Geas of the Black Axe (Legends of the Nameless Dwarf Book 2)

by D. P. Prior

  Big Jake knew not to waste time with questions, and headed straight upstairs.

  Shadrak fixed the stranger with a cold stare and asked, “Why are you here?”

  The little man tilted his head to one side and studied him. Darkness swirled across his eyes like ink on water. It was hard to tell if he was vacant or sad, or perhaps a bit of both. Finally, he lifted a finger to his lips and looked about the room, as if someone were listening.

  “This is bigger than either of us, Shadrak. I beseech you to stay your hand until the patterns of play emerge.”

  “Do you?” Shadrak said, leaning across the table. “Kinda familiar, aren’t we? Only, you seem to think it’s all right bandying my name around, while I don’t know you from shog.”

  “You know me. You just can’t remember.”

  Shadrak pulled a flintlock and took aim. “You got two seconds to give me a name, or I’ll make one up for you. It’s likely to start with, ‘Where’s his’ and end with, ‘shogging face?’”

  The little man didn’t flinch. Instead, his eyes hardened into obsidian. “Bird is my name.” He raised an eyebrow to see if Shadrak betrayed any recognition.

  He didn’t.

  “That why you wear the cloak?” Shadrak said, spinning the flintlock on his finger and holstering it.

  “It is not.” Bird clasped his hands together on the table and let out a sigh. “I came ahead of a friend of yours. He seeks a favor, and I hope you will cede it precedence over any other requests you may have received.”

  He knew? About the Archon? How was that even—?

  “You already knew he was coming, didn’t you?” Bird said. A ripple ran through his feathered cloak, and he cocked his head. “People are approaching. Many people.”

  Shadrak strained his ears, and sure enough, the distant thud of footfalls was drawing nearer. The psycher hadn’t lost the scent after all. By the sounds it, half the legions in New Londdyr were closing in on Queenie’s.

  He stood and went to the window.

  “Shit.”

  Dozens of soldiers had formed a cordon across the street with their shields locked, and behind them, a couple of phalanxes were hurriedly forming. Sunlight glinted off more than a hundred bronze helms and steel speartips.

  He started to turn toward the kitchen at the back, but Ekyls emerged from it, hatchet in hand.

  “Soldiers,” he said. “Many soldiers. You want me kill?”

  Big Jake came stomping down the stairs before Shadrak could answer. “You seen what’s outside?” If he’d packed anything, he’d left it in his room.

  “Yes,” Shadrak said, meaning it for Ekyls. “Go kill.” What did he care if the savage got cut to pieces in the process. Least it would make for a diversion.

  The rattle of a carriage pulling up outside had him turn back to the window. Albert was waving frantically from the passenger seat.

  “Second thoughts,” Shadrak said, “get out. Go with Albert. Tell him to meet me at the rendezvous.” If they could get out of the city. The Senate’s forces had moved alarmingly quickly, and with such coordination, he wouldn’t have put it past them to have the city on lockdown already. Still, if anyone could get out, it was Albert.

  Ekyls pulled the door open and ran to the carriage. Cries of “Halt!” went up from the soldiers, and a group began to advance on the savage.

  Shadrak drew both flintlocks and let off a few shots. The soldiers faltered, and the carriage sped off with Ekyls half-hanging out the doorway. It was just like Albert not to wait.

  “Hold the fort,” he told Big Jake. “They’re after me, not you.”

  There was a flutter, and Shadrak caught a glimpse of a raven winging its way outside. Of Bird there was no sign.

  Big Jake shrugged, like he saw that sort of thing every day. That was his way. Even in the middle of a fight, you’d think he was half asleep. “You coming back?”

  “Unlikely. Least not for the foreseeable. Fargin’s in charge now. You know what to do.”

  Shadrak ran for the stairs. As he reached the landing, he heard Big Jake’s rumbling voice welcoming the soldiers to Queenie’s. A gruff exchange followed. Hopefully Jake wouldn’t do anything stupid.

  Shadrak opened the window at the end of the landing and climbed out onto the drain pipe. Someone spotted him and called out, but he scrambled up onto the roof and sprinted for the edge.

  Pain exploded in his head, and he stumbled. Something rose up to his right. He reeled round, and there it was: the psycher, loping toward him with one arm outstretched, the other raised high and wreathed in black mist. It thrust its featureless head at him, and Shadrak screamed as white hot needles stabbed into his brain.

  Images flashed behind his eyes: Kadee, dried up and wasted, ulcerating bedsores weeping on the sheets; Nameless crusted over with blood, the way he’d been when they found him in Arx Gravis; and the thing that had attacked him on the rooftops before—a Thanatosian, the Archon had called it. It raised its gun too fast for him to even scream…

  Shadrak tried to draw a flintlock, but his fingers were numb, and he couldn’t grip tight enough to free it from the holster. He reached behind for the Thundershot he kept tucked into the back of his belt for emergencies, but it wouldn’t budge. Cold crept into his bones, and the strength drained away from his body.

  The psycher’s raised arm came down, and a fresh blast of pain ruptured Shadrak’s thoughts. His limbs shook, and his teeth rattled. Something warm oozed from his ears, and he could taste coppery blood in his mouth.

  The psycher raised both arms this time, amid a swirl of charcoal haze.

  In Shadrak’s mind, Kadee wept—no longer wasted, but her face was a mask of terror. Shadowy trees formed a backdrop behind her, and the skies above were swarming with smoky shapes drifting down on tattered wings. Kadee’s eyes burned with intensity, and she screamed silently at him.

  Something snapped, and Shadrak pulled the Thundershot free. It felt heavy. So heavy. It took two hands to raise it, and he couldn’t steady his aim.

  Summoning all his remaining strength, he pulled the trigger. There was an answering boom. The psycher’s screech cut gouges through Shadrak’s brain, and he pitched backward over the roof.

  THE NICK OF TIME

  Nameless strolled through the soldiers outside Queenie’s Fine Diner, as if he were simply going for a bite to eat. One of them called him back, yelled for him to get behind the perimeter.

  There were faces at the windows, peering through the shutters. Thunder boomed from up on the roof. Something shrieked—a piercing howl that threatened to shred his eardrums. A dark shape pitched over the edge—a black cloak. A flailing body.

  Shadrak.

  Nameless took a lunging step and caught the assassin, dropping his new axe in the same motion. He grunted at the impact, dipped at the knees, and came up feeling like he’d squatted three times his body weight.

  “Caught you, laddie.”

  Pink eyes flashed up at him, from where he cradled Shadrak like a child.

  “Nameless!”

  “Little birdie told me you had a spot of bother.”

  Shadrak looked up at the roof. Nameless followed his gaze, but there was nothing there.

  The tramp of sandaled feet built to a roar around them.

  Nameless set Shadrak down and scooped up his axe from the roadside.

  “Is this a bad time to ask for a loan?”

  Shadrak holstered his old Thundershot, whipped out two fancy new pistols, and sent a barrage of shots into the soldiers. Bullets pinged off shields, and the advance turned into a rout.

  Nameless whistled with appreciation.

  “Can it wait?” Shadrak said.

  “Oh, there’s no hurry, laddie.”

  Already, someone was barking orders, and the soldiers were reforming in disciplined rows.

  Shadrak stole another glance at the rooftop.

  More soldiers stepped out from Queenie’s. Nameless caught a glimpse of a big man giving Shadrak a shrug through the
window.

  “So, what’s the plan?” Nameless said. “I take it you do have a plan.”

  The assassin looked unusually flustered, as if he’d been caught with his britches down.

  He pointed a pistol at the cordon of interlocking shields bearing down on them. It can’t have been more than two deep, and behind was a clear path to the alley.

  “I shoot, you charge,” he said. “Then I’ll get your back.”

  Nameless took a two-handed grip on his axe and rolled his shoulders. “Ready when you are.”

  “Go!” Shadrak yelled.

  The assassin fired both pistols straight into the soldiers. He dropped four in quick succession.

  The rest buckled when Nameless barreled into them. A spear glanced off his helm. He weaved past a thrust, then hammered the axe head into a shield with such force, metal caved, and wood splintered on the inside. The soldier screamed and pitched to the ground, nursing his mangled arm.

  Nameless was through.

  Shadrak unleashed another hail of shots, and soldiers scattered for the shelter of the nearest buildings.

  A commander was hollering to the four winds, like it was someone else’s fault. Suddenly, Arnk’s Jethor Lult was looking like a master strategist in comparison.

  Nameless kept on going as gunshots pounded behind him. The commander was cut off mid-bark, and then Shadrak came sprinting past, flying across the cobbles as fast as his little legs could carry him.

  They fled down one alleyway after the next, in and out of stores, taverns, homes. Behind them, the stomp and cries of pursuit rolled out across the city, as if every legionary in New Londdyr were on their tail.

  Panting for every breath, Nameless had to wonder just what kind of mess the assassin had gotten himself into.

  THE MAD MAGE

  Nameless bent over and clutched his sides. His breaths came heavy and fast, roaring like ocean surf inside the great helm. And shog, it stank in there. When was the last time he’d cleaned his teeth? Aristodeus should have thought of that when he’d hatched his scheme to insulate Nameless from the black axe. He probably had. He probably thought it was funny.

  “How much…?” His lungs burned, and a stitch like a spear-thrust lanced through his side. “How much further?”

  Shadrak was already on the other side of the alley, no more than a shifting shadow in his hooded cloak. He hopped lightly onto the bottom step of an iron staircase that ran up the outside of a crooked building. One crooked building among many. Everything had taken on a twisted, bowed, and precarious look the instant they’d crossed into the wizard’s quarter.

  “This is it.”

  Nameless straightened up and pivoted, so he could get a better look—another flaw with the helm. Most of the time, he could barely see where he was going, and he was constantly worried about embarrassing himself in a fight.

  The buildings flanking the alley were tall and slender. Most of New Londdyr had the kind of masonry he’d grown up with in Arx Gravis. But the craftsmanship in the wizard’s quarter was as dwarvish as a shandy-drinking giant with no hair.

  There was a hodgepodge of misplaced buttresses, warped overhangs, and crooked lintels. Atop the roofs, tiles of different shapes and sizes glinted in the light of the suns. He caught his own reflection in a window of contorted glass. It made his belly look huge, and his arms as long as a gibuna’s. He knew it for what it was: some kind of illusion; but all the same, he sucked his gut in and pulled his shoulders back.

  “You coming, or what?” Shadrak said, and bounded up the staircase to a round wooden door at the top. “We ain’t out of this yet. Scuts had a psycher, and it got my scent.”

  Nameless lumbered over to the stairs and clambered up.

  Shadrak reached into a pouch and produced something tacky, which he rolled in his fingers for a few moments before pressing against the base of the door.

  “What are you doing?” Nameless asked.

  “He’s a wizard. Door’s warded with enough crap to keep an army out, and if I knock, he’ll just pretend he ain’t in.”

  “Knows you well, then, does he?”

  Shadrak stood back and gestured for Nameless to do the same. He slipped a pistol from its holster, then took a black cylinder from one of his belt pouches and screwed it onto the end of the barrel.

  Nameless tensed as Shadrak pulled the trigger, but there was no thunderous boom. Instead, there was a rushing, popping noise. Smoke billowed from the sticky stuff on the door. It fizzed and burned, gave off a muffled blast and a burst of flame. When the smoke cleared, the door hung in ruins. Someone coughed and spluttered from inside.

  “Magwitch, you old tosser,” Shadrak called out. “No magic, got it? Else I’ll string you up by your balls.”

  Nameless bobbed the great helm in a show of respect. “Can’t say fairer than that, laddie.”

  Shadrak tested the floor with his boot before stepping inside.

  Nameless hesitated, shook his head, and followed him.

  He couldn’t see a whole lot. Not just because of the helm this time; besides the dusty light from the twin suns spilling through the wreckage of the doorway, the only illumination was a gloamy haze that limned everything in red.

  A man lay on the floor, muttering and moaning. He looked a lot like one of the scarecrows that protected the hops growing on ledges around Arx Gravis. He was bundled up in a long, dark coat with dozens of red flecks about the collar. No doubt they would have been white out in the daylight. Probably, they fell like snowflakes from his mussy gray hair whenever he scratched. Say one thing for him, though: he had a beard you could hide a mountain in.

  The wizard searched about on the floor until he found his twisted spectacles and jammed them on the bridge of his nose. The instant he blinked his eyes into focus, he gasped and almost choked, then frantically tried to scurry backward on his arse.

  Shadrak grabbed him by the ankle. “Hold still, Magwitch. It’s me.”

  “Oh my gawd, oh my gawd,” Magwitch said. “I ain’t done nothing. I swear it.”

  “Never said you did.”

  “But my door.” Magwitch kicked his ankle free, turned onto his front, and started to crawl like a dog.

  “That’s because you never sodding answer it.”

  “Don’t want no assassins here, thanking you very much,” Magwitch said. “A wizard’s house is his sanctimony.”

  “Eh?” Nameless said.

  Shadrak gave him a wry grin. “You get used to it.” Then to Magwitch, he said, “No one’s here to harm you. We need your help.”

  Magwitch stopped still and peered back at them through his legs. “And I’ve given it. More times than I care to remonstrate. Without my wards, Plaguewind and his Dybbuks would have found and killed you long before the Night of the Guilds.”

  “Maybe,” Shadrak said.

  “He was a Stygian, you know. Those nasty cretaceans have demons at their beck and callow.” He got his legs under him and stood on creaking joints. “So, it would be unjust of you to silence me for what I know, now that the curtain has fallen on your last advocate.”

  “I think he means adversary, laddie,” Nameless whispered.

  Shadrak ignored him. “You know about Morrow? About the theater?”

  Magwitch tapped the side of his nose. “Know not to eat cherry pie, too. There’s nothing you can hide from me, Shadrak. I see all. Know all.”

  Shadrak darted forward and thumped him in the fruits, doubling him up. “See that? See this?” He grabbed hold of Magwitch’s ear and twisted.

  The wizard squealed, but green flames sprung up from his fingers. Shadrak showed no sign of having seen it, but Nameless did. He strode over, closed his hand over Magwitch’s, and squeezed.

  The flames fizzled out, and Magwitch whimpered.

  “How’d you know? And don’t lie.” Shadrak’s fingers hovered above the blades in his baldric.

  Magwitch eyed him nervously, licked his lips, and said, “I worked for Morrow.”

  “What?”
A dagger danced free in Shadrak’s hand. “You work for the Senate and for me, shogger. No one else.”

  “I forgot,” Magwitch said in a pitiful voice. “By the time I ruminated, Morrow had paid for my services, and I was too scared to renegade.”

  Shadrak closed a fist about the wizard’s collar and pressed the blade to his throat. “So, you shogged me over.”

  “No, no. Not at all,” Magwitch said. “It was just wizard eyes, that sort of thing. I could see him at all times, and warn him of danger.”

  “But you didn’t,” Shadrak said. “He ate the pie.”

  “Congruitious loyalties,” Magwitch said.

  “What?”

  “I think he means ‘conflicting’,” Nameless said.

  “Yes, that.”

  “Whatever,” Shadrak said. “You got one chance, Magwitch. Can you get us out of the city?”

  The wizard’s eyes widened. “I can draw you a map.”

  Shadrak pressed harder with the knife and broke the skin.

  Magwitch gave a nervous laugh and held up a finger. “Come with me, and prepare to be impregnated. To the roof.”

  They followed him up an extending ladder through a trap in the ceiling.

  The tramp of feet and the bark of orders carried on the blustering wind. In the streets below, speartips glinted, and sunlight glanced off of bronze helms and shields.

  Magwitch crossed the flat roof to a dilapidated chimney. A long metal rod had been bolted to its side. Tethered to the rod by a length of rope was a floating sheet of blackness the size of a bed.

  “Help me haul her in,” Magwitch called over his shoulder.

  Nameless took a hold on the rope and reeled it in. As the floating sheet drew nearer, he saw it was solid, and flecked with green, the same as his helm.

  “That scarolite, laddie?”

  “It is indeed,” Magwitch said. “Arcanistically aereogated.”

  Shadrak sauntered over for a look. “Smuggled, if I ain’t mistaken.”

  “And a bargain, too,” Magwitch said, producing a rectangular tin from his coat pocket and opening it. “Chocolate truffle, anyone?” When there was no response, he made a face and popped the truffle in his mouth.