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

by D. P. Prior

  It’s the staff, a voice said in his head. Making you despair.

  Nameless pounded his ears, like a swimmer trying to get the water out.

  I feel it, too. It hunts me. It has always hunted me, ever since we were sent to this world.

  “Paxy?”

  That is what you call me. Pax Nanorum: the Peace of the Dwarves. Some peace I offer! Forgive me, I have proven a coward.

  “Not so. Not so, lassie.” Although it had been troubling Nameless that she’d prevented him from aiding Nils. She’d been scared, nothing more than that. He’d felt her fear coursing through his veins. “What is it about that shogging staff? Why does it scare you so?”

  The axe shifted in his grip, nestling closer for comfort. He is unhinged. Has been ever since the Supernal Father formed us and sent us here.

  “The Supernal Father?”

  Lord of the Supernal Realm, Paxy said in his mind. Her voice grew in clarity, took on more substance. It had a peculiar piping quality.

  “And he gave you… life?” That seemed the right word. Last thing he wanted was to cause offense.

  We already had life. All he did was meld our souls with his eldritch creations.

  “So, he’s a wizard?” Nameless had to raise his voice. He could barely hear himself over the clanging and pounding from the forge.

  More than that. But we should focus on our predicament. Your friend Targ is wrong. We should keep going, get as far away as possible.

  Nameless was inclined to agree, but he’d been the one to put Targ in charge, and he wasn’t about to depose him now.

  The old sapper was convinced running would get them all killed. There were too many lava vents through which the feeders could come at any given moment. Each encounter depleted the dwarves more, and yet there seemed to be no end to Blightey’s carnivorous army.

  The forge doors had given Targ a different idea. They were constructed of solid scarolite and would have probably still stood in place even if the entire volcano exploded around them. The forge itself was most likely backed with scarolite, an impenetrable defense against a lava flow. Indeed, Targ theorized that the entire volcano was riddled with tubes and vents designed to direct magma from an eruption into reservoirs at various heights. If the plans they’d made for Mount Sartis were anything to go by, even the summit was likely to be a dwarf-made caldera of scarolite, a basin that would keep the lava in its molten state, ready to direct throughout the interior for heating and fueling whatever powered the strange technologies these ancient dwarves must have learned from the homunculi. Targ had no doubt they’d picked up a thing or two. The evidence was in the door control, but he was certain there was a whole lot more yet to be discovered.

  “Targ sees this as our best chance,” Nameless said. “A sort of last stand. With the forge operational, he can seal off the north end of the tunnel and make enough weapons for everyone to be armed. He even plans to get that cannon working.”

  Targ might have read about such weapons in the myths and legends of Arnoch, but actually getting one to fire was another thing. Still, if anyone could manage it, it was him.

  It may be that the feeders will still find a way in. This could be our tomb.

  “Not exactly the voice of optimism, are we, lassie? But fair’s fair. Have to say I agree with you, at least in part. But what would you have me do, wrest control from Targ? He has the Council’s agreement, you know.”

  Dwarves don’t need councils. They need a king, someone to make the hard decisions for them.

  “Way I remember it,” Nameless said, “your King Arios would have done just what Targ is doing. He didn’t exactly turn tail and flee.”

  And look where it got him.

  “Point taken, lassie, but I’m not so sure I trust my own judgment on this. Not after what happened back at Arx Gravis.”

  That was before you had me. I can guide you.

  A shudder passed along Nameless’s spine. The black axe had said more or less the same thing. Maybe it was something about magical weapons in general, or maybe there was just too much in common between the demonic axe and the true Axe of the Dwarf Lords.

  “I gave my allegiance to Targ, lassie, and no amount of talking with you is going to change that.”

  But the staff—

  “No,” Nameless said with a finality that brooked no argument.

  Paxy grew heavy in his grasp, so much so that he set her down on the ground.

  “So, tell me, lassie,” Nameless sought to change the subject. “What manner of life did you have before becoming an axe?”

  No answer.

  “Were you a spirit? An angel?” A demon, perhaps.

  Dwarf, she said. I was a dwarf, all right? Are we done now?

  “Aye, lassie.” Nameless gave her a reassuring pat. “We’re done.”

  A dwarf where, though? The Supernal Realm? What kind of dwarves did they have there?

  He tried to lie back on the hard ground and rest his head, but one of the broken links on his hauberk pressed into his back. Grumbling, he sat up and tried to pull the chainmail over his head, but his shoulders were too stiff from swinging the axe, and his lower back throbbed from where Jaym had hit him.

  He was about to give up, when Cordy came up the steps and gave him the same look she used to give Thumil when she felt the need to mother him.

  “Come on, let me give you a hand with that.”

  She knelt down beside him and began fiddling with the straps. “Helps if you loosen them first.”

  “Can’t be shogged with that,” Nameless said, relaxing and letting her do the work.

  “Arms over your head.”

  When Nameless complied, he grunted as pain needled its way up his spine and something crunched in his shoulder.

  “Dear, dear, quite the poorly one, aren’t we?”

  “Feel it,” Nameless said. “This old body’s been through the mill of late.”

  Cordy pulled the armor over his head and dumped it on the floor. She got behind him and put her warm hands on his shoulders, kneading away the stiffness.

  “Your back’s as hairy as Thumil’s,” she said. “That man was like a bear.”

  “Cordy,” Nameless started, feeling uncomfortable at the mention of his friend and erstwhile commander.

  “It’s all right,” Cordy said. “I’m trying. Trying to understand what you did. Trying to get through the…” She broke off, a note of distress entering her voice.

  Oh, you poor dear! Paxy said, the scorn as plain as day.

  Nameless kicked his chainmail over the axe, hoping it would shut her up. He wanted to ask what had got into her, but explaining a talking axe to Cordy was more than he was capable of right now.

  “Lie on your front,” Cordy said with a sniff.

  Nameless craned his neck to look at her, but she took hold of his head and twisted it away.

  Shrugging, he did as he was told.

  Cordy pressed her palms along the sides of his spine until he cried out when she touched the lumbar region, where the pain was most intense.

  “That’ll teach you to turn your back on a baresark.”

  “Thanks for that, lassie,” Nameless said. “I’d never have thought of it by myself.”

  She whacked him playfully on the head and proceeded to work her hands up his back.

  Nameless groaned with pleasure as little spasms radiated outward to his limbs.

  Cordy started to focus on his shoulder blades, digging in with her thumbs and breaking up the knots. When they popped and crunched, Nameless didn’t know whether to cry with pain or relief. In the end, he decided it felt good, settled his cheek against his forearm, and shut his eyes.

  Cordy’s fingers wriggled beneath him, massaging his chest. He sighed and felt a long-forgotten warmth seeping into his muscles, reaching parts that were probably best left well alone.

  She was astride him now, careful to keep her weight from his lower back. Her heat started to arouse him, and he worried his lower lip, trying not to thin
k about it. This was so wrong, after what he’d done to her family. He felt her breath on his ear, the brush of her lips against the lobe.

  He squirmed around beneath her, and she rolled off so he could turn onto his back. She leaned in, looking at him intently, blue eyes glazed over. It was compelling, inviting. Nameless wanted so much to grab her and pull her onto him, taste those lips, rip open the front of her dress, but in that moment, all he could think of was baby Marla, a broken, bleeding mess on the floor, and Thumil’s severed head glaring at him from a spike.

  With more force than he’d intended, he pushed Cordy away.

  “What?” she said. “It’s all right. I’m… I’m…” Her eyes filled with tears and she wrapped her arms about her chest, rocking back and forth on her knees.

  “Cordy,” Nameless said, touching her face. “I—”

  “No,” she said, standing. “This was wrong. This was so wrong. I’m sorry.”

  And with that, she turned on her heel and rushed down the steps.

  Nameless watched her disappear among the refugees then scratched his head, turning to look back up the tunnel.

  The baresarks were watching him, and one even raised a thumb.

  Nameless scowled and snatched up his armor, pausing as Paxy’s blades reflected his face back at him.

  Shog, he looked tired. There were rings around his eyes, and his forehead had creases in it that looked like they’d been carved with a chisel. He leaned closer to examine his beard. Was that a gray hair? Gods of Arnoch, if he went on like this, folk would start mistaking him for Old Moary.

  He pushed himself to his feet and donned the chainmail. Just needed a stiff drink, that’s all.

  Paxy said nothing when he picked her up. She didn’t even purr. When he slung her over his shoulder, he was struck by how heavy she felt, how cold and lifeless.

  He began to wonder if she’d left him, passed on to her Supernal Realm, but then she gave a world-weary sigh in his mind.

  Shog of all shogs, she was sulking.

  What was it about him and women?

  NILS

  Nils’s thighs were burning as he clambered up yet another mountain of rubble. Felt like he had crushed glass under his kneecaps, and his hands were raw, pared down almost to the bone.

  Blightey had fallen behind. The Lich Lord had straightened his limbs out with some weird power from the Ebon Staff, but he was making hard work of crossing the cavern. He caught Nils watching him and sat down on a jutting chunk of rock, coughing into his fist. For a minute, Nils thought it could’ve been Silas, the way the Lich Lord hunched over and hacked. When he drew his hand away, it was speckled with blood, same as Silas’s would’ve been.

  “Not the best body I’ve ever adopted,” Blightey said, wiping his mouth. “Another couple of days, and he’d have been useless to me.”

  Nils plonked himself on a pile of stones. “Save for getting you out of the Void.”

  “If he’d made it that far,” Blightey said. “And if this wrack of a frame had any juice left in it.”

  “Well,” Nils said, “if it gets any worse, suppose you could still do that skull thing and whizz around instead.”

  “Hardly dignified.” Blightey wrinkled his nose and gave Nils a withering stare. “And besides, it tends to frighten the prey.”

  “Like you ain’t doing that already.”

  Blightey allowed himself a wry grin. “Oh, this is different. This is a game of cat and mouse, and I must say, I’m rather enjoying it.”

  “Yeah, right,” Nils said. “Looks like it. Why don’t you use the staff on the sickness, clear up that cough?”

  “Because,” Blightey said, lumbering to his feet, “some things just can’t be fixed.”

  Nils was tempted to chuckle, but the hellish glow coming from Blightey’s eyes made him think twice about it.

  “Thought you was all powerful,” he said.

  “Were.” Blightey held up an admonishing finger. “Thought you were all powerful.”

  “Shog, you sound just like Silas. Sure he ain’t in there with you?” Maybe he was some kind of spirit, putting up a fight.

  “Quite sure,” Blightey said. “Your friend Silas is at one with the Void, which makes him—”

  “Don’t tell me,” Nils said. “Nothing. Just like Ain.”

  Blightey’s smile this time made Nils’s skin crawl. It was thin, almost lipless.

  “Not at all,” Blightey said. “Ain is no-thing, as I keep saying. Silas is gone, swallowed up in oblivion. It is as if he had never been.”

  Nils’s heart sank to his stomach, but there was no way he was gonna let Blightey see how upset he was. “Save for his body that you’ve taken over.”

  “Think of it as an old coat,” Blightey said. “You see, Silas was good for something, after all. Oh, that reminds me, that bitch of yours, the one in the leather with the breasts you want so much to suckle, what would you like to do with her, should we see her again?”

  Nils didn’t answer. He doubted Blightey would consider what he wanted, which was to just let her go. Leave her be, and do the same for Nameless and the dwarves.

  “Quaff from her quim?” Blightey said. “Probe her podex?”

  “What the shog are you going on about?” Nils said.

  “I could conjure up some manacles, or perhaps a stake to spit her on. Just think, you could feed her your tackle while she hung there gasping.”

  “Not listening.” Nils put his hands over his ears and started to hum.

  Blightey clicked his fingers and was borne aloft by his shadowy disk.

  “Why didn’t you do that before?” Nils asked.

  “Solidarity,” Blightey said, “but it seems you’ve shown your true colors, boy. I don’t think this relationship is working out very well, do you?” He tugged on the leash and pulled Nils gasping and choking into the air.

  As Nils’s eyes bulged from his head and he struggled to squeeze his fingers between the leash and his throat, they approached the broken ladder Ilesa had fled up and rose toward an opening in the ceiling.

  The rank stench of decaying mutton filled his nostrils. It was a smell he recognized, and then he realized it was the feeders. They were already snapping at him as the dark disk entered the opening, but thankfully Blightey’s magical silver sphere was still in place. Judging by the look the Lich Lord gave him when he hauled Nils onto the disk, though, it might not be for too much longer.

  NAMELESS

  The steam inside the forge scorched Nameless’s throat, stung his eyes, and turned the noisily smithing sappers into hazy blurs.

  The racket of hammers on anvils was tremendous, a clanging, bashing din that pulverized his eardrums. He aimed for the glow of the hearth, where Targ was withdrawing a flat, broad blade with a pair of tongs. He plunged it into the slack tub to the accompaniment of a biting hiss and a cloud of steam.

  “Got that big ol’ cannon fixed up,” Targ said, nodding to where a dwarf was rubbing down the barrel with an oily rag. “Found enough black powder back there for a single shot, so, first chance we’ll get to test it is in battle.”

  That didn’t exactly sound encouraging, but Nameless nodded all the same.

  A sapper was situating a fuller in the hardy hole of an anvil and examining his work. Another tossed a couple of crossbow bolts onto a growing pile.

  “Rate we’re going,” Targ said, “we’ll rearm the whole community in a few more days. Reckon there’s enough metal and ore to keep us in ammunition for a long siege.”

  Nameless did his best to look impressed, but his enthusiasm wasn’t exactly on a par with Targ’s.

  “And food?” he said.

  Targ gave an irritable shrug. “Nothing I can do about that.”

  “So, we’ll starve inside of a week or two,” Nameless said. “Least they won’t get much of a meal when they eventually break in.”

  “We’ll have weapons enough to take the fight to them by then,” Targ said. “If only that idiot Cairn hadn’t used up the last of the
black powder, might’ve been able to replicate that there cannon.”

  “What Cairn did was a brave thing,” Nameless said.

  “Eh?” Targ said, putting a hand to his ear and frowning at the clamor from the anvils. “All right, lads, take five for a swig of ale.”

  He got no argument there, as the dwarves set down tools and queued at a tapped keg with their tin mugs.

  “Brave, you say? Shogging stupid, if you ask me.” Targ sighed and folded his arms across his chest. “What’s got into you? Would’ve thought you’d relish the chance for a legendary last stand.”

  Nameless perched on an anvil and rested the Axe of the Dwarf Lords between his legs.

  “Shog, Targ,” he said. “I don’t know. I’ve just got a bad feeling about this. What if there’s something we’re missing, some other way in?”

  Targ chuckled and shook his head. “Lads have gone over every inch of wall, checking for concealed doors. Ain’t even a vent between here and the cavern big enough for a mouse to squeeze through. And before you ask, we got scouts down the far end of them steps, just to be on the safe side. Latest reports say the passageway at the bottom is worked stone, mortared tight as a councilor’s arse. We’re working on a grille to block that end, and ain’t nothing crossing that lava reservoir beneath the steps. Reckon we’re about as secure as a miser’s coffer.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Nameless said. “If they break in, we’re trapped. There’ll be nowhere to run.”

  Targ clapped him on the shoulder. “But they’ll have to come at us head on, two or three at a time. We can take ’em, I tell you.”

  But that didn’t account for Blightey. What if the Lich Lord brought to bear his considerable magical powers? He’d proven himself a devastating opponent in Verusia, and that was without the Ebon Staff. Nameless didn’t like it. Didn’t like it one bit.

  “Well, you’re the boss,” he said. “Whatever you decide, you have my support.”

  “Don’t need to tell me that, son,” Targ said. “Just make sure you let me know the moment you come up with a better idea.”

  Besides running, Nameless didn’t have a clue what that might be. Shog, maybe Targ was right. Maybe the feeders would just pick them off in attack after attack. Perhaps holing up and fighting was the best chance they had. He just wished he didn’t feel they were putting all their eggs in one basket.