by D. P. Prior
“You pretended to be one of us, albeit an idiot,” Cordy said, “all so you could lead us a merry dance until we became your witless new army, marching out from this glorious mythical city to do your bidding. And another thing: how come Stupid’s been known to Arx Gravis all this time, and now he turns out to be you?”
“I used to come and go a lot,” Abednago said. “I am always traveling this place and that, shoring up alliances, planting new seeds. It is what I must do, if we are to prevail.”
Cordy rolled her eyes at Nameless. “Know who that sounds like, don’t you?”
“Uh huh,” Nameless said, still working intently on Paxy’s blades. “Bald bastard by the name of Aristodeus.”
The philosopher had been the one to imprison him in the scarolite helm, rob him of his name. He’d later orchestrated the ill-fated quest to destroy the power of the black axe that had resulted in so many deaths.
“I am not like Aristodeus,” Abednago said.
“Just because you’ve got hair, laddie, doesn’t mean you’re not a shogger.” Nameless looked up from his polishing and raised an eyebrow.
“Look, you’re here, aren’t you?” Abednago said. “I led you to the axe and guided the rest of the dwarves to their new home.”
Nameless shouldered Paxy and fixed Abednago with a hard stare. “By a circuitous route that nearly got us all killed.”
“I’ll grant you that,” Abednago said, “but there were other forces at play.”
“Blightey?” Cordy said.
Abednago nodded. “In a way. It was Nameless’s wizard friend, Silas, and the influence of Blightey’s grimoire that led to the forest of tar, but the Lich Lord had planned it all centuries ago, just in case he should ever perish.”
“So, laddie,” Nameless said, his hackles starting to rise, “you thought you’d risk the sole survivors of the dwarven race by putting them in Blightey’s way? They didn’t need to come. Why couldn’t you have brought them straight here?”
Abednago spread his arms wide, taking in the walls of the passageway. “Because this is Arnoch, the home of heroes. That’s what your people have become, surviving their ordeal with Blightey. Heroes, every last one of them. Did you see the way they came to your aid on the bridge? Did you see how—”
Cordy’s fist smashed into his face. Abednago staggered back and pitched onto his arse, blood trickling from his nose.
“Show us what you wanted us to see then leave,” she said.
Gingerly rising to his feet, the homunculus led them to an intersection, turned left, then right and brought them to a flight of algae-covered stairs. At the bottom, he pushed open a creaking door, and they followed him into an oval chamber.
A circle of crystalline spheres hung from a metal contraption on the ceiling above an arch made of scarolite. The green veins had been formed into glyphs that covered the structure in some unknown script that made Nameless’s skin prickle.
“There are fewer than four hundred dwarves remaining,” Abednago said as he walked around the arch. “How long do you think it will be before you become extinct?”
Cordy looked at Nameless and shrugged.
Nameless saw what the homunculus was getting at straight away. “He’s right, lassie. There’s barely enough of us to sustain a community. We could all be gone in another generation or two.”
Abednago nodded then stroked the arch. “This is a portal,” he said, “a doorway between the worlds. It was made by the homunculi at the request of King Arios. He knew the fate that awaited the dwarves, knew they could not defeat the Destroyer. Even those who went on to found Arx Gravis would not have been beyond the monster’s reach, should it have found a way to rise from the sea, and so he sent the rest of his people through the portal, beyond the stars to a world called Thanatos.”
“Are you saying we could go there?” Cordy said. “Bring them back to Arnoch?”
“Perhaps one day,” Abednago said. “If the portal can be mended. King Arios ordered my people to—how can I put it?—dispel its magic once the last of the dwarves were through. He could not risk the possibility of the Destroyer following them.”
“Then have your people fix it,” Cordy said.
Abednago held out his hands like a supplicant. “If only it were that simple. The bulk of the homunculi do not want your race to survive. They believe you are, how did you put it? Tainted. The few of us who form the Sedition have other ideas, but we lack the arcane knowledge. It is a specialist art that requires many, many minds. That aside, the last thing they want is the dwarves returning to Arnoch. You forget, this was the bastion against all that assailed the mind of the Cynocephalus, all the fear planted in that sorry god by his father and ours, the Demiurgos. Our best chance, our only chance, is to combine forces, your people and the Sedition. Perhaps with time and a pooling of resources…”
“Forget it,” Cordy said. “I’d sooner entrust our fate to the Council of Twelve, procrastinating fools that they are.”
Nameless resisted pointing out that she was on the Council.
Cordy turned on her heel and started for the steps, but she stopped when Duck came tearing down them, panting for breath. He eyed Nameless nervously and proceeded to whisper in Cordy’s ear.
“These Dwarf Lords who escaped,” Nameless said. “How do we know they endured?”
“We don’t” Abednago said. “And if they did, they may have changed a great deal. They might no longer be the heroes of legend. The world they went to, Thanatos, is a world of death. The living are not exactly welcome there.”
“I see,” Nameless said. “Well that’s encouraging. Listen, laddie, they’ve been lost for shog knows how many centuries. I doubt a little prudence will change anything. What say you we investigate the mead cellar? I’m starting to forget what booze tastes like, and so far, it’s all been fighting and running and not a jot of festivity.”
Abednago smiled and inclined his head. “You are right. These things can wait. Even with less than four hundred, I dare say the end of the dwarves is not imminent.”
Nameless thumped him on the arm so hard, Abednago winced. “Good on you, laddie. Now lead the way.”
Cordy blocked his path. “First things first,” she said. “The Council are in session in King Arios’s throne room.”
Nameless cocked an eyebrow at Duck. “You ran all the way to tell us that? Those codgers will be debating seating arrangements till this time tomorrow.”
“Old Moary has persuaded them Arnoch needs a king,” Cordy said, no trace of humor in her voice.
“Arnoch already has a king,” Nameless said. “Make no bones about it. Ha, bones!” he said, rapping Abednago on the skull. “Get it? King Arios?”
Abednago grimaced, but no one was laughing.
“He’s proposing you,” Cordy said.
Duck lowered his eyes.
“Me?” Nameless roared with laughter. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever… You’re serious, aren’t you?”
Cordy bit her lower lip and nodded.
“Right,” Nameless said. “We’ll see about that.”
NILS
The cold of the stone floor seeped into Nils’s arse and made it ache like shog. The entire hall was riddled with damp that painted dark swaths across the walls. The frescoes of dwarven heroes facing off against hordes of giants and goblins were faded and cracked, and the scant furniture was either overturned or rotted to the point that it would disintegrate at the slightest touch.
Once, it had probably been a meeting chamber, perhaps where the Dwarf Lords of Arnoch would have planned their wars against the armies of nightmare and deception. Now, it reminded Nils of nothing so much as a crypt, or a monument to a bygone age.
The idea that Arnoch could be reoccupied was as crazy to him as the idea that Blightey might once more return from the dead, this time as a dairy maid.
The dwarves, though, seemed to have a different idea. They’d been exploring the palace in droves, commenting on the craftsmanship and arguing
about the best way to restore it. They’d finally done the hall to death and buggered off along the many corridors. Their muffled voices formed a strangely comforting background to his work.
Just the thought of the Lich Lord set Nils shivering again. He didn’t know if he’d ever be right after what that creep had said and done. Only thing for it was to crowd the memories out with reading and writing.
He had the Liber Via open next to the notebook Silas had given him. Each time he jotted down an idea for his story, he hunted through the Liber Via to find the words he wasn’t sure of and check his spelling. It was slow work, what with it being Ancient Urddynoorian and all, but he had to do it.
A shadow fell over him, and Nils suppressed a squeal. He’d not heard anyone approach.
“Steady now,” Ilesa said. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Ain’t scared,” Nils said, pointedly scratching away with the scarolite pen he’d retrieved from Silas’s back.
Ilesa crouched down beside him, eyes narrowing with concern. “Looked to me like you thought it was him—you know, Blightey, come to shove a spike up you.” She tried to make light of it with a grin, but Nils didn’t feel like laughing none.
“Well, maybe I did.” He hated the quaver in his voice, thought it made him sound like a girl.
He pored over a passage in the Liber Via, not really knowing what word he was looking for. Problem was, his Ancient Urddynoorian was crap. Silas had reckoned it was the way to go, because it’s what the scholars in New Londdyr used. Said he’d have to master it, if he wanted to get into the Academy, but it would have been a damned sight easier if he could’ve just used normal words. Not that he could spell those, neither, but at least he knew what they were, and how to sound them out.
“Don’t know why you’re bothering with that,” Ilesa said. “Makes much more sense to write words people can understand.”
Nils sighed and closed the Liber Via. “It’s what Silas wanted me to do. Said it was the best place to start.”
Ilesa sniffed and stole a look at his notebook. “Always was a shogger.”
“That ain’t fair,” Nils said. “Not now he’s dead.”
“‘Bytch’ isn’t Ancient Urddynoorian,” she said, leafing through the pages of his notebook. “Neither is ‘d-worf’, or ‘wizod’.”
Nils snatched the notebook away from her. “That’s because I can’t find them words in the Liber Via. Shog it, maybe I’ll have to write out my story normal, like what we talk. I can always put it into Ancient Urddynoorian later. Happy now?”
His chin trembled as he tried to hold back the tears. He didn’t even know what was getting to him. Maybe it had just been too much.
Ilesa ran her fingers through his hair and smiled, just how Mom used to smile whenever Dad told him off. “I think that’s a good idea. Mind telling me what it’s about?”
“Had an ocean… had a notion I’d write up our adventures. I mean, it ain’t every day folk come to Qlippoth and fight their way to a lost city and all that.”
Ilesa nodded then focused her gaze on the wall, as if she were studying the battle scene there. “Am… am I in it?”
“Uh huh,” Nils said.
“What… what are you going to—”
The double doors leading to the throne room crashed open, and Nameless stormed in, slamming them shut behind him. He grumbled under his breath, growled, and then looked up, eyes widening as he realized he wasn’t alone.
His expression instantly changed, the mask of anger giving way to a ridiculously wide grin that was all teeth.
“Laddie! Lassie! Gather your things. We’re off.” He strode over to them and peered down at Nils’s notebook. “It’s ‘shog’ with an ‘o’, laddie.”
“I know,” Nils said, striking out the ‘a’.
“Reckon the fire of youth’s messing with your brain.” Nameless winked at Ilesa.
“What?” Nils said, blushing. “Shog off. And besides, I ain’t got time for none of that stuff. I got too much studying to do.”
“So, you’re not staying on as king, then?” Ilesa said.
“I told them a king needs a name, and do you know what? The shoggers tried to give me one.”
Nils gathered his things into his pack and rolled to his knees, wincing at the pins and needles prickling through his legs. “What name?”
“Not saying,” Nameless said. “Stupid bloody name, if you ask me. Told them they could shove the kingship. Don’t really think they knew what they were asking. Too much has happened for me to stay.”
“But you’ve more than made up for it,” Ilesa said.
Nameless shook his head. “No, lassie. Done all I can, but some things can’t ever be put right. I’ll be back, no doubt about it, but I couldn’t stay here. Besides, I’ve still got something I want to do.”
Nils pushed himself to his feet and slung his pack over his shoulder. “What’s that, then?”
“Just an idea I had in Brink a while back. Nothing firmed up as yet. First things first. We need to get you back home.”
Nils hadn’t realized just how much he’d missed New Londdyr. He’d never been away for so long before, and after what he’d been through, he could think of nowhere he’d rather be.
“What about you, lassie?” Nameless said. “You coming with us?”
“To New Londdyr?” Ilesa’s face took on a grim set. “Don’t see why not. I’ve got plenty of unfinished business back there, most of it with a pale-faced shogger of a midget.”
“Shadrak?” Nameless said. “Now that’s something I’ve got to see. Problem is, his cover was blown last time I was in New Londdyr. I doubt he’ll have gone back there. I must warn you, though, I can’t be taking sides. Shadrak might be a nasty little backstabbing scut-bucket, but he’s a friend of mine.”
Ilesa gave him a smile that was anything but sweet. “Sure I can’t persuade you?” she said. The air around her shimmered as she shrank to the size of a dwarf and waggled her huge rump at him before turning back to her normal self once more.
Nameless rubbed his beard. “Well, lassie, I never like to say never.”
“So, what are they going to do?” Nils nodded toward the double doors.
“Old Moary will be interim regent while they sort it out. The rate the Council get things done, could be years before anyone sits on Arios’s throne.”
“What about—” Ilesa started but stopped when the double doors creaked open and Cordy stepped through. “Her,” she finished.
As Cordy walked toward them, Nameless went to meet her. They stared at each other for what seemed an eternity. Nils couldn’t be sure, but he thought Cordy’s eyes were wet with tears waiting to fall. She gave an almost imperceptible nod, then she put her arms around Nameless. At first, he didn’t respond, but then he returned the hug with one arm, the other hand holding onto the Axe of the Dwarf Lords. With excruciating slowness, Cordy released him then turned to head back through the doors.
Nameless muttered to himself, apparently lost in thought. He hung his head for a moment, but when he lifted it and turned back to face Nils and Ilesa, there was a glint in his eyes and a smile on his face.
“Let’s say our farewells to Silas and get going,” he said. “They’re having a big memorial service tomorrow for everyone else that died, but I don’t think I could stomach it.”
Nameless led them down a series of corridors until they stood once more on the shore of the inland sea with sunlight reflecting off the invisible sphere surrounding the city.
A funeral pyre had swiftly been built from rotting furniture, and a sizeable group of dwarves was already gathered, with more emerging from doors around the palace to take up their places.
Old Moary, supported by two helpers, trudged to the pyre with a line of councilors following behind and Cordy bringing up the rear.
Nameless, Ilesa, and Nils stood beside their friend’s headless corpse in silence as Old Moary rattled off some prayers. Someone passed him a flaming brand, which he touched to the py
re.
Nils turned away, tears streaming down his cheeks. Smoke got into his lungs and made him cough.
A strong hand clamped down on his shoulder, and he found himself looking straight into Nameless’s eyes.
“Make him proud, laddie, like you made me proud.”
“I will.” Nils sniffed. “I’m going to get that place at the Academy.”
He’d thought about it long and hard. There weren’t no way he was going back to the guild. Not ever. Last thing he wanted was to end up a shogger like his dad. Once he’d completed his studies, he planned to work through the Liber Via, see if it made sense.
“But first,” he told Nameless, “I have our story to write.”
“Splendid,” Nameless said. “Have you decided what to call it?”
Nils shrugged. “Don’t rightly know. Ain’t got a name yet.”
“Like the sound of it. Just make sure you don’t mention the gut, eh, laddie?” Nameless jiggled his paunch and chuckled.
They bade their farewells to the dwarves.
Abednago presented Nameless with a map of the known stepping stones across Qlippoth, and Old Moary gave him a costrel of Arnochian mead he’d filled from a keg in the cellars beneath the throne room.
Nameless’s eyes dwelt on Cordy so long, Nils thought he might have been under some magical influence or other, and then they were on their way, traipsing along the far shoreline toward a distant mountain range, beyond which Abednago had told them lay the zombie village and then the Malfen Pass.
“Can’t say I’m relishing the journey,” Ilesa said.
“Oh, pshaw, lassie,” Nameless said. “We have our good friend Nils here to entertain us along the way. This story of yours, laddie, why don’t you tell us what you’ve got in mind.”
“Well,” Nils said, “I’ve just been making notes about the final battle with Blightey on the bridge. I’ve got this great idea for you,” he told Ilesa, “for when you ram the scarolite pen in his back. That was a killer move, by the way.”
Ilesa almost smiled, but then she looked down at her feet. “So, I get a good part?”