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

by D. P. Prior

  Fingering Paxy with a purpose, Nameless wondered how well Silas’s disease-wracked frame would stand up to a good clobbering.

  He grabbed Cordy by the shoulder and spun her round. Her eyes were focused on some point behind him, her lips working in dumbstruck terror.

  The Malady’s grotesque bulk rippled on a level with the bridge, its clustered faces twitching, eyes rolling in anticipated satisfaction.

  Blightey wrung his hands, sadistic pleasure oozing from his clacking jaws.

  With his heart like metal worked on an anvil, Nameless did the only thing he could think of: he kissed Cordy full on the lips, and got exactly the reaction he’d expected:

  A fist in the face.

  “Ouch!” he said, touching his hand to his stinging cheek.

  “How dare…” Cordy started, and then caught sight of the aberration cresting the balustrade. She started to tremble again, but Nameless turned her about and slapped her on the rump.

  “Run, Cordy, run! And don’t look back!”

  She half-staggered, half-ran toward the stunned survivors of Arx Gravis, waving them ahead of her. Perhaps if they could reach the tunnel, Nameless thought, but then he remembered Nils.

  The boy was still frozen against the balustrade, mere feet from the rising behemoth. Nameless lunged for him, but his fingers met only air as Nils catapulted toward the ceiling, hung there for an instant, and then drifted down in front of Blightey.

  The Lich Lord’s hand snaked out and gripped the lad by the throat. Black tendrils slithered from Blightey’s fingertips and interlaced on the skin of Nils’s neck, winding their way up to his face.

  “No!” Nameless roared, striding toward them, axe raised. “Stop, or I’ll—”

  “Or you’ll what?” Blightey said. “One more step, the boy rots, and I throw his carcass to the Malady. How do you think his screaming soul will thank you as it suffers throughout eternity?”

  Nameless stood where he was. He flicked a look at the demon slobbering over the bridge. In a few more moments, there’d be no way across. If he ran now, perhaps he could… He stopped the thought in its tracks. That’s not what he did. Not what the Nameless Dwarf did, and nothing on Aethir, or beneath, was going to make him leave Nils to Blightey a second time.

  “You kill him, I’ll grind your shogging skull into powder,” Nameless said.

  “You wish.” The Lich Lord’s eyes turned to whirlpools of blood.

  Nils hung limply in his grip, the necrotic web spreading to his forehead. His arms and legs spasmed, but he still drew the odd choking breath.

  “What do you want?” Nameless despised the shrillness in his voice.

  “You assume there’s something you can do,” Blightey said. “What if this is what I want? To see you helpless, standing by while your friend decomposes and his soul is sent to its doom.”

  A shadow fell across the bridge as the Malady hissed from a hundred faces, its entire bulk rising into view. Beneath it, a slime-ringed anus a cart could have passed through dilated and contracted, dripping clumps of steaming putrescence onto the stonework. It was flanked by hungry mouths, lapping at the muck as it was evacuated.

  Turning again to Blightey, Nameless drew back his axe for a final, futile throw.

  “It’s you I want, really,” Blightey said. “I’d sooner the boy served as my apprentice. Do one thing for me, and I’ll spare his life.”

  “Why?” Nameless asked. “Why me?”

  Blightey held up his free hand, the hairline join mark a reminder of when Nameless had severed the original.

  “A minor thing, by itself,” Blightey said, “but evidence you are an irritation.”

  “That’s what this is about?” Nameless said, casting a nervous look at the Malady as it squelched onto the bridge, its anus distending and shuddering as it sucked and slurped. “You got what you deserved, shog face.”

  “You forget our previous meeting,” Blightey said, “when you and your friends caused me incalculable grief. I knew you straight away, even without the black helm. We liches may be a cautious bunch, hiding under our particular rocks so that we can perdure through the ages, but I’ve not exactly fitted in with the rest of them. Call it a foible, call it a sin, but I never forget a wrong, Nameless Dwarf. Never.”

  Lavender flashed behind Blightey, and a lone feeder slunk through the portal.

  “Oh, how wonderful,” Blightey said, sparing it a look over his shoulder. “Something to clean up the mess after I drink your soul.”

  His skull pivoted back round to glare at Nameless with vortices of blood.

  “Look into my eyes.”

  Every instinct screamed at Nameless to turn away, to flee back over the bridge, but when he looked, the way was blocked by the blubbery mass of the Malady. It was truly colossal, a mountain of madness, shuffling nearer and nearer, threatening to smother him in an avalanche of misshapen faces.

  Nils’s arms were hanging limply by his sides, but his feet still gave the odd twitch.

  The feeder made no move to attack. It just waited patiently behind its master, ready to claim the leftovers.

  “Look into my eyes!” Blightey commanded, and this time, Nameless saw no other choice.

  The Lich Lord hissed in satisfaction as Nameless stared into the crimson depths, his heart groaning, straining like a ship moored on choppy seas.

  The cascade of a waterfall filled his ears, and his stomach flopped up into his head. Intangible hooks sliced into his core, deep into the darkness, and stretched it wide. He felt something within, the smallest kernel of… of himself, popping free and rushing up his spine toward his eyes.

  But he could still see. Still see the curdling malice of Blightey’s gaze. Still see Nils dangling, close to death. Still see the feeder as it raised a hand behind Blightey’s back, a hand that grasped something slender and black.

  As Nameless strained to keep the last vestiges of his essence from pouring into Blightey’s eyes, the feeder warped and changed, until in its place stood Ilesa, black hair hanging loose about her face, cat eyes sparkling with purpose.

  And then Nameless realized the object she held was Nils’s scarolite pen, the one gifted him by Silas.

  She stabbed it with all her might into the Lich Lord’s back.

  Blightey screamed, Nils fell, and the darkness closed up its protective shell around the core of Nameless’s soul. In a blaze of golden light, he swung Paxy with everything he had left, her blades shearing straight through Blightey’s neck.

  Silas’s body crumpled to the bridge, but the skull flew free.

  Ilesa backed away from its flaring eyes, but then it arced through the air and came at Nameless like a flame-tailed comet.

  Swaying aside, Nameless clobbered it with the flat of Paxy’s blades, just like when he’d played rock-ball as a child. There was a resounding crack, and Blightey ricocheted from the balustrade straight into one of the Malady’s colossal mouths.

  Teeth snapped shut, and the face wrinkled in distaste. It swallowed and belched, but then the entire behemoth shook, vomit streaming out of every orifice, and a slick of gray slime gushing from beneath. Like a man who’d ingested poison, or a dwarf with a gutful of Ironbelly’s, the Malady rolled itself over the bridge and plummeted back into the chasm amid a shower of crumbling masonry.

  Nameless hugged Paxy to his chest, struggling to catch his breath.

  Ilesa glanced at him but then turned to bend over the prone body of Nils.

  Even now, the curve of her arse gave Nameless cause to raise an eyebrow. The seat of her pants was torn, and the skin of her rump was redder than an overripe strawberry.

  “What happened to your arse?” Nameless said. “You been overdoing it again?”

  “Pervert.” Ilesa stood back from Nils and offered Nameless a tired grin.

  “Can’t blame a dwarf for looking. How’s the lad?”

  “He’ll live. Skin’s returning to normal now that shogger’s gone. You think Blightey’s dead?”

  Nameless shrug
ged. “Hope so, but that’s not stopped him in the past. Main thing is,” he said, looking back over the bridge, “he’s out of the way for now, so we should be able to get these good people to Arnoch.”

  Nils spluttered and pushed himself up on an elbow. “Arnoch? You found it again?”

  Nameless knelt beside the lad, touched a hand to his forehead. It was cold and clammy, and sweat beaded the brow, but the dark veins had retreated. It looked like Nils would pull through.

  “Not me, laddie. Stupid, or rather Abednago, has a map, and some homunculi gave us a shortcut, albeit a treacherous one.” He offered Nils a hand and helped him to his feet. “You going to be all right?”

  Nils tried to smile, but his eyes turned inward, and he shuddered. When he focused on Nameless, he had a forlorn look about him, and his lips quivered as he spoke. “I guess.” His eyes drifted to the headless body sprawled upon the rocky ground. “What are we going to do with Silas?”

  “Take him with us,” Ilesa said.

  Nameless whirled on her. “Thought you didn’t like him.”

  Ilesa looked somehow different, standing taller, more at ease than he’d ever seen her. “We take him with us.”

  “Yes,” Nils said. “Give him a proper funeral.”

  Nameless studied the corpse, remembering the horror of seeing the wizard’s face imploding, dissolving into wisps of smoke, only to be replaced by Blightey’s evil skull.

  He’d never worked Silas out fully, never known if he could be trusted, but in the end, Nameless had put that aside. Silas had been a likable enough lad. He’d just gotten in over his head, that’s all.

  “All right, laddie,” he said to Nils. “Have it your way. You’re carrying him, though.”

  “Eh?” Nils looked like he was going to have one of his whining fits.

  “I haven’t forgotten, laddie. You’re supposed to be the pack mule.” When Nils glared at him he added, “Don’t mind me, I’m just joshing.”

  “Funny,” Nils said.

  Nameless set Paxy adrift in the air while he bent down to scoop Silas’s body up. He made a show of grunting and groaning with the effort, but resisted joking about it being a dead weight.

  In truth, he was feeling stronger than he had in days. All the tension had melted from his back and shoulders, and he was swiftly getting in the mood for a celebratory keg of mead.

  He draped Silas over one shoulder and reclaimed Paxy with his spare hand.

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get these folks to their new home.”

  Ilesa was staring at Nils with the barest hint of a smile on her face. She reached out and ruffled his hair. He screwed his face up and muttered something, but then Nameless saw there were tears in his eyes, and Nils pulled Ilesa into a hug.

  “I would join you,” Nameless said, feeling his own eyes moisten, “but my hands are full.”

  Nils drew back from Ilesa’s embrace, but she held onto the tips of his fingers. It was the sort of handholding Nameless might have expected between a brother and sister.

  “You did well, laddie,” he said.

  Nils hung his head for a moment. “I screwed up, Nameless. Acted like my shogging dad.”

  “No,” Nameless said in his sternest voice. “You did well. Made me proud to call myself your friend. You too, lassie.”

  Ilesa’s jaw dropped open. She stiffened, and the faintest tremor rippled her chin. She started to say something, but Nameless turned his back on her and headed out onto the bridge, carrying the last of the four companions over his shoulder.

  ILESA

  Proud? Ilesa thought. He’s proud? She didn’t believe a word of it. Couldn’t—she knew herself too well for that, knew what she was capable of, what she’d done. But she had come back, hadn’t she? She’d faced her fears and plunged the pen into Blightey’s back. She might have failed Davy, all that time ago, but at least she’d saved Nils. Shog, she’d saved Nameless, too.

  Her step quickened, and she pulled her shoulders back, feeling lighter and more buoyant than she cared to remember. She still had hold of Nils’s hand, but the second she saw him ogling her, she let go and turned her nose up.

  Nils stuck his tongue out, but he could barely suppress the chuckles that rocked his frame.

  Nameless led the way with the homunculus, who kept jabbing at his map and hopping with excitement. Silas’s body had been wrapped in a cloak, but Nameless had still insisted on carrying it. She knew she couldn’t have done it. She’d have been stopping every couple of yards for a rest, but the dwarf was strong as an ox and barely seemed to notice.

  Behind her and Nils, the golden-haired dwarf woman walked ahead of a stretcher bearing the elderly councilor she’d come to know as Moary. The woman had introduced herself as Cordy, an old, old friend of Nameless’s. Ilesa saw no reason to doubt the explanation, but she couldn’t help feeling a twinge of jealousy, nevertheless. Problem was, she didn’t know why. It wasn’t as if she seriously wanted anything from Nameless, save for his company, perhaps, or maybe his approval. And he’d already given that. It made her want to get away as quick as she could, before she screwed that up.

  It felt odd to have so many dwarves trudging along at her back. Truth be told, it made her self-conscious. They must have thought of her as someone special. After all, she was in with Nameless, and they’d certainly changed their tune about him. Villain to hero in the space of days. She had to hand it to him. He’d never be right, though, never recover from what he’d done. Ilesa had come to know him too well for that. But at least he had something to move forward with, and a people who, much as they couldn’t do it, sincerely wanted to forget.

  A salty breeze gusted down the tunnel, and the perpetual gloom gave way to a swath of light. Gulls were crying in the distance, and Abednago ran on ahead.

  Nameless shifted Silas’s corpse on his shoulder so he could quicken his pace.

  The excitement was infectious, and Ilesa found herself running along with Nils and Cordy. Behind them, the whole community of dwarves came to new life and surged in pursuit.

  The ground sloped upward until they emerged atop a scree-coated escarpment overlooking a glimmering inland sea. In the far distance, sheer cliffs flickered, as if they were half in, half out of reality. She remembered them clearly from that fateful day when Nameless had plummeted from the path, eventually to return with the Axe of the Dwarf Lords.

  Off to the left, though, was a much more impressive sight: minarets encrusted with barnacles, bronze-capped towers, green with the patina of ages, a sprawling maze of avenues and alleyways weaving between many-storied buildings. There was something unified and utterly harmonious about this island city sitting serenely above the waves. It was as if the entire structure had been carved from a single mountain.

  An enormous stone drawbridge led from a heavily buttressed barbican out over the sea to the escarpment.

  Around the city, light reflected in rainbows from the twin suns.

  Ilesa blinked to see what was causing it, and then she gasped. An enormous globe, higher than the tallest tower, and clearer than glass, encased the island.

  Nameless slapped Abednago on the back and the homunculus staggered under the blow. If he minded, he didn’t show it. Instead, he hopped from foot to foot with the most enormous grin splitting his face.

  “Arnoch!” Abednago cried, turning to the awestruck dwarves still spilling out onto the escarpment. “Welcome to your new home.”

  NAMELESS

  “I still don’t understand why you didn’t bring us here earlier,” Cordy said, as Abednago led her and Nameless on a twisting journey through the passages beneath King Arios’s throne room.

  Nameless wouldn’t have wanted to be Abednago for all the mead left in Arx Gravis right then.

  “The Destroyer,” Abednago said. “It would have slain you all, just as it slew the dwarves of Arnoch.”

  Cordy stopped abruptly and crossed her arms over her chest. Her cheeks were so red, Nameless thought they might explode.

&nbs
p; “So, five-hundred dwarves couldn’t do what he could?” She cocked her head at Nameless. “What makes him so special?”

  Abednago turned to face her, hands steepled as if in prayer.

  Nameless had half a mind to leave them to it. As far as he was concerned, whatever it was the homunculus wanted to show them could wait till he’d sated his thirst on the contents of the Arnochian king’s mead cellar. Shog only knew what it tasted like after all these centuries, but one thing was for sure, it had to be a damned sight better than Ironbelly’s.

  He spat on Paxy’s blades and proceeded to polish them with his fingers, if anything making them duller with the smears he left. Paxy didn’t seem to mind, though. She purred like a cat and throbbed warmly in his grasp.

  “He has the blood of the Immortals,” Abednago said, as if explaining the simplest of concepts to a child. “No other can wield the axe.”

  “But he’s tainted, same as we all are,” Cordy said.

  Abednago frowned.

  Nameless had to admit, Cordy could have put it more subtly.

  “The blood of my people is a boon, not an affliction,” Abednago said. “Yes, it introduces an element of uncertainty…”

  “Deceit, you mean,” Cordy said.

  “Guess Weasel had to get it from somewhere.” Nameless pulled a face at Paxy’s blades, checking their shine.

  “Hilarious,” the homunculus said. “My people are not just tricksters. We are inventors, pioneers, and we have an insatiable curiosity. This makes yours a unique race: the stoicism and honor of the dwarves blended with the ingenuity of the homunculi. It is my hope… it is the hope of the Sedition, that you will be our strongest defense against the wiles of the Demiurgos.”

  Cordy threw her hands up, gritted her teeth, and then let out all her steam in an explosive sigh. “So, you duped us.”

  Abednago’s eyes widened, and he looked to Nameless for help. “Duped? I don’t understand.”