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

by D. P. Prior

  Nameless accepted it and set it upon his head.

  Targ slapped him on the shoulder. “Get kitted up, son. Time to prove these shoggers wrong and make your ol’ pa proud.”

  A screech echoed along the valley, sending a shudder through Nameless’s heart. He held out the chainmail to Targ and took a deep breath.

  “Right you are,” he said. “Buckle me up.”

  ILESA

  Ilesa was tiring, the effort of flying through the swirling wind too much. She had to stay aloft, though. Had to.

  Hundreds of spindly, mannish creatures swept through the valley below, consuming anything that lived as they went—plants, rodents, insects. The only things spared were the rocks and the dust. Them and Nils, who was standing like an island amid a sea of devastation, cocooned in some silvery sphere of light. And then there was Silas, who the creatures avoided like the plague.

  There was something different about the wizard. His features had altered so much, Ilesa wouldn’t have recognized him, but for the clothes. He carried a black staff that gave off malevolence in waves, and he held a leash, one end of which entered the silver sphere and wrapped around Nils’s neck.

  The lad was pale as a ghost, wide eyes riveted to the raving swarm passing all around him. How they must have appeared close up, with only the shimmering sphere between Nils and their insatiable hunger, Ilesa shuddered to think. They loped like apes, scraping furrows in the dirt with their three-clawed hands, but the instant they sensed anything consumable, they bounded and leapt with preternatural speed. They were vaguely human, but with long gangly limbs and featureless faces, save for the undulating maws that gaped like funnels. It was the mouths that defined them, she realized, the mouths that held your attention and commanded you to run.

  Ilesa’s heart was flapping about in her feathered chest harder than her wings beat the air. She needed to land somewhere; land and rest. Just for a minute or two, enough to catch her breath. It felt like she carried a boulder in her talons.

  She glided in a wide arc, coming to settle on a gnarled outcrop of volcanic rock high up on the valley wall. Patches of lichen and moss coated the stone like a threadbare rug.

  She was too tired to maintain the transformation, and resumed her human form in a low crouch, then rolled onto her butt, heaving in great lungfuls of air.

  The instant she did, a howl went up from the sea of creatures. They broke away from the torrent in columns and raced up the bank like rats following a trail of biscuit crumbs. Immediately, her hands went to her sword and dagger, but she knew fighting so many would be futile.

  Down below, Silas pointed up at her, swirls of darkness forming on his fingertips. She rolled aside, even as ribbons of misty blackness licked at the bank, putrefying the sparse vegetation wherever they touched. The thought of what the spell might have done to her doubled her galloping heartbeat and flooded her flagging limbs with reserves of energy.

  Above the rocky protrusion, the valley wall grew sheer all the way to the top. It would be a hard climb but probably the best chance she had.

  The shrill screeches were so urgent, so hungry, they set her ears to ringing and drove all clear thought from her mind.

  The first of the creatures was already scrabbling about for a way around the edge of the outcrop. Hundreds of the things were close behind, climbing over each other in their hurry to get to her.

  Silas raised both hands and unleashed ten streamers of blackness.

  Ilesa leapt from the outcrop, her fingers finding purchase on the barest knob of rock. She grunted at the jolt to her shoulders and quickly switched her handhold as her fingers threatened to let go. She looked up at the dizzying heights and cursed herself for being an ass. How many times had she scaled the walls of some lord or other’s towers so she could slit his throat while his guards patrolled the grounds below? Some had been so high, she’d have been no more than a puddle if she’d fallen. The first rule of climbing, she’d taught herself, was to focus on her hands and look neither up nor down.

  She strafed along horizontally, hand over hand, until she found a crack to wedge the toe of her boot in and push herself upward. A loud screech made her chance a look over her shoulder.

  The lead creature had climbed atop the outcrop and promptly flung itself in pursuit. It struck the wall hard, flailed about for something to hold onto, and fell, tumbling head over heels into the creatures below. Five, maybe six, of the things pitched to the valley floor.

  Silas tugged on Nils’s leash and drew the boy out of harm’s way. Good thing was, it stopped the wizard from getting off another spell.

  Turning her eyes back to her hands, Ilesa pulled herself up, shoulders and biceps burning with the effort. She felt about blindly with her feet but could find nowhere to put them. Letting go with one hand, she swung herself to the right, reaching desperately upward and scratching at the rock-face until she lodged her fingertips in a crack. She winced at the smarting of torn skin. Rivulets of bright blood trickled down the back of her hand, snaking all the way to her elbow.

  The chittering and screaming from below told her more of the creatures had reached the outcrop, and a quick glance down showed that some of them had made the leap and were climbing in pursuit.

  She found a thin lip of rock to press her toes against and reached up, seeking another handhold. Curling the ends of her fingers over the edge of a depression, she flexed her arms, but her hand slipped in its own blood, leaving her hanging by the other hand over the drop.

  She froze for an instant, staring at the swaying valley floor, then gritted her teeth and swung back, stretching out her injured hand. This time, she found a crack to wedge her stinging fingertips into. She pulled herself to an overhang, threw her leg over the edge, and rolled herself onto the narrow surface.

  Her pursuers must have sensed their prey pulling away, as they intensified their screeching and climbed with greater abandon. One clambered over the back of another and launched itself up at the ledge. Fingers curled over the edge, and then the all-consuming mouth appeared, sucking and slurping.

  Ilesa looked up, seeking the best handholds, and knowing she lacked the strength to make it to the top. And even if she did, these things wouldn’t give up. She could tell, as she watched more three-clawed hands clamp over the edge of the shelf, and then the first of the creatures levered itself up.

  She caught sight of a vertical crack splitting the rock-face just above the ledge. The lead creature leapt at her, but she was already changing. It swiped thin air with its claws as Ilesa flopped to the cold stone in the form of a snake and slithered into the crack. She pressed herself as far back as she could and coiled her neck around to watch. Her breaths came in staccato hisses, her tongue flicking out to taste the air.

  Claws scrabbled about at the mouth of the crack but couldn’t get more than an inch inside. The screeches turned to cries of frustration and rage.

  Ilesa closed her eyes and prayed. Prayed that they would tire and leave her alone. She had no idea who she prayed to—maybe the capricious ape-god at the heart of Aethir, maybe the god of the universe the loony Wayists of New Londdyr ranted on about. In all honesty, she didn’t give a shog. The act was akin to a message in a bottle, and probably just as effective.

  After an age, the screeches grew muffled and distant. When she wriggled to the opening, there was nothing outside.

  She slithered all the way out onto the ledge and resumed her human form. Wind whipped up, coming down the valley from the south and streaming her hair out behind her. That was a good thing, she thought, watching the creatures swarming down to the valley floor and flowing past Nils and Silas: she was downwind of them. They surged like a tidal wave, their hungry maws turned toward the shadows cast by the volcano at the valley’s end.

  When the tide passed, Silas yanked on Nils’s leash and led the boy stumbling after the pack.

  There was something different about the way the wizard walked, something poised, almost stately. Whatever had happened to him, the change did
n’t look good. He’d aged horrendously, his nose protruding like a hooked beak from his wizened features, and his hair had turned the color of piss-stained linen.

  And it wasn’t just a physical change, either. Something had altered between him and Nils. Yes, they’d always ribbed each other in the past, and Silas had made a show of being irritated by the boy, but it had essentially been the relationship of squabbling siblings, with Silas the critical older brother. If anything, they had grown closer during the journey through Qlippoth, Silas tutoring the boy, and Nils’s jibes being undercut by an aura of respect.

  This new development—Silas leading Nils like a dog—set Ilesa on a train of thought that made the skin of her face pull taut, her eyes narrow, and her blood frost over. This was something she knew only too well, back from when the creep had done such things to her little Davy. Back when she’d been too much of a coward to stop him.

  NAMELESS

  The opening they’d chosen was wide enough to drive three carts through, side by side. Targ’s reasoning was based on certain signs he’d seen on the stonework—scratch marks that could have been made by anything, as far as Nameless could see, and crisscrossing furrows running down the center of the floor that the old sapper reckoned were caused by heavily laden carts, no doubt bearing tools and construction materials, maybe even rich ore mined in the depths of the volcano.

  “Don’t see it myself,” Nameless said as the last stragglers passed into the lava vent, pausing to take in their surroundings, looking half-relieved to be underground and half-terrified at the gathering screeches from behind.

  Targ had certainly picked an impressive tunnel, clearly the main vent, and the largest by far. It was ridged with concentric circles that ran away into the distance. Stubs and nodules of cooled magma dotted the walls and ceiling like stunted stalactites, or blisters coating the gullet of a fossilized dragon.

  “Look, son,” Targ said, indicating a hairline groove cut all the way round the entrance. “Started marking it up, they did. Reckon this was gonna be gated.”

  He ran his finger along the track of the groove and brought it first to his nose, then his lips. He cocked his head and raised an eyebrow.

  “Been cut with scarolite.” He rubbed his hands on his apron. “No mistaking the residue.”

  Nameless took a look himself, and sure enough, his finger came away coated with rock dust that was here and there flecked with green. The only race capable of extracting ore from the intractable veins of scarolite and melding it into tools was—

  “Dwarf Lords, my old son,” Targ said. “Maybe they weren’t just legends, after all.”

  “I’ve seen them.” Nameless thought back to King Arios’s throne room beneath the waves. “Well, not exactly seen them, but I’ve seen their city, Targ. I’ve seen Arnoch.” Paxy trembled and gave off a low moan.

  Targ stared at him for a long moment, brows knitted like cleft rock. Finally, he nodded and clapped Nameless on the shoulder.

  “Need to get going, son. Whatever those things are, they ain’t far behind. My boys have got this entrance rigged to blow. Just need to put a few finishing touches myself.”

  Old Moary shuffled up from the far end of the tunnel, switching a rusty hatchet from hand to hand.

  “You should see this place,” he said. “Goes right back, deep in the heart of the volcano, and there’s a steady gradient.”

  “Down to the roots, no doubt,” Targ said. “Following the course of the lava.” He gave a thoughtful look.

  “What is it?” Nameless asked.

  “Just hope we can get out the other end.” Targ’s mouth hung slack, and there was fear in his eyes.

  Nameless’s heart skipped a beat, and it felt like the ceiling was pressing down on him.

  “Just joshing, son.” Targ winked and gave a throaty laugh. “I got a hunch these here tunnels have been worked considerably and won’t be leading to no dead end. Besides, if they do, we’re dwarves, ain’t we? We’ll just dig our way out the back. Might take a few years,” he added. “And I suppose we might starve to death. No, like I was saying, this has the feel of dwarven engineering about it. Who knows, perhaps the vents follow a stream of scarolite all the way back to a city made of gold. Come on, son, no more glumness. Let’s you and me get these folk to safety. Just need a few minutes to run my fuses and check them charges.” He indicated the walls ten foot back from the opening, where holes had been bored into the rock at intervals of a foot or so.

  Nameless thought back to the gorge, when he’d been chained to the wall with charges set all around him. Targ had been kind enough to him then, but with hindsight, it was like the kindness of a farmer sharpening his blades so that when he slaughtered a favorite pig, it didn’t feel much pain. He shook his head, not wanting to go there. Targ was as good as they came, but just like the rest of the citizens of Arx Gravis, he was a stickler for law and duty, bound to service in the name of the greater good. At times it seemed the dwarves functioned as one body, and when parts didn’t do as they were meant to, they got lopped off—Nameless caught Old Moary eyeing him, apparently waiting for him to say something—or surgically removed.

  “… punch to your head rupture your eardrums?” Old Moary said in an unnecessarily loud voice. “I said, we should guard the entrance while Targ finishes off.”

  Nameless rubbed the bridge of his nose and blinked several times. There was too much to think about—what had happened at the gorge, Arx Gravis, the coming feeders; and then there was the matter of Nils being in the clutches of Blightey, and somewhere, deep down the other end of the tunnel, Cordy and all that she implied.

  “Got any mead?” he said in a voice that sounded muffled and distant in his head.

  “Never without it.” Old Moary pulled a flask from his robe pocket and took a swig before handing it to Nameless. “Only thing that makes Council meetings bearable.”

  Nameless gulped some down, relishing the honeyed aftertaste. His arm felt leaden lifting the flask, and when he looked, it was covered with yellowish bruises. “But I thought—”

  “Same as the rest of them,” Old Moary said. “Thought I was a boring old codger who would take six hours deciding which socks to wear.”

  “Socks?”

  Old Moary hitched up his robe to better display his thick woolen socks, one gray, the other brown, encased in cracked leather sandals.

  Nameless winced as shooting pains lanced through his spine. He put his fist into the small of his back. Jaym had caught him good there, and now the battle-lust had worn off, he was once more feeling the results.

  “Wife used to hate it,” Old Moary said. “My little rebellion, I always thought. The point is that none of us on the Council had much freedom for any sort of decision making, least not anything that would alter the status quo. Once you realize that, it’s easier to just settle in and enjoy the endless discussions that lead nowhere and achieve nothing.”

  Nameless sucked on his front teeth. That’s what Lucius had been so frustrated with. Nothing ever changed. Year in, year out, just the same old stagnant society, too afraid to act in case they repeated the errors of the past.

  “Well, this ain’t one of your Council meetings now,” Targ said. “I got a dozen more charges to check and fifty yards of wire to play out. Sound of things out there, I’ll get halfway through the first, and then my arse’ll be mincemeat.”

  Nameless strode to the entrance with his axe over one shoulder. “How long do you need?”

  “Ten shakes of a cat’s knackers,” Targ said, and continued poking about in the holes his sappers had made.

  Echoing footfalls announced the arrival of more dwarves from down the tunnel. Kaldwyn Gray came to attention before Old Moary but then sidled up to Nameless at the tunnel mouth. He’d brought with him a couple of hard-looking shoggers and a bruised and battered Jaym. The baresark’s head was lowered, and he leaned on the hilt of his enormous broadsword.

  “Councilor Cordana sent us,” Kal said. “She’s got most of the commun
ity in a cavern about quarter of a mile in. We’re to hold the entrance till Targ can do his stuff.”

  There was movement below in the mouth of the valley, and Nameless stepped out onto the ledge in front of the tunnel to get a better look.

  He squinted, but the shapes spilling out onto the base of the volcano were little more than blurs. It made him wish Nils was there with his sharp eyes. If the lad was still alive. He may as well have been an ocean away, what with being on the other side of the horde. What Blightey would do to him, Nameless could only imagine. Back in Verusia, he’d first seen the Lich Lord’s castle through a forest of impaled victims. The stench of piss and ordure was still strong in his nostrils, and yet he couldn’t help thinking they had been the lucky ones, the ones who’d escaped Blightey’s more intimate attentions in the horrific torture chambers where Nameless and his companions had finally confronted him.

  “Listen, Nameless,” Kal said, joining him on the ledge. “Back at the circle—”

  “I know. Impressive, wasn’t it?” Nameless couldn’t keep the sarcasm from his voice.

  Kal had always been a good soldier, loyal to a fault. He’d looked up to Nameless when they served together—you might have said worshipped him. Perhaps that was why he’d taken the butchery back at Arx Gravis so much worse than the others. They were scared and angry, without a shadow of a doubt, but with Kal, it went much deeper. For him it was a personal betrayal, although nothing compared with what Cordy must have felt.

  “I just wanted to say—”

  “Idols with clay feet can’t be rebuilt, laddie. Nor should you try.”

  Kal rubbed his bandaged jaw and winced. His eyes roved to the scene below, where hundreds of gray shapes swept toward the volcano. “Think Targ can do it in time?”

  “Course I can do it, son,” Targ yelled from inside the tunnel. “That’s if you and your boys can hold the fort for a couple o’ minutes.”

  The two dwarves Kal had brought with him stepped out onto the ledge. One bore a massive shield that seemed to have been molded from solid iron. It bore the telltale dimples of where it had been hammered back into shape after taking a beating. If it encumbered him any, the dwarf didn’t show it, but his shield arm was about half the size again of his other, the muscles full and rounded, crisscrossed with blue veins. A flanged mace hung from a leather belt cinched tightly beneath his overhanging belly. There was something familiar about him, but also something different: the shield. That was it. Duck was his name. Thumil had assigned him to Cordy as her bodyguard, back before things had gone so horribly wrong.