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

by D. P. Prior

  The axe had suddenly grown leaden. He released his grip and regained his feet, leaving Paxy on the ground.

  “Nameless?” Silas twisted his face away from the staff, but his hands still hovered inches from its dark and twisted wood. His eyes were pools of blood, and crimson tears streaked his face.

  “Nameless, is that you?” The words came out in a parched whisper interspersed with rattling coughs. He was hunched over, wincing and grimacing.

  Nameless held out a hand and edged nearer. “Come away from that thing, Silas. You don’t have to do this.”

  “I’m sorry,” Silas said. “Sorry I left you back there. I had to come. Had to.”

  “I know, laddie,” Nameless said, taking another step. He knew what it was like, more than anyone. “That’s what this kind of evil does to you. Promises you everything. Makes you feel you can’t live without it.”

  “But what if I can’t?”

  “You can, laddie. Trust me, you can.”

  A tremor ran through the wizard’s body. His mouth gaped, and drool ran down his chin. “I don’t know that. I feel… feel so weak. Please… Just one touch, and I will… I will feel like—”

  “Like a god?” Nameless knew all about that. Until the moment he’d seen the black axe in the bowels of Gehenna he’d always been content with a flagon of ale and a rousing song. Ask him if he wanted to be a god, and he’d have laughed in your face. Why would anyone want that kind of hassle? But the black axe had changed everything.

  “Yes, a god,” Silas said. “Then nothing will harm me.” He coughed violently, and a slurry of black spew issued forth.

  “Nothing you can see, maybe.” Nameless inched closer. “Give me your hand, Silas. Come on. Let me help—”

  “I can’t,” Silas screamed, clawing at his face and swaying. “I’m not strong like you. I’m not strong.”

  “You are, laddie. Trust me. You are.”

  Silas’s eyes widened in a look of pure terror. The skin of his cheeks was lacerated and seeping fresh blood that mingled with the ooze of his tears. He looked at Nameless in bewildered anguish and then turned back to the staff.

  “No!” Nameless cried.

  “I’m sorry, I must.” Silas stretched out his hands. “It’s all I have.”

  His fingers curled around the black wood, and ecstasy spread across his face. His eyes closed, his lips trembled, and he let out a long shuddering sigh.

  Maybe Nameless had got it wrong. Maybe the vision was just the product of his messed up mind.

  Silas stiffened and arched his back so far, Nameless thought it might break. At the same time, a window of blackness opened up in the air and began to grow until it was the size of a cartwheel.

  The murky light within the grove died wherever it touched the dark. It seemed nothing could stand its touch, nothing could survive within its formlessness. It was the utter emptiness of the Void.

  Nameless felt its pull, felt it demanding all that he was. Part of him wanted to give himself up, too, disappear from the world as completely as his name. He stared at it in rapt fascination, started to extend a hand. But then Silas let out a bloodcurdling scream, and the spell was broken.

  Silas’s face was warping, stretching, as if it were a mask being pulled apart by unseen hands. His screams grew shriller, until his eyes burst, and his head collapsed in on itself. His body pitched over backward, the stump of his neck neatly cauterized.

  The pulpy remains of his head hung in midair and then started to dissolve into wisps of smoke that were drawn inexorably into the Void. Where they touched the darkness, they were immediately snuffed from existence. But then something started to form in their stead. Ghostly fragments of what looked like bone swirled upon the surface of the Void, knitting together and solidifying in the shape of a skull.

  The chill touch of recognition crawled up Nameless’s spine.

  “Blightey,” he whispered.

  Flames formed a sinister halo around the skull, and the eye sockets glowed like embers. It fixed him with a hellish stare that burned away every last vestige of hope. Paralysis insinuated its way into his limbs, a thousand times worse than his darkest depression. He’d seen those eyes before. Seen their cruel intelligence. Seen what they’d done to his friends back in Verusia.

  It floated free of the Void, which contracted to a point and then vanished. Nameless willed himself to look away, but he was held fast, helpless against Blightey’s ravenous stare. He knew what was to come—knew those eyes were going to drink his soul, but at the very last moment, the skull broke off and drifted over to Silas’s headless body.

  “No,” Nameless managed to say through chattering lips. “No.”

  It lowered itself to Silas’s neck and twisted itself into position. First one leg twitched, then the other.

  The corpse sat bolt upright, touched both hands to the skull, and clicked it firmly into place. Effortlessly, it stood, as if a puppeteer were pulling it up by invisible strings.

  A squelching, rustling sound rose up as sinews and veins formed over the bony surface of the skull. Layers of fat and flesh grew on top of them, and jaundiced eyes filled out the sockets. Grey hair, coiffed and stained with dirty yellow streaks, sprouted from the scalp.

  It was the same bloodless face Nameless had seen in Verusia: long aquiline nose, wide, almost lipless mouth, and teeth like weatherworn tombstones.

  With the carefree abandon of the supremely confident, Blightey turned his attention back to Nameless. It wasn’t the probing scrutiny Nameless had expected, though. There was no dissecting stare, no sadistic calculation. All he saw was the blind, unadulterated rage of a dumb beast.

  He tried to shake off the paralysis as Blightey approached, but he might as well have been held firm by a hundred strong men. Nameless tried to scream but couldn’t as the Lich Lord grabbed a handful of beard and stared into his eyes. White hot chains tightened around his head. All his thoughts, memories and feelings collided and swept through his mind. He tried to clutch at images, give himself something to hold onto, an anchor for his will, but none of them were strong enough, not Nils, not Ilesa, and certainly not poor Silas. Their faces gave way to scenes of torture, bodies impaled upon spikes, an eternity of unimaginable torment. He felt his eyes bulging, fit to burst. Give him any sort of death, but not this. Not—

  Golden brilliance danced across his vision. There was an urgent prod at his hand, and his fingers opened on instinct, closing around the haft of the axe.

  Fire surged through his veins, kindled his will, and he tore his eyes away from Blightey’s.

  The axe swept down and the Lich Lord fell back, blood pumping from the stump of his wrist. Silas’s wrist.

  Nameless ripped the severed hand from his beard and roared a battle cry, but Blightey reached for the black staff and pulled it from the ground. A cloud of noxious vapors spilled from its tip, burning Nameless’s eyes and throat.

  Blinking back tears and covering his mouth and nose with his hand, Nameless circled around the billowing brume. He could just about see Blightey’s outline through the smoke, directing the tip of the staff to his wrist and discharging dark fire to seal the wound.

  As the fumes dissipated, the sorcerous hand crawled from Blightey’s pocket and snapped itself into place on the stump. The blood-drenched bindings on its little finger fell away to reveal a perfectly healed nub, which rapidly grew, twitching, until it was a brand new digit. It was the wrong hand—left when it should have been right—but then the fingers and thumb retracted and re-emerged the right way round.

  Nameless bellowed and raised the axe to strike, but Blightey let off a series of fireballs that had him diving and rolling out of the way. The last exploded inches from his face, singeing his beard. His vision blurred, and his nostrils were filled with the stench of sulfur. He tried to rise but fell back, a ringing in his ears and a fierce pounding in his head.

  Blightey pulled out the grimoire and flicked through the pages, growling like a wild beast. Everything he was doing seemed
to be blind instinct, pure malice. There was a flash from the open page that triggered a response in the staff. Black flames licked along its length and spread throughout Blightey’s body. He staggered back, dropping the book and the staff so that he could hold his head. He screamed a long drawn out scream that turned into a wail and then an exultant cry.

  “I remember!” he said. “It worked.” He scooped up the book and kissed it before placing it back in the satchel. The staff rose of its own accord and settled into his hand. “A lifetime of memory encoded in sigils and twisted wood. I knew it. I knew I could…”

  He turned to face Nameless. “And don’t think I’ve forgotten you, my little friend. Your face is permanently etched into my mind, along with those of your companions. No one breaks into my home without severe consequences.” He splayed his fingers, and the air about them rippled.

  A thick spider’s web fell over Nameless. He tried to throw it off, but it stuck to his limbs and weighed him down.

  “I’ve half a mind to make you an example, like I did that delightful holy man I set upon a spike in Verusia. I almost feel guilty I can’t recall his name. Do you—”

  “Go shog yourself.” With a grunt, Nameless snapped one of the threads and then worked a hole in the web with Paxy’s blades.

  “Now there’s a thought,” Blightey said. “Speaking of shogging, my staff has something of a special relationship with your axe.” He lowered its tip and Paxy trembled in Nameless’s grip. “Apparently, they’re siblings, and big brother here is not at all happy with his little sister.”

  Nameless tried to hurl the axe at Blightey, but she clung to his hand.

  A black ray shot from the staff, and Paxy threw up a shield of golden light to block it. As Nameless staggered back under the force of the magical attack, the axe’s terror boiled up in his mind. The staff’s assault was overwhelming, and Paxy shook with increasing violence. It was only a matter of moments before her defense collapsed. The shield started to buckle and spin, sending off aureate sparks.

  “Now, this is going to be fun,” Blightey said, as the black ray bored through. “This is going to—”

  “Oi, shog breath!”

  Nils ran from the tree line, swinging his sword with both hands. The blade smashed down into Blightey’s head and should have split it like a melon, but it only ripped through the flesh to bounce harmlessly from the skull. Blightey lurched under the force of the blow, and the black ray fizzled out of existence.

  Nameless charged but drew up sharp as Blightey raised the staff, and Nils was thrown straight up into the air, where he hung suspended from invisible hooks. He almost dropped his sword, somehow managed to sheathe it, and then clutched at his throat, face red, eyes bulging.

  New skin grew over the wound to Blightey’s head, and he wagged a finger at Nameless. “You like the boy, I can see that. I’m rather partial myself. Now, do be a good dwarf and remove yourself from my personal space.”

  “Let him go,” Nameless said.

  “What’s he done?” Nils coughed and spluttered. “What’s he done to Silas?”

  “Silas is gone.” The words sounded like someone else’s to Nameless, hollow and devoid of feeling.

  “No!” Nils cried. “You’re dead, shogger. You hear me?”

  Blightey gave him a broad smile that was all rotten teeth. “I am indeed, and have been for some time. As regards your recently departed friend, it was an unfortunate necessity. You see, the Void is like a bank. You have to make a deposit before you can draw anything out, and we all know how inflexible bankers are with their rules.”

  Nameless advanced a step but froze when Blightey aimed the staff at Nils, black flames dancing upon its tip.

  “That’s better,” Blightey said. “I’d say your friend has scant seconds of life remaining, wouldn’t you? It’s fascinating to note the little discrepancies between individuals in their death throes. Will they defecate or not? Will they pass urine? Do you know, I once had a chap—”

  “Nameless!” Nils made a strangled gargle.

  “Put him down, Blightey,” Nameless said, brandishing the axe. “Now!”

  “Unfortunate choice of words,” Blightey said with the raise of an eyebrow. “The difficulty for you is that you are entirely powerless. I could quite happily have my way with him, and you would have to stand and watch. Actually, that’s given me an idea.”

  Black shapes shifted at the edge of the clearing. The twelve trees that made up the grove toppled over at the same time. The instant they struck the earth, they became gigantic squid-like monstrosities with scales of polished obsidian. Swift as arrows, they rippled across the ground to form a wall between Nameless and Blightey. Nils was dangling above their questing tentacles.

  “Now, my dear Worthy, God rest his soul…” Blightey gave Nameless a searching look and shrugged. “Tsk, tsk. I’m terribly sorry. Wrong world, wrong time. No God here, eh? What is it at this juncture? Science? Or lots of gods and goddettes? Now where was I? Oh, yes, my Worthy, Silas, was kind enough to loan me his memories as we passed each other on the edge of the Void. Lucky old me, I say. Nice chap, and utterly malleable. Ordinarily, I’d have kept him. You can never have enough apprentices, and he did show some promise. Anyway, it seems you’ve been on a bit of a trek, a mission of mercy.” He gave a sly grin. “The last dwarves of Arx Gravis, if I’m not mistaken, on the run from a certain Ravine Butcher. I’ll tell you what, let’s spice things up a bit.”

  He waved the staff, and Nils dropped on top of a squid. The others coiled their limbs around the lad, knotting their bodies together, until only his head protruded.

  “I’ll hang on to the boy while you go save your people.”

  “What?” Nameless said, dread starting to seep through his veins. “Save them from what?”

  Blightey cocked his head and held a hand to his ear.

  Distant screeches rose on the gathering breeze.

  “I know this must come as a bit of a shock,” Blightey said, “but I must confess, I introduced some creatures of my own to Qlippoth centuries ago. My personal imprint, if you like. Even I find them a trifle unsettling. What you can hear are my feeders. Insatiable creatures that live to feast and disgorge so they can feast again. Tell them what’s on the menu, and they won’t stop until the plate is licked thoroughly clean—figuratively speaking, of course. I’ve suggested they might want to try dwarf flesh.”

  Nameless felt panic rise to engulf him. “You’ve sent them after my people?”

  “Well, they’re actually coming for you first. Your people are next, but if you’re fast enough, you might just be able to warn them. You still have time.”

  Blightey made a show of looking at his wrist and then gave a sheepish grin.

  “Silly me. Not my body, and besides, you’ve probably never heard of a watch. If you set off now, you might give the dwarves a head start. Oh, it’s ultimately futile, but that’s half the fun of it.”

  “The boy,” Nameless said. “Give me the boy.”

  “And why would I do that?” Blightey’s eyes hardened, and the humor left his voice. “Now run along, dwarf with no name. The clock’s ticking, and the feeders won’t wait.”

  A rustle made Nameless look behind. The trees shuffled away from the path, inviting him to follow it. He turned back and cried his frustration.

  “Nils!”

  “Go,” Nils said, gasping like a drowning man, head poking out above the tentacles. “Save them.”

  Blightey chuckled. “Yes, do.”

  “I’ll be all right,” Nils said, a quaver in his voice. “I ain’t scared of this shogger. Soon as I get out of here, he’s got it coming.”

  “Promises, promises,” Blightey said.

  “But I can’t,” Nameless said. “I can’t leave you.”

  Howl after howl tore through the clearing from the north.

  Blightey waved Nameless toward the path. “Don’t worry, he’ll be quite safe with me.”

  “Just go!” Nils yelled, as the squid thin
gs smothered him with their bodies and slithered away into the trees.

  Blightey stood to one side, apparently without a care in the world, as the forest began to shake under the approach of the feeders.

  And then Nameless was pelting along the path faster than he’d ever run before.

  At his heels came a terrible baying, the anticipation of the feeding frenzy to come.

  PART FIVE

  BANE OF THE LICH LORD

  “It is absolutely necessary, for the peace and safety of mankind, that some of earth’s dark, dead corners and unplumbed depths be let alone; lest sleeping abnormalities wake to resurgent life, and blasphemously surviving nightmares squirm and splash out of their black lairs to newer and wider conquests.”

  (H.P. Lovecraft, At The Mountains of Madness)

  ILESA

  Ilesa rode the gusting wind, banking into a steep turn that swept her into the thunderhead. Sleet pelted her tiny frame, ran off her feathers in icy streams. She corkscrewed higher and higher, letting the currents drive her above the storm.

  The twin suns blazed briefly, then slipped back beneath the angry gray. It was all the respite she needed. Steeling herself against the squall, she drew back her wings, dropped her head, and plummeted through the clouds.

  The air screamed past her ears, whistled through her plumage, and then she was beneath the muggy ceiling and swooping toward her prey.

  At least that’s how it felt. She had to remind herself who she really was. What she was. It had taken her years to effect the transformation into a bird, and she was finding it all a bit too invigorating. First, she’d gone for an eagle’s form; it was just like her to reach for the heights, but she knew she’d drawn attention, and Nameless had seen her when she’d landed on the volcano. That’s why she’d chosen a crow this time. They were so plentiful in Qlippoth, along with the vultures, that no one was likely to notice, least of all him.

  The dwarf was a hundred feet below, running for his life. Even from such a distance, her keen eyes could see the sweat pouring off him as his stumpy legs pounded the earth. He was scared, she could tell that for a fact. No, more than scared: he was terrified.