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

by D. P. Prior

  Nameless raised an eyebrow, and Kal caught the look.

  “Oh, I see,” Cordy said. “Do they have oars?”

  “Punts,” Nameless said, nodding to the long poles stashed on board the barges.

  “Well, come on, then,” Cordy said, turning back to the crowd clogging up the opening. “Let’s get going.”

  “Orderly, now,” Kal called, and then rolled his eyes at Nameless. “They’re impossible. Completely hopeless.”

  “They are the future, laddie,” Nameless said. “Looks like you’ve got one eye set on that.” He indicated Cordy with a nod.

  “Just doing my duty,” Kal said. “Don’t want to lose her now. She’s the only one talking sense. Present company excepted,” he quickly added.

  “Good lad.” Nameless clapped him on the shoulder. “Good lad.”

  Somebody down the far end of the tunnel cried out, “Hurry, they’ll be nipping at our heels in a minute!”

  “Get a move on!” someone else shouted.

  Those at the front stumbled into the cave as the panicked dwarves at the back tried to shove their way forward.

  “Stay calm,” Cordy called out. “The baresarks will protect you. There’s plenty of time.”

  “Shog that!” someone cried to a grumbled chorus of assent.

  “Shogging baresarks,” another voice said—it sounded very much like Nip Garnil—“what are they gonna do if those things come running?”

  There was a concerted heave, and a couple of dwarves at the front fell, the ones behind stepping over them. The cave filled with frantic people all yelling and gesturing at the barges. The cannon from the forge was dragged through the entrance and discarded like a piece of unwanted junk.

  “What we gonna do now?”

  “I ain’t getting in no boat!”

  “There ain’t no time,” an old graybeard yelled. He shambled toward the water, stripping down to his loincloth. “Swim for it!”

  With an almighty splash, he launched himself from the jetty and disappeared beneath the inky water.

  Others were already disrobing, slinging their clothes on the cavern floor. The old dwarf broke the surface and started forward with strong strokes, but suddenly the water around him came alive with froth and bubbles. He screamed, and blood sprayed from his kicking legs. He thrashed about wildly, spluttering, desperate to keep his head above water.

  Dozens of silvery shapes leapt above the surface, latching onto his arms and face. The dwarf rolled onto his back, but his torso was a writhing mound of viciously biting fish. One of his legs was already stripped to the bone. His struggles grew weaker and weaker until, barely more than a flayed cadaver, he sank beneath the water.

  “Shog,” Nameless muttered.

  Those who’d been ready to swim gathered up their clothes and started to put them back on, pale-faced and trembling.

  “What do we do now?” someone asked.

  Cordy looked like a volcano about to erupt. “Use the boats, idiot, and from now on, everybody do as you’re shogging well told.”

  NILS

  Nils was gobsmacked. For a second, he thought he’d stepped into one of the heavenly halls of Araboth, so brilliant were the many-colored lights bouncing off walls of cut crystal. But then he remembered who he was with and realized that couldn’t be possible. For all his charm and power, Nils couldn’t imagine Blightey bluffing his way into paradise. Not a chance. Nor would the feeders have been there, prowling around in packs, tasting the air before the statues of dwarves that were dotted about the place.

  Over the other side, there was an arch with some kind of writing on the keystone. Looked like Ancient Urddynoorian, of the sort Nils had been trying to study in the Liber Via. Buggered if he knew what it said, though.

  It seemed as though Blightey were privy to his thoughts when he read aloud, “The Bitter Passage. I wonder what’s so bitter about it.”

  “You mean you don’t know?” Nils asked. “Thought you knew everything.”

  “Not quite,” Blightey answered, casting a scowl around the chamber. “That would just add to the tedium.” He feigned a yawn and turned his fiery eyes on Nils. “What do you think?” He swept out the Ebon Staff to take in the room.

  “It’s…” Nils turned a slow circle, trying to find the right word. “Beautiful.”

  Blightey rapped the staff three times against the crystalline floor, and in response, a blanket of steaming shit coated everything in the room, clinging to the statues, caking the walls, and dripping in globs from the ceiling.

  “And now?” the Lich Lord asked.

  Nils bit his tongue. Anger rose like lava in his veins, but at the same time, he felt the inexplicable need to cry. He weren’t gonna let Blightey see that, though, so he gave a casual shrug and walked to the archway.

  “Nils.” Blightey said, leaning on the staff and leering.

  “What?”

  The silver sphere about Nils flickered.

  “Just a gossamer shield between life and death. Try not to forget.”

  Nils swallowed and lowered his eyes.

  “Good,” Blightey said. “Then proceed. The feeders are hungry, and Ain only knows how much longer I can keep them from such youthful flesh.”

  NAMELESS

  Nameless had lost count of how many times the barges had gone back and forth across the lake, packed to the brim with dwarves. He leaned against the cannon, which Cordy had ordered aimed toward the entrance, in case the feeders came before they were all safely over the water.

  Grok checked and re-checked the barrel, down which he’d shoved one of the incendiary balls. He kept studying the fuse, too, running it between thumb and forefinger; kept striking a spark from his flint and steel. He was so bloodied and battle-scarred, he looked like a mutilated corpse, and the effect wasn’t lessened any by the frenzied glow in his eyes.

  Duck hovered at his shoulder, shield and mace at the ready. He had a grim set to his face, and had developed a nervous chew. He shot a look back at the boats to see how close they were to getting away.

  The last of Jaym’s baresarks were embarking, when a shriek echoed down the tunnel.

  Nameless jumped to attention, fingering Paxy’s haft. Duck came alongside him scraping his flanged mace head against the rim of his shield.

  “Do I light it now?” Grok said, eyes flicking from Nameless to Duck. He produced another spark and held the end of the fuse over it.

  “Wait,” Nameless said, raising a hand.

  The baresarks were all on board, and the barges freed from their moorings.

  “Get going,” Nameless called. “Don’t wait for us.”

  Duck cocked an eyebrow at him. “If you’re suggesting we swim…”

  “Believe me, laddie, I’m not.”

  Two of the boats were pushed away from the jetty with the long poles. Jaym stood at the stern of the third craft, watching the tunnel intently.

  “I’ll give you as long as I can,” the baresark said.

  Nameless nodded his thanks.

  The first feeder bounded round the corner on all fours.

  “Wait for it!” Nameless barked, and hurled Paxy. The axe spun blades over haft and ripped the head from the creature’s shoulders.

  Duck stepped in front, bringing his shield to bear as two more feeders launched themselves at him. Both collided with the iron and fell back. He brained one, and the returning Axe of the Dwarf Lords sliced straight through the other.

  “Better start moving!” Jaym yelled.

  Nameless stole a look, and saw the baresark had started poling the barge away from the jetty.

  “Come on,” he said to the others. “Let’s go.”

  “Shog off,” Grok said. “I ain’t going till this baby gets to shoot her load.”

  “Don’t you think you’re mixing metaphors, laddie?” Nameless asked, then shook his head to keep focus.

  “You two sling your hooks,” Grok said. “I’ll be right up your asses.”

  “Uhm…” Nameless started, but k
new any retort of his would be lost in the heat of the moment. “Never mind, laddie. Just don’t do anything stupid.”

  Duck backed away toward the jetty, shield up and mace clutched tightly in a white-knuckled fist.

  Nameless flung Paxy twice more, scoring both times, but then the tunnel was filled with a swelling mass of teeth and claws rolling toward them like a landslide.

  “Come to Papa, you ugly shoggers,” Grok growled as he lit the fuse.

  The feeders spilled over the cannon, but in that instant, there was an ear-shattering blast that tore through them in a torrent of smoke and flame.

  Fleshy shrapnel splattered the walls and ceiling—limbs, heads, chunks of meat. The cannon’s roar reverberated down the tunnel, and as the sooty cloud cleared, it seemed the floor had been flooded by a river as black as that flowing through the heart of the Abyss.

  Nameless’s ears rung from the concussive blast, and he teetered, off-balance.

  Duck was crouched down behind his shield, shaking his head and blinking ten to the dozen.

  Grok was splayed out on his back a couple of yards from the cannon. His fingers twitched reflexively, but his skin was as charred as an over-roasted pig.

  “Did I get ’em,” he croaked, head lolling to the side.

  “Yeah, Grok,” Duck said, “you got ’em good.”

  Blood drooled from Grok’s mouth as he smiled. “Got myself, too, I reckon. Knew I should have stood further back.”

  Duck got to his feet and started toward him. “No, you’ll be all right, mate. Just need to—”

  More feeders swept from the tunnel mouth, screeching and snarling. Some stopped to scrape through the remains of their predecessors, but the others turned their oversized maws toward Grok. They pounced on him, ripping and rending.

  Nameless stumbled forward but Duck got in his way.

  “It’s too late,” he said, half-pushing half-dragging Nameless to the jetty.

  Grok’s screams were one part pain, one part rage. Blood sprayed in great jets, most of it black, as he rammed his blade repeatedly into first one feeder then another.

  All Nameless could see was a hand clutching the dagger in a hammer grip, stabbing, stabbing, stabbing. And then it went flaccid, moments before it, too, was consumed in the sickening gorge-fest.

  Nameless turned, running for the end of the jetty. Behind him the feeders sensed their prey escaping and charged, dozens upon dozens of frenzied demons intent on only one thing.

  Duck dived, landing atop his shield on the parting barge. Jaym dragged him aside and beckoned to Nameless.

  “Jump!” the baresark yelled.

  Fetid breath hit Nameless from behind. His heart lurched as he sprinted the last few steps and leapt for the barge. He hit the deck hard and rolled, white-hot pain lancing through his shoulder. Paxy went flying but drew up in midair before she fell into the water.

  Jaym’s strong hands helped Nameless to his feet, and the axe returned to his grasp, sending healing pulses through his joints.

  “Shog, that was close,” Duck said. “Poor ol’ Grok.”

  Nameless grunted his agreement and turned his eyes to the shore.

  Hundreds of feeders were packed in between the tunnel and the jetty, howling their fury. A passage opened between them to admit a silver sphere, within which Nils walked, ashen-faced and haunted. Beside him was the Lich Lord, holding aloft the Ebon Staff.

  All pain swiftly forgotten, Nameless drew back Paxy for a throw, but she almost physically wilted in his grip.

  Waves of purplish darkness rolled from the tip of Blightey’s staff, separating into questing fingers of nauseating malevolence.

  Nameless recoiled, holding Paxy before him.

  Duck and Jaym backed away into the press of dwarves upon the deck.

  Gasps of horror echoed across the water at the approach of this nebulous evil.

  Flee! Paxy screamed in Nameless’s mind. It is my brother. Flee!

  “Get a hold of yourself, lassie,” Nameless said, but his lips were dry, and his voice little more than a grating whisper.

  Tremors ran down Paxy’s haft, and Nameless felt his legs shaking, his knees knocking together. He tried to cast her to the deck, but she clung to his hand as if welded there.

  The strands of darkness inched closer to her blades, and Nameless could only watch, stricken like a startled rabbit.

  Jaym roared, a torrent of curses spewing from his throat.

  The sound startled Nameless enough for him to look away from the eldritch vapors.

  The baresark was foaming at the mouth and taking one leaden step after another toward the threat. He shoved Nameless aside and roared again.

  As if the spell had been broken, Nameless whirled around and snatched a costrel from one of the terrified dwarves. He unstoppered it, threw his head back, and swallowed a neckful of fiery brew.

  “Gods of shogging Arnoch,” he bellowed, spinning to confront the magic. “Old Frufty’s Chili Moonshine!”

  Paxy’s blades flashed golden, and Nameless had to avert his eyes. When he looked back, the vapors had gone, but Paxy was a dead weight, trembling in his hand.

  Blightey raised the Ebon Staff again. Black lighting sparked along its length.

  With a flash of silver, Nils was suddenly between him and the fleeing barges.

  “Keep going!” the lad cried. “Keep going and never stop!”

  Feeders began throwing themselves into the water, splashing in pursuit. One went under in a chaos of bubbles and gore, and then silvery fish leapt from the water in shoals, nipping at gray flesh and paring it to the bone.

  At first, the feeders stalled under the attack, but then more jumped in from the shore, ducking their heads beneath the water and rearing back with fishtails dangling from their mouths. Bestial cries of triumph echoed around the cavern, and soon the receding shore was lost behind a spray of froth and black blood and the thrashing of a hundred limbs.

  NILS

  “Oops,” Blightey said, as the silver sphere winked out of existence.

  He grabbed Nils by the scruff of the neck and held him above the water lapping at the edge of the jetty.

  Feeders were splashing like fury after the fleeing barges, and thousands of silver fish flung themselves out of the water to devour them.

  One came at Nils’s boot, but he kicked it away. Instantly, scores of them were launching themselves at him, and he twirled and thrashed about with his arms and legs to keep them off.

  A feeder took the opportunity to take a bite at him, but before its jaws could find their mark, Blightey whipped him out of reach and slung him onto the jetty.

  Nils tried to scoot away, but that only took him closer to the fish and the feeders.

  He started at the slosh of a feeder climbing out of the water, drenching the decks. Blightey waited until it was crouching close, ready to rip Nils to ribbons, before he raised the silver sphere, and the creature was jolted back into the fray with a shriek and a splash.

  Nils had a job keeping his bowels from opening against his will. His cheeks were quivering, and his heart was a rapid flap-flap-flap in his chest.

  The flesh melted away from Blightey’s face until just the skull remained, eyes as crimson as the setting of the twin suns. They were the eyes of a predator hungering for something more than flesh.

  Nils choked on his fear, unable to move a muscle. He was as helpless as a newborn babe. He had a vision of being lost in the woods at night, with some monstrous wolf circling him just out of sight. He could almost hear its howls, smell the rancid blast of its breath.

  “No,” he mumbled with trembling lips. “No, no, no.”

  The silver sphere reappeared, and Blightey bent down until his clacking jaws were inches from Nils’s face. Blurry in the background, the Lich Lord’s fingers clenched and unclenched, as though he were on the brink of a terrible decision: to kill or not to kill, or perhaps it was something far, far worse he was contemplating.

  The tide of feeders flowed past them,
an army of unstoppable hunger.

  Blightey pulled back to watch their progress, and Nils finally remembered to breathe, but he still felt compelled to crane his neck so he could see the carnage in the water.

  Half-eaten corpses bobbed on the surface, silver fish still nipping at the flesh. Shog only knew how many feeders had sunk to the bottom, nothing more than stripped bones. Pockets of them still ducked beneath the water, coming up with mouths full of fish, but what was really disturbing was how they showed no sign of stopping. More and more of the things leapt into the water, trampling over the floating corpses, slipping and falling. Each wave made it further and further across the lake, using their own fallen as rafts and stepping stones. They were dying by the hundreds, but nothing was going to stop them from feasting on the occupants of the fleeing barges.

  The dwarves had reached the far shore and were already disembarking. Even with his eyesight, Nils couldn’t see Nameless, but he knew he must’ve made it. Had to have, otherwise what was the point? Where was the hope?

  “One for every dwarf,” Blightey said, watching the battle of the flesh-eaters like he was hardly even curious. “That’s all we’ll have left after this crossing.”

  He shrugged and turned back to the passageway from which the feeders had been pouring. Their entry had slowed to a trickle, and then even that died.

  “Five hundred, at best, but certainly no more. Inefficient, in the end, but terrific fun, don’t you think?”

  Nils started to sit up, but Blightey’s skull-face was in his with impossible speed. Nils’s breath caught in his throat, and he felt the need to cough lest his chest exploded.

  “Decision time,” Blightey said.

  His eyes flashed, and Nils felt something within dissolve under their probing stare. What it was, he couldn’t say. A piece of his soul perhaps, his hope, his courage.

  “I intend to finish this myself,” the Lich Lord said. “The feeders are nothing but an aperitif, a whetting of the appetite. When you walk in eternity, there’s nothing quite like delayed gratification. But what of you? Has the hunt taught you anything? Are you ready to commit to my tutelage and all that would entail?”