto his back and held out his hand for the axe to fly into.
The other fist crashed down, and Nameless only just avoided being pulped. He made it to his feet as the monster stamped again, losing him his balance, and then it swung both formless hands in a sledgehammer blow. The instant before impact, Nameless dived and landed sprawled face down in the dirt.
Something crossed Nils’s vision, and he could only gawp as Silas dashed between the monster’s legs and ran deeper into the forest.
“Silas, no!” he cried, but he didn’t really expect an answer.
Nameless stood and shook the grogginess from his head.
“He’s gone,” Nils said. “Gone after the staff. We have to stop—”
The tar-giant squelched and lumbered toward them.
“Will… you… shog off!” Nameless bellowed, and hurled the axe. It spun haft over blades, whistling through the air to bury itself deep in the monster’s gargantuan head.
A little too deep, if you asked Nils.
“Oh, shog,” Nameless said.
“Crap,” Nils agreed.
The tar-giant raised both fists. Nils backed into an oily tree trunk and turned round in despair. There was nowhere left to run. The forest had crept up on them while they were distracted.
“Sorry, laddie,” Nameless said, holding his hands high in a vain attempt to ward off the blow.
Nils was halfway to turning back to face his doom, when a blinding flash of silver burst from the monster’s head and kept sparking and expanding.
Time seemed to freeze for an instant, and then the head exploded in a spray of tar, and the Axe of the Dwarf Lords shot into the sky like a comet.
“Paxy!” Nameless cried. “Gods of Arnoch, you did it!” He pulled Nils into a bear hug. “She did it! I think she likes me again.”
The monster splashed to the ground in a viscous pool of blackness.
Nameless held out his hand to catch the returning axe, but it missed him entirely and hit the earth with a thud.
“Paxy?”
He let go of Nils and knelt beside the axe, scooping it into his arms like he might have done a sick child.
“She’s injured, Nils.”
“How’d you know?” Nils peered over the dwarf’s shoulder. The weapon looked the same as ever, far as he was concerned. Maybe a little duller, but he couldn’t really tell.
“I just know. She… It’s hard to explain. She sends me feelings.”
Nameless pushed himself to his feet and took a two-handed grip on the haft. “She’s hurt really badly. She won’t be doing that again. Ever.”
“Silas…” Nils said. He felt bad mentioning it, but something had to be done.
“Wait here,” Nameless said. “I’ll go after him.”
“But—”
“Wait!”
And with that, he was off along the path, leaving Nils alone with his unvoiced words.
I can help.
Yeah, right, he thought to himself. Fat lot of good you’d be, Fargin.
SILAS
The path grew more and more like a labyrinth the further Silas was drawn into the forest. And drawn he was, he had no doubt about that now.
His feet were a couple of half-starved dogs that had just heard the dinner bell. They moved at a pace that belied his exhausted body. Sweat streamed down his face, burned his eyes. His mind was awash with promises—all the things that would be his once he had the staff: knowledge to rival that of Blightey himself; strength to face down any foe the way Nameless did; confidence, certainty, a boundless well of energy; and more than all of that, health, the chance to thumb his nose at the fate that had no right to treat him so badly.
He raced on through the black trees, coughing and clutching at his chest. His lungs were no more than tattered rags, sliced into a thousand strips by acid-dipped razors.
It wasn’t just promises his mind threw up, either. His churning thoughts recounted the warnings he’d heard back at the Academy, the endless lectures on the perils of Blightey’s way, the scaremongering over his book. Somewhere on the periphery of his consciousness, he knew they were right, knew that he’d been hoodwinked, led by his own weaknesses to a place he’d rather not have gone. But it was too late for that. He was in too deep. The compulsion to see this through was irresistible. He longed for the staff. Sweated for it. Burned for it.
But it’s lying to you, an inner voice said. It was funny but it reminded him of Nils. Good old simple Nils. Not simple as in stupid. Simple as in honest, earthy, transparent. If only I’d been like him, the voice of a sniveling child whined in his head.
But you’re not, another said, clipped and cold.
Silas’s heart skipped a beat, and a third voice chipped in to comfort him.
You are the Worthy, the truest of knowledge-seekers. Peace is within your grasp. The peace of great wisdom. Great power.
Yes! A part of him wanted to shout.
No! came the echo, spiraling away into emptiness.
He could scarcely tell his heartbeats from the gravel crunching beneath his boots. He had a sudden panic and looked down. It was no longer gravel he walked over. It was fragments of blackened bone.
Almost there, the soothing voice said. You’re doing so well. So well.
A chill wind gusted down the path, skirled around him, and blew him on. The oily limbs of the trees swayed to its eerie rhythm.
Silas cast a look over his shoulder. He wasn’t sure what he hoped to see. Nils perhaps, pulling him back from the brink. Nameless charging to the rescue. Instead, he was faced with the forest closing up behind him, giving him no option but to go on.
“Too late, Silas,” he muttered. “Too late. No one’s coming this time.”
Take heart, my Worthy. It’s almost over, and then you’ll fear no more.
Take heart? Yes, that was it. He needed strength now, not weakness. Only the strong could have made it this far. Only the resolute, the fearless, could win the prize. He’d been given so much, and what was it all for, if he balked at the final hurdle?
Yes, my Worthy, yes, the soothing voice said. Make keen your focus. Hone your will. You must become the arrow that pierces the cloud of ignorance, the dart that flies true to the heart of all knowledge. All knowledge!
“I’m coming!” Silas cried, tears flowing down his cheeks. “I’m coming!”
And then he burst upon a grove of twelve mighty boughs arranged in a circle. At its center, bound in briars and creepers and rooted to the earth, stood a twisted staff carved from blackest ebony.
NAMELESS
Nameless had barely gone a dozen yards, when the trees in front closed over the trail. Their roots were undulating tendrils that gave them a gliding motion so fine it was almost imperceptible. If he didn’t act, and act soon, he’d lose sight of the rapidly fading path altogether.
He hacked deep into the nearest trunk, and the entire tree bowed backward, as if it couldn’t bear to be touched. He struck another, and the same thing happened. And then he was pressing forward, swinging the axe left and right, forcing his way after Silas.
A branch whipped down at him, but he ducked beneath it and hammered the axe into oily bark. Slick black vines coiled about his legs, but the twin blades sheered through them like butter. Paxy might have been damaged, but she was still keener than any axe he’d known.
His shoulders were burning from the force of his blows, his forearms pumped and growing numb. The effort of fighting for every inch of progr
ess was draining him one step at a time. Already, he was starting to slow. His breaths came quick and ragged, and his heartbeat throbbed between his ears. He growled his frustration, roared it. One more push, just one more. But there was always another.
A thorny creeper snagged his beard, and a vine snaked about his wrist. A fierce tug, and he was clear, but he blundered right on into a trunk.
Limbs wrapped around him, tightened about his chest. He strained and strained, but the pressure on his lungs was too great. He couldn’t breathe. His head swam, and he was losing sensation in his arms and legs. Paxy hung loose in his grasp. He would have dropped her, but she stuck fast to his weakening fingers. He felt her shudder, felt her impart what little was left of her strength. It was a mere trickle—all she had left.
Bunching every muscle in his torso, he leaned into his bonds, gritting his teeth and forcing his feet against the trunk. His thighs screamed under the pressure, but he was relentless. One last impossible effort, one last heave…
A shrill scream came from somewhere deep within the tree. Its limbs ripped free, and Nameless was pitched flat on his face. On instinct, he rolled and hurled Paxy. She sliced clean through glistening bark and inky sap to the other side, reversed her flight, and struck again. This time, the trunk split down the middle and fell away.
The axe shot into Nameless’s hand just like her old self.
“Still got the strength for a bit of clobbering, then,” he said, already up and pushing ahead. “That’s my girl.”
He swayed aside from a lashing creeper, leapt over a coiling root, hacked left, struck right, and then he was through, stumbling into a circular clearing that was ringed with towering black trees.
Silas stood at the center, reaching toward a sapling wreathed in brambles. Only, it wasn’t a sapling, Nameless realized. It was the black staff from his vision.
The axe trembled in his grasp. He felt her fear as ice creeping through his veins. He took a firmer grip, tried to impart a calm he did not feel.
“Silas, no!” he called, taking a step forward and plunging to his knees.