by D. P. Prior
“’Tis a fool who sits idly by when his would-be killer is training so vigorously.”
Stupid sidled up to Nameless, the bell on his floppy hat tinkling as he shook his head in obvious awe at Jaym’s exertions.
“Two things you never do right before a fight, laddie,” Nameless said, “and one of them’s to train.”
Stupid frowned and momentarily looked every inch his name. “What sayest thou? He is bigger than you, stronger, and more fierce. With every new effort he seems to grow. You, on the other hand, languish on your rump like the already defeated.” He crouched down and leaned in close to Nameless’s ear. “Our doom is upon us. You cannot afford to tarry, let alone lose this head-fight.”
Now it was Nameless’s turn to frown. “Head-fight?”
Stupid sighed, as if he were addressing a dull four-year old. “This is not about muscles and fists; it’s about pride, and we all know what comes next, don’t we?”
Nameless was about to protest. It wasn’t pride that made it necessary to fight Jaym; it was simply about authority and the right to lead. He knew soldiers, knew the kind of thing they respected. He was about to say as much to Stupid, but doubt had already crept in unbidden. Maybe it was a pride thing. What if… He pinched the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes. That’s what Cordy must have thought. Why couldn’t anyone see? Desperate times called for desperate measures. He was only trying to save his people. Was that so hard for them to get?
“Bigger and bigger,” Stupid said, returning his gaze to Jaym, who was now curling the boulder and glancing at each of his biceps in turn.
A rough cordon had formed around the baresark—the shield bearers standing at ease and commenting to one another about Jaym’s impressive conditioning.
Nameless wondered if any of them would have stepped into the circle with the baresark? With any baresark? Didn’t matter how hard you hit those crazies, they kept on coming back for more. Shog, he’d even see one go on fighting with half his skull caved in and bits of brain sloshing out. Shoggers were so dumb, they’d continue raging a full five minutes after you’d killed them.
“That’s just pump,” Nameless said. “Always get that when I lift.” Not that he could remember the last time he’d trained. Time was he could deadlift thrice his own weight. Got so heavy, he’d had Rugbeard forge him some iron plates and a bar strong enough to take them all without snapping. Course, that was before Rugbeard got too permanently sozzled to do anything but get more sozzled.
“Then get it now,” Stupid said. “Look at the size of him. You need all the help you can get.”
“All for show,” Nameless said. “The more he lifts before the fight, the less energy he’ll have. I’d sooner come at it fresh. Could be a long haul.”
Stupid gave him a hard stare then shrugged and stood, nodding to himself as if his worries had all been assuaged.
“You seem rather serious for a fool,” Nameless said, pushing himself to his feet and doing a couple of torso twists.
Stupid eyed him as if he were going to say something profound, but then he stuck a finger up his nose, pulled out a stringy bogey, and popped it in his mouth.
“Snot serious, by any standard,” he said with a bow. “Just make sure you don’t lose.”
He moved off with a capering jig, tall hat bobbing in and out of the gathering crowd.
“Odds on favorite, Jaym the indestructible! Jaym the destroyer!” Weasel’s voice rose above the crowd.
Nameless located him standing on a cart surrounded by dwarves waving their token pouches.
Weasel was as dexterous as a seasoned card player, taking tokens and handing out slips of paper without ever pausing in his banter. “Jaym the god of pain! Jaym the—”
“Fat flatulent git?” Stupid yelled, leaping onto the cart behind Weasel. “Jaym the vacuous; Jaym the ‘I’m so scary to all the women, I have to play with myself.’”
Jaym dropped his boulder and charged at the cart, lifting its front end and tipping Weasel and Stupid out the back. He slammed it down and stormed round the side with a face like thunder.
Stupid gave a hop and a skip and slipped into the crowd like a ferret down a hole. Weasel gave Jaym an almighty slap on the arm.
“You blinkin’ stupid oaf. You scattered my tokens all over the bleedin’ ground.”
Jaym turned on him and roared, and Weasel instantly changed his tone of voice to a whine.
“It weren’t your fault, old son, but tokens are tokens, yours as well as mine.” Before Jaym could do anything, Weasel was down on his hands and knees scooping up the dull metal disks that could be exchanged for food, drink, and just about anything else a dwarf could want.
Of course, Nameless had seen it all before, the wagering on who was going to pound who into the ground, the shameless gawping of a crowd of otherwise normal folk charged with the anticipation of blood. It was in them all, even the most civilized.
Old Moary was there in his white robe of office. It shouldn’t have been a surprise. The councilor had apparently been quite a handful before the trials and responsibilities of training to be a surgeon had tempered him.
The other councilors were milling about, shaking hands with folk, heads bobbing with feigned interest in whatever they were being told.
Nameless scanned the crowd until he spotted Cordy standing by herself and looking every bit as out of place as he felt. It was her disapproval of the way he’d dealt with Grago that had started the rot. His mind was like quicksand, eating into his confidence and leaving only bitterness and the dark. Normally, a good fight would revive his spirits, but not when she was watching and judging him; judging him for what he’d done to Grago, for every blow he might inflict on Jaym. But most of all, judging him for Arx Gravis, for Thumil and Marla.
Her blue dress was grimy from the trail and frayed at the hem. It clung to her hips and drew his eye to the milkiness of her ample breasts straining to free themselves from the fabric. The rain had coiled her golden hair into ringlets that draped about her shoulders like jewelry, and her beard was braided into slender ropes that fell to her waist.
Cordy lifted her eyes, and Nameless pretended he’d been looking at something behind her. He felt his cheeks burning with shame. Where had it come from, that chink in the darkness, that longing to reach out to her, make everything all right?
She was even more lost to him than she’d been when she’d married Thumil. He was a monster in her eyes, the beast who had taken away her family. He had no right even to look at her, never mind hope for anything more. No dwarf woman would welcome his advances. The closest he’d be likely to come was Ilesa, and now even she was gone.
He looked up at the peak of the volcano smoldering in the damp air. The rain had petered out to a drizzle, but there was still no break in the clouds, which hung like a ceiling of slate. If he squinted enough, Nameless half hoped he might see Ilesa there watching and waiting. He was sure it had been her before, sure it had been her who’d killed the assassins. Why she’d do such a thing was beyond him, but Nameless was way past trying to understand her, or any other woman, come to think of it.
A cluster of dwarves was milling around the largest of the lava vents he’d explored on the way to the forest of tar. Probably sappers, judging by the picks and ropes they carried. One of them headed back toward the settlement, and the others began to lay down their tools and follow.
Even from a distance, Nameless knew it was Targ. The bow-legged walk and stooped back from years of tunneling were a dead giveaway. He wanted to wave, call the old dwarf over. Shog knew he needed to tell someone with a bit of common sense what was coming. Targ was a practical man and seemed well-liked. If anyone could persuade the Council to move the people to safety, it was him.
Odd thing was, the feeders had been right on his tail when he fled the forest of tar. There was no way he should have gotten here ahead of them, not with his stumpy legs; not judging by the sounds he’d heard razing the forest behind him. But then the noise had died down, and he�
�d kept running all the same. Had Blightey been toying with him, tricking him into abandoning Nils? Or were they still coming, only taking their time, certain never to lose the scent of their prey? There was no way of knowing. He had to assume the threat was real. Had to get this fight over with and convince the dwarves to flee back the way they’d come. Once they were safe, he’d go back for the boy.
The thought brought an icy chill to his guts. He’d seen what Blightey was capable of in Verusia, and he was frightened. Not that he’d admit it to anyone else, mind, but here, in the gloomy embrace of his inner dark, he didn’t mind acknowledging Blightey scared the shog out of him.
“What’s up, Butcher, shat your britches?”
Nameless started at the intrusion into his thoughts.
Two dwarves were carrying a stretcher toward the fighting circle. He recognized the dwarf on the stretcher from back at the gorge but couldn’t for the life of him recall the fellow’s name.
“Cairn.” The dwarf propped himself up on one arm. “Cairn Sternfist, you shogger. Didn’t expect you to remember. It ain’t like I’m the only one here that wants your blood, but let me tell you, I don’t have a problem with Jaym being the one to spill it. You’re dead meat, Butcher.”
The stretcher passed him like a ghost ship, wending its way through the crowd, until he could see it no longer.
Nameless idly stroked the haft of the Axe of the Dwarf Lords sticking up from the boulder its head was buried in. He felt the urge to grip it tight, wrench the blade from the stone and put an end to this nonsense.
Paxy purred in encouragement, but instead, he shook his head and stepped away. Most likely she was right, but the past was a powerful teacher. Easy as it would be to force the dwarves into submission with a display of ancient power, this had to be done another way. He had to gain their respect, not make them more afraid, if there was going to be anything worth saving. If he were to be anything but the Ravine Butcher in their eyes.
“You’ll be all right here, lassie.”
He gave the haft a parting slap. None of the other dwarves could touch her, let alone wrest her from the rock. Either he’d beat Jaym and reclaim her, or she’d become part of the scenery, a mythical axe waiting for a dwarf with the blood of the Immortals to claim her. It would be a long wait; longer even than her centuries beneath the sea in King Arios’s throne room.
“S’right thing to do, son,” Targ said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Been enough blood. Ain’t saying it’s your doing or nothing, but this needs settling the old way, in the circle. It’s what your pa would’ve done. Your ma, as well, if I ain’t too much mistook.”
Nameless’s eyes were drawn to where Jaym was rolling his shoulders and cricking his neck. The baresark’s traps were like mountains that had swallowed his neck. He started to rip handfuls of hair from his chest, leaving bloody patches where the skin came away. Jaym bared his teeth in a smirk and pointed at Nameless. The crowd started to chant, baying for blood like they always did at these events. If they didn’t quieten down soon, they’d never hear the feeders coming to devour them. Still, Nameless thought, maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Better sudden death than the knowledge of what was coming.
He shook away the thought before it took hold. The dark was closing in from all sides, sapping his resolve, eating up his strength.
“When you’ve done him,” Targ said, giving his shoulder a reassuring tap, “come and see me. I’ve got a little something for you.”
“You think I can beat him?” Nameless looked the old sapper in the eye.
Targ didn’t blink once. His face was carved granite, his brow a rocky outcrop overhanging twin nuggets of glittering ore.
“Don’t need to answer that, son. You’re Droom’s boy, and don’t you forget it.” He gave a last slap to Nameless’s back and ambled away. “Oh, and one more thing.” He craned his neck and narrowed his eyes. “I’ll be wagering a week’s tokens on you breaking that shogger’s nose. Don’t let me down, now.”
Nameless watched Targ enter the crowd and soon lost him amid the pumping fists and yelled taunts.
The entire dwarf community, the survivors of Arx Gravis, roiled like an enraged sea. He shuddered and found himself reeling. That’s how he’d seen them before, back at the ravine city. That’s why he’d cut them down.
He turned his back on them, tried to force his legs to move. He could still walk away from this, head back toward the forest of tar and face the feeders alone. He had no place here. These people needed nothing he could offer. He’d known it all along: there was no forgiveness for what he’d done, and the way they were yelling at him, goading him to fight, he wasn’t sure he wanted it, either.
A series of shushes passed through the crowd until the foothills grew deathly quiet. Nameless became aware of the immensity of the volcano looming above him, casting its heavy shadow. There was a weight on his shoulders that made him feel stooped like Targ, and his face burned with the shame of knowing he could not fight, did not want to.
“What’s up, Butcher, pissed your pants?” Jaym roared.
There were a few sniggers, but the silence quickly settled again like a blanket of snow.
“I’m talking to you, dwarf with no name. What, you need to be holding your weapon to feel like a man?”
There were scattered laughs at that.
Nameless forced himself to turn and look up toward the fighting circle on its natural elevation.
Jaym towered above the dwarves hemming him in with their shields. He unfastened his britches and yanked out his dwarfhood, waving it around until it came to life.
Nameless raised an eyebrow.
“Now that’s what I call a real man,” Jaym sneered, showing the crowd his member.
Nameless had to admit, it was somewhat large, but nothing to be dismayed about. He visored his eyes with a hand and made a show of squinting.
“Give me a moment, laddie. Eyes aren’t what they used to be.”
Some capricious instinct rose up and pierced the black dog mood like a flaming arrow. Misty fetters dropped from his limbs, and the blood began to flow once more, building to a torrent that rushed through his veins.
Walking lightly on the balls of his feet, he strode toward the crowd, and a corridor opened up before him. He shook his head as he approached and held up his palms.
“Sorry, don’t get it. Anyone care to explain?”
“It’s his cock, you plonker,” someone yelled.
“A male chicken?” Nameless called back. “What’s he got a chicken for? You hungry, Jaym? Reckon you’ll need more than that scrawny bit of fowl you’ve got there, strapping lad like you.”
A woman squealed out loud at that, and the crowd turned as one to see who it was.
Cordy, standing by herself atop an outcrop of rock, put her hand to her mouth and lowered her face.
That’s my girl, Nameless thought. Fact that she hated his guts didn’t take away from the realization she was still the same old Cordy, when all’s said and done. He had to be thankful for small mercies.
“Put it away, laddie,” Nameless said as he entered the circle, and the shield wall locked in place behind him. “Spindly little thing like that’ll likely shrivel up and die in this chill.”
Jaym seemed to shrink as much as his manhood. He fumbled with the laces on his britches and covered himself.
“Show us yours, then, Butcher. Bet it ain’t half the size.”
“Oh, Jaym, I thought you didn’t care.” Nameless swung round to take in the dwarves forming the circle. “You have to watch this one. Keep your shields up, lads.”
A couple of soldiers sniggered, but the rest glowered.
“Shut the shog up and fight,” Kaldwyn Gray said. His jaw was bandaged and looked decidedly lopsided.
“Did I do that?” Nameless leaned in for a better look, but Kal shoved him back into the center with his shield.
“You know,” Nameless said with a flick of the wrist toward Jaym’s crotch, “the only time
I saw anything half as impressive was in the Dead Lands surrounding Sektis Gandaw’s mountain. Hot as a strumpet’s arse, it was, and one day I came upon a dry and withered carcass that I was reliably informed was the dehydrated afterbirth of a camel.”
Cordy snorted behind her hand, and a stream of snot sprayed between her fingers. A great whoop went up from the crowd but swiftly degenerated into hushed enquiries, chief of which seemed to be, “What’s a camel?” There wasn’t much need for beasts of burden at the bottom of the ravine, and besides Rugbeard, who’d grown famous propping up the bars of New Londdyr, Nameless was alone in having seen so much of the world. At least, until the flight into Qlippoth.
“Ku-na-ga!” someone roared.
Nameless stretched up on tiptoes to see what was going on. Kunaga was the legendary founder of Arnoch, the greatest dwarf to ever have lived, according to the stories told in Arx Gravis. Pseudo-histories, Lucius had called them, but nevertheless… Nameless was touched by the compliment. He strained his neck to see this fan of his. Never hurt to have the crowd on your side. The crowd, however, had been unnerved by the cry, and dozens of dwarves were pulling back from the front to give the baresarks some room.
“Ku-na-ga!” a ferocious looking lout with green-streaked hair yelled, jabbing his finger toward Jaym.
“Ku-na-ga!” the rest of the baresarks bellowed in unison. “Ku-na-ga!”
Nameless jabbed a thumb over his shoulder and did his best to look shocked and hurt. “Oh, he’s Kunaga. And I thought you meant—”
Something slammed into his lumber spine and pitched him headlong into a shield hub. A series of flashes sparked behind his eyes. White-hot pain throbbed in his back and radiated down both legs. He tried to clutch the edges of the shield, hold himself upright, but he was shoved roughly back into the ring, where he crumpled in a heap.
“Ku-na-ga! Ku-na-ga! Ku-na-ga!” the baresarks chanted, beating their chests in a thunderous din.
Nameless blinked and shook his head. Black dots swam across his vision, and then Jaym came into focus, looming above him, boulder-like fist raised to strike.