by D. P. Prior
“Yes, yes, the Ancient of Days. I know all that,” Blightey said. “But what does it really mean?”
“It’s a name, stupid.” Nils flinched, expecting to get a wallop for that, but Blightey didn’t seem to have noticed, let alone take offense. “It’s the name of a god. The one God.”
Least, that’s how Silas had explained it to him. Not that the wizard had nothing much good to say about the Liber Via. He’d said it was quackery. Nils didn’t rightly know what that meant. Something about ducks, maybe.
“Ain means ‘nothing’,” Blightey said. “No-thing.”
Nils’s mouth dropped open. He was about to ask how that could be, but the Lich Lord snatched the book from him and started to flick through it.
“The Liber Via is not of this world, Nils, although Urddynoor, where it comes from, and Aethir are intimately linked. What may come as a surprise to you, though, is that the scriptures you have here are all but lost to the people of Urddynoor. You’ll be lucky to find them outside the Wayist cult on Aethir.
“You see, there was a crisis on Urddynoor that left the inhabitants scattered and disunited. I had something of a name for holiness—oh, it was a facade at that time, but not without foundation in truth—and was consulted as to the best way to revive the old faith, so they would have something to rally around. Give them what they want, I said. A bit of this, a bit of that. Combine the best of all faiths, all philosophies, and attract the widest following. It’s all about bums on seats in the end. Always has been. So, I gave them a new book, one with a truncated title: the Liber. Nowadays, there’s a whole theocracy on Urddynoor based upon my doctored teachings. I find that mildly amusing, don’t you?”
“So, you don’t believe in it?” Nils took back the Liber Via and shoved it in his pack.
Blightey did nothing to stop him. He rested both hands on the Ebon Staff and looked distant, thoughtful.
“I was once intimately acquainted with the Liber Via, young Nils.” A shadow of sadness swept briefly across the Lich Lord’s features. “I felt it would be a shame to lose it entirely, hence my decision to leave a Golden Thread of its fundamental teachings in the Liber that forms the basis of the Templum religion on Urddynoor.”
“I don’t get it,” Nils said. “If Ain’s nothing, does that mean he ain’t real?”
Blightey’s eyes flashed, and the fire returned to his pupils. “The name ‘Ain’ was my little joke, but that doesn’t mean he is not real. We were close once, a long time ago. A very long time. Come on, let’s see what the hold up is.”
Nils was led stumbling and tripping over loose rocks, in between boulders. His knees burned with the effort of the climb, but Blightey could just as well have been taking a gentle stroll.
They stopped some fifty-odd yards below the rock fall. The feeders massed around it were peculiarly quiet, but from up ahead, the muffled thud and clatter of falling rubble could be heard.
Blightey slammed the heel of the Ebon Staff into the ground, and it immediately sprouted roots and stood like a lightning-struck tree. He tied the end of Nils’s leash to its trunk.
“I’m afraid if you try to leave, my staff here will turn you into a pool of pus. In the grand scheme of things, that might not make much difference, but I can’t help feeling it would be a great shame. You have potential, Nils. Just be patient, and we will unleash it together.”
Blightey glided up the slope with unnatural quickness, feet barely touching the ground. The feeders parted to let him through then closed up behind him.
Nils sank down on his haunches. The leash pulled tight, stopping him from sitting, but it was somehow better than standing.
He could feel a steady thrum, thrum, thrum in his bones, too low to be heard, but tangible all the same. It seemed to be coming from the Ebon Staff, which now loomed over him like one of the wizard towers in New Londdyr. If anything, it was more oppressive, and waves of sickness rolled through his guts.
As he looked up at the staff, the ground lurched, and Nils had to throw out a hand to steady himself. The leash started to choke him once more, forcing him to stand, and immediately the nausea passed.
He was startled by the flutter of wings way too close to his ear. He swatted on instinct, and a crow back-flapped out of harm’s way.
It settled on the ground then hurriedly hopped toward him. With a frightened yell, Nils kicked at it and lost his footing. He hung twirling from the leash.
Something struck him in the fruits, and he gasped so loud he thought he’d spewed his innards.
Sweet musk filled his nostrils as slender hands yanked him back on his feet, and he found himself staring into the most unnerving green eyes.
“Ilesa?” he squeaked, holding his screaming nuts. It occurred to him to keep his voice down, in case the staff had ears. “Ilesa, but I thought…”
“Thought what?” she said. “Thought I’d cleared off and left you? Well maybe I should.”
She turned, and already feathers were sprouting from her arms as she began to shrink.
“No!” Nils half-yelled.
She looked at him over her shoulder. Nils couldn’t tell if her smile was mocking or relief that he didn’t want her to go. He couldn’t help himself, gave her a once over. She still wore the same figure-hugging leather, but she looked different somehow.
“You lost weight?”
Ilesa patted her flat belly then noticed that Nils’s eyes had strayed to her chest. “No point flaunting what you don’t plan on using,” she said with a sneer.
Nils’s cheeks burned, and he looked away. “Got anything to eat? I’m starving.”
“Nothing you can afford,” Ilesa said. “Come on, child. I’m not liking the look of those things up there.” She nodded toward the feeders then took hold of the leash near his neck and pulled out her dagger.
“No.” Nils grabbed her wrist to stay her hand. “Don’t cut it. The staff will turn me into a puddle of pus.”
Ilesa shrugged. “So? It’s not like anyone will tell the difference.”
“Seriously!” Nils said. “That’s what he said.”
“Yeah, well Silas says a lot of things that aren’t true. Anyhow, what’s up with his face? One of his withering dung spells backfire on him?”
Nils looked nervously up at the feeders packed together on the slope. The wind must have been blowing in the other direction now, because none of them was facing their way.
“It ain’t him, Ilesa. Silas is dead.” At least Nils was pretty certain of that. He’d watched the wizard’s head collapse and something that could only have been his soul get sucked into that dreadful black hole. “It’s Otto Blightey, the Lich Lord.”
“The creep Silas was studying?” Ilesa sobered in an instant. “But I thought he was dead.”
“Yeah, well try telling him that.”
Ilesa frowned and looked from Nils to the feeders, her eyes finally coming to rest on the Ebon Staff.
“This what he was after?” She reached out a hand to touch it but withdrew her fingers, as if she’d stuck them in someone or other’s shite. “What the shog’s he want something like this for? It’s… it’s…”
“That’s why you have to get out of here. There ain’t nothing you can do. Nameless knew that. Blightey’s too strong.”
Ilesa sniffed.
“You seen him?” Nils asked. Surely the feeders hadn’t caught up with the dwarf. They’d been too busy devouring everything between the forest of tar and the volcano.
When Ilesa spoke, it wasn’t to answer his question. “So, I cut you loose, and this thing spells you?”
Nils swallowed and nodded.
“And this Blightey shogger is coming back for you?”
“I guess.”
“Good,” Ilesa said, running a finger along the edge of her dagger. She started to change again. This time, scales began to appear on her arms, and her neck grew long and sinuous, even as she shrank.
“No,” Nils said. “Stop. Wait.”
Ilesa sighed and ret
urned to normal. “What? What is it?”
“You can’t hurt him. I already tried. Only thing that’s done any good so far is Nameless’s axe.”
“So, he’s vulnerable to enchanted weapons,” Ilesa said. “Which does us a fat lot of good. Wait, didn’t Silas give you a scarolite pen?”
Nils fumbled about in his pocket until he found it. Just touching the pen brought back memories of the wizard. He might have been a coward and a sarcastic bastard, but he’d been all right, really, when all’s said and done.
Ilesa snatched the pen and held it before her eyes. “They say scarolite’s magic.”
“I don’t know about that,” Nils said. “Stuff’s harder’n steel. Harder’n diamonds, even, but I ain’t heard it called magic.”
“But maybe it can harm him.”
“What,” Nils said, “you gonna write him a nasty letter?”
Up above on the slope, the feeders started to howl and jostle for position. A channel opened up between them.
“Quick,” Nils said. “He’s coming back. Do you think it’ll work? Do you think you can take him?”
Ilesa’s eyes darted from the staff to the pack.
The feeders in the rear turned in her direction and began to shriek. The color left her face, and Nils saw that she was shaking. She pocketed the pen and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” she said, and then she turned and fled, her body morphing as she ran, until the last thing Nils saw heading toward the valley was a shaggy gray wolf.
“Typical,” Nils said. “Shogging typical.”
A scatter of feeders started back down the slope toward him.
“Oh shog,” Nils said as the silver sphere flickered and vanished.
Perhaps this had been the Lich Lord’s plan all along. Perhaps it was punishment for Nils refusing to be a student.
“Oh no,” he mumbled to himself. “Oh no, no, no. Not like this. Please don’t let it end like this.”
He clasped his hands together in prayer and tried to imagine the Ain of the Liber Via. Problem was, the book didn’t have no pictures, and he didn’t have a blind bat’s idea of what Ain looked like.
Then he remembered what Blightey had said about Ain being nothing, and he felt the full despair of reality. Snap the leash and turn into a pool of pus, or stay where he was and get shredded on the bone. Some choice that was. Some shogging choice.
“It ain’t fair,” he whined, tears welling from his eyes. “It ain’t fair!”
“That is the nature of things.” Blightey’s voice came rolling down the incline. “Nobody cares, nobody listens, not even Ain. And if he does listen, he does little else. Nature blind and bloody, my boy. Never a truer word was written.”
A few feeders loped ahead of Blightey, but when the Lich Lord waved his hand and the silver sphere reappeared around Nils, they returned to the pack.
“You need more time,” Blightey said, striding over and untying the leash from the staff before wrapping it around his wrist. When he pulled the staff from the ground, its unnatural roots thrashed and recoiled.
Nils was lost in rapt horror but snapped out of it when Blightey tugged on the leash and reeled him closer.
“It seems the dwarves brought the roof down on my feeders. Credit where credit’s due, I suppose. I have half the beasties clearing the rubble, and the rest seeking other ways in.” He swept the staff in an arc that took in the volcano. Hundreds of feeders were breaking away from the main pack and scouring the rock-face.
“I am told,” Blightey said, suddenly swinging the staff at Nils and cracking him on the temple, “that you had a visitor.”
Nils didn’t know how to answer. If he lied, the staff would most likely grass him up. Already had, by the sounds of it. Problem was, it weren’t in Nils’s nature to admit doing wrong.
“Well…” Nils said.
“Don’t lie, boy,” Blightey said. “If there’s one thing I can’t abide, it’s lying. It’s offensive to clarity, to truth.”
“Well…” Nils licked his lips.
“Was she moist for you?” Blightey said, leaning in closer, snake-eyes watching every expression that must have been dancing over Nils’s face.
“Eh?”
“Did she stiffen your wood? Don’t be bashful, Nils, I’ve seen your most sordid secrets. Remember Betsy Cormen? Does this leather-clad strumpet give you shameful thoughts? Indulge them, I say. It’s a stage you must go through. No restraint, no boundaries, no pitiful self-regulation. Do what thou wilt, Nils, and you will discover there is no right and wrong, no good and evil. If you want her, take her.” Blightey turned away, as if he’d finished, but then he spun back. “Unless you lack the power.”
Nils’s mind was awash with images that fired the blood. He tired to shut them out, tried not to give sway to the lustful thoughts that were rising inside of him and starting to swell his manhood.
Blightey smirked and gave a tug on the leash. “Come along, slave boy. There is sport to be had, and I don’t want to miss it.”
NAMELESS
Nameless walked at the rear in silence. He had none of the joy of victory in his heart, not even the desire for celebratory ale. They’d go away for now, but he was under no illusions: the feeders wouldn’t give up. Either they’d dig through the rubble or find another lava vent, but the outcome would be the same. The sullen spirit that had taken possession of the group told him he wasn’t alone in that estimation.
Grok was cursing away, hacking and spitting clots of pinkish phlegm. He was the worst injured of the seven but didn’t look about to admit that to anyone. When he stumbled, Duck offered him an arm and nearly got stabbed for the trouble.
Kal took the tentative lead, frequently turning back to make sure the others were still with him.
Jaym’s naked torso was raked with red-raw furrows, none of which seemed to bother him in the slightest. His broadsword was slung over his shoulder, caked with congealed black blood.
Old Moary seemed to have had second thoughts about his newfound decisiveness, which shouldn’t have come as much of a surprise. He relentlessly interrogated Targ about their chances, and must have used the words, “What if…” at least a hundred times.
Targ started off courteously, but after putting up with half an hour of ponderous prevarication, he dropped the veneer and went back to what he was: a hardened sapper, used to the company of men with few needs beyond the purely physical, and words to match.
“What if we were to learn more about this Blightey’s intentions, perhaps send an envoy?”
“Good idea,” Targ said.
“Really?” Old Moary’s face lit up. He worried his bottom lip for a moment then smiled. “Yes, I suppose it is, or rather could be. I mean—”
“Go yourself, if you like,” Targ said. “P’raps those things’ll rip the tongue out of your gob and eat it. Least then we won’t have to listen to any more of your prattle.”
Targ left Old Moary standing with his jaw slack, and scuttled ahead of the group like an overburdened crab. If he hadn’t always walked that way, Nameless would have taken it as a sign that the pressure of leading was proving too much, but out of all the dwarves he knew, himself included, Targ was by far the best man for the job.
“Absolutely not, Councilor Garnil! What are you, a shogging idiot?” Cordy’s voice came echoing down the tunnel.
Well, of course there was Cordy. She’d have given Targ a run for his money. Thumil almost certainly wouldn’t have disputed that. No question who’d worn the britches in that marriage.
The tunnel opened up onto a vast cathedral cavern. Stalactites twisted down from the ceiling, straining to meet their counterparts jutting up from the floor. It was like stepping into the maw of a gigantic dragon. Its saliva was the moisture hanging heavy in the air, and there was a low blanket of steam that could easily have been a portent of fiery breath. The walls were pocked and knobbed with porous rock. Here and there, strips of obsidian veined with green shimmered as if reflecting unseen lig
ht. Targ was staring in rapt awe, and when Nameless drew alongside him, the sapper took a firm grip on his arm.
“I knew it,” Targ said, pointing to an iron ladder riveted to the wall just inside the entrance. Its rungs were lost in the giddying heights. “And there!” He indicated an immense door to the far right of the cavern. It appeared to have been cast from solid scarolite, and beside it, bolted to the rock, there was a gleaming brass wheel. “Just like in the plans we drew for Mount Sartis. Oh, my shog, there was dwarves here. Didn’t I tell you, son, there was dwarves here?”
The five-hundred or so survivors of Arx Gravis were spread out in clusters around the stalagmites, their well-stuffed packs littering the ground, or in some cases doubling up as pillows.
The eight carts Cordy had organized for the exodus were parked in a loose semicircle a dozen or so yards from the entrance. If it was supposed to be a defensive barrier, it was a thin hope, but that was probably better than no hope at all.
And then it occurred to Nameless that his morose feeling, the demoralizing weight of the black dog that was once more threatening to paralyze him, wasn’t confined to him.
He looked around the disorderly camp, took in the glum faces, the despairing eyes. A cloud of doom hovered above his people. They were the ones who’d given up hope, not him. If only someone could put the fire back in this ancient and courageous race, they might yet live, rather than curl up and die.
Shog it all, some of them looked ready to set the table for dinner before plonking themselves on a platter as the main course. They’d been running too long, that was for sure. First from the butchery at Arx Gravis, and now from an enemy most of them hadn’t even seen.
What was it Droom had always told his sons? The enemy at your back is a giant who grows bigger with every step. Wise words, often repeated. You had to stand and face your fears. It was the dwarven way. Least it had been a very long time ago, before Maldark’s betrayal had bereft them of their confidence and turned them into passive partners in the dance of life.
“… quality engineering, I tell you,” Targ was enthusing. “I’ll bet my fruits that there door’s mechanized. Yon wheel’ll set the cogs a turning and raise it. Gotta be a valve of some kind. Oh, my shog, you know what’s behind it, don’t you?”