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

by D. P. Prior

  The gargoyle tracked him with shark’s eyes. They were deader than a corpse’s. When Shadrak was a pace away, it curled in on itself and shuffled back. Strings of black blood hung from its beak, which remained clamped tightly shut.

  “What are you?” Shadrak said. “Blightey’s guard dog?” He waved his pistol at the tattered wings, the tail, the horns. “Did he do this to you?”

  The gargoyle let out a whimper and tucked its face into its chest. It brought the remnants of its wings overhead and hunkered beneath them.

  “Why’s he keep you chained up down here, and not outside the walls on a spike?”

  It rocked back and forth but said nothing. Shadrak started to feel stupid for assuming it could speak.

  He stepped in, lifted its beaked face with the end of his gun. He could almost hear Kadee telling him to take pity. But pity wasn’t going to do anything for the poor scut. It was a wonder the gargoyle was still alive, the state it was in. And pity wasn’t going to find Ludo, either.

  “Don’t suppose you know if Blightey had a visitor in the night, do you?”

  The wings fell aside, as if the gargoyle no longer had the strength to hold them in place. They appeared to drag it into a deeper stoop as they drooped to the floor like a cloak that was too long.

  “Can you understand what I’m saying? Because if you can, I need some answers.” Shadrak prodded its beak with his pistol, tried to wedge it open.

  The gargoyle pulled back, but Shadrak grabbed the stump of a horn and held it in place. He shoved the gun past a curled fang, levered it up and down.

  With a squawk of pain, the gargoyle stopped resisting. Its beak split like a gash, and it vomited forth dark blood.

  Shadrak snatched the gun away. Shrill cries interspersed with wheezing breaths squeezed their way past something that was blocking the gargoyle’s throat. Shadrak felt bile rise as he stared, transfixed. Lodged at the back of the gargoyle’s mouth was something vaguely pear-shaped; only the pear had petals—metal petals—that were open and flush against its palate and tongue. Protruding from the center of the pear was some kind of corkscrew with a wing nut at the end. The wing nut was moving, turning in response to—what? A change in resistance now the gargoyle had opened its beak? A quarter turn, and the petals pushed deeper into the flesh of its mouth. Another, and the creature shrieked as its tongue ruptured in a fresh spray of blood. The shriek turned into staccato, sobbing moans as the petals forced its beak ever wider. Something snapped, and the lower part of the beak flopped to one side. Still the wing nut turned, and still the petals continued to open.

  The gargoyle’s sobbing devolved into ragged gasps.

  Shadrak stood spellbound by the black eyes staring at him. Imploring him.

  And then he understood. There was no need for words.

  He raised the flintlock.

  The gargoyle shook its head, sending a spray of gore to the flagstones. It angled a tortured look up at the ceiling.

  Someone would hear. Blightey would hear.

  The gargoyle started to spasm, and the skin of its face around the beak ripped open.

  Kadee’s voice cried to Shadrak from unfathomable depths. It roared like Mount Sartis erupting, and burst from his lips in a violent curse that was more of a scream.

  He whipped out a knife and slashed it across the gargoyle’s throat. The creature shook violently for a few seconds, then its head fell to one side, and it dropped to the floor.

  Shadrak’s hands trembled. He felt empty, riven by his reaction. And then he realized: if a gunshot could be heard, then so could a scream.

  He wiped the knife on his cloak and returned it to his baldric, then, gun in hand, he headed for the central staircase.

  Cobwebs thick with dust hung like drapes from the ceiling beyond the archway. The stairway hadn’t been used for years. Centuries, even. The same with the one on the right, but the left hand staircase showed signs of recent use: a rent through the clog of webs, and footprints in the dust covering the steps, going up and down.

  He followed the tracks upward, past niches set at intervals in the walls. They were veiled by curtains of web, but he could still make out statues within: a robed woman straddling a serpent; a child with the head of a fish; a man nailed to a tree. What kind of sick art was that?

  He continued up the winding stairwell until he reached a corridor at the top. It was paneled with dark wood and lit by the ghostly glow of oil lamps suspended from curling brackets.

  Straight ahead, the floor was carpeted with cockroaches. Many of them were dead, but others scuttled among the desiccated husks of their kin, as if they were feeding on them. The cobwebs were thicker here, drawn like curtains.

  The right-hand passage was similar, only its ceiling had sagged in places and was dark with water stains and black mold. It gave off the acrid stench of pepper mixed with stale piss.

  Once more, the only signs of activity were to the left. But even here, the corridor was not clear of filth and infestation. It was just that the frayed and tattered carpet had a depression worn into its center from decades of use.

  Shadrak lingered at the junction, fighting back the urge to turn and flee. He steadied his nerves with a few deep breaths, and shrugged himself deeper into his cloak.

  Unseen.

  He was Shadrak the Unseen. Blightey should be afraid of him, not the other way round.

  Shadrak needed more time. Needed time to observe, work things out for himself; time to get to know his enemy, probe for weaknesses.

  Even as he thought it, Shadrak suspected that was the last thing he needed. He’d already seen enough to haunt him for as long as he lived. Delve any deeper, and his memories would be a hive of stinging pestilence. And what if it changed him? What if there was no limit to the horror and the depravity? What if it was addictive, and he needed to see more?

  He shook himself free of the trance that was settling over him. The castle seemed to hold a macabre fascination for him. At once, it both appalled and intrigued; cautioned him and urged him to press on, uncover all its terrible secrets.

  He patted each of his belt pouches, touched the blades in his baldric, felt for the grip of his second pistol, reached behind to check the Thundershot was still tucked into the back of his belt.

  He closed his eyes briefly to center himself on Kadee’s face, but she wasn’t there. There was no room for fond memories amid all the images of suffering that had imprinted themselves on his brain.

  Creeping on the balls of his feet, he edged along the corridor toward the door at the end. The walls here were hung with animal heads and display cases filled with spiders and scorpions. One held a preserved frog nailed to a wooden cross. Beneath the frog’s feet, a scrap of paper bore writing in a child’s hand. From what Shadrak could make out, it was scrawled in Ancient Urddynoorian, but he had no idea what it said.

  The door was of heavy oak, banded with iron. Some sort of glyph had been burned into the wood: an octagon surrounding an eight-pointed star. There were blocky letters along each of the sides, but they were in a script he didn’t recognize.

  He pressed his ear to the door and listened. Nothing. He put an eye to the keyhole. It was dark inside. He tried the handle, but as he suspected, it was locked. He selected a pick from his tool-pack and felt about inside the keyhole—just incase. There was a faint click, and a tiny needle dropped to the floor.

  Oldest trick in the book. One of Albert’s favorites.

  Switching to a snake rake, he slid it past the pins repeatedly, bouncing them until they reached the shear line and there was a resounding clunk.

  He opened the door a hair’s breadth, waited exactly ten seconds, and then slipped inside, closing it behind him.

  The room was black as the grave, silent and chill.

  Goosebumps stood out on his forearms, and there was a prickling at the back of his neck. He tugged the goggles back down, illuminating the room in hues of green.

  He was before a wide dais upon which stood a semicircle of outlines
. They could have been pillars. The dais formed an island upon the sprawling checkerboard floor. There was a door opposite, but a massive statue had been placed in front of it. It resembled a man, perhaps ten feet tall, with full-bellied muscles shaped into the stone. The goggles revealed darker veins of green running through the surface. The face was broad, the jaw square and set in a grotesque leer.

  Shadrak edged around the room. He kept flicking looks over his shoulder at the statue as he inspected the adjacent wall, tapping, prodding, listening, but finding nothing until he came to a freestanding rack bristling with weapons: a spear, a guisarme, a halberd, a bill-hook, and other polearms of exotic design. Then there was a jewel-studded scimitar; a curve-pronged sai; punch daggers; sword-breakers; a trident and a morning star. An immense greatsword hung from the wall behind the rack, its outsized blade serrated along one edge.

  Turning back to the dais, Shadrak saw that what he’d taken for pillars were in fact statues of men and women in various styles of dress. He’d been mistaken due to one grisly oddity: they had no heads.

  As he approached, he adjusted his goggles. The lenses whirred and clicked until they settled into a new mode. The rest of the chamber blurred out of focus as the red light of burning coals suffused the statues.

  Not statues, Shadrak realized, reaching out to touch one, feeling the pliancy of flesh: bodies. Decapitated bodies. Still warm. Tremors ruffled their clothing, as if somehow, without heads, they continued to breathe.

  There were twelve in total. The largest was that of a man over seven feet tall, encased in plate armor that glowed orange through the goggles.

  A thud came from beyond the door he’d entered by.

  Shadrak ducked down behind the dais and peeked around the edge. The goggles registered a reddish blur through the wood of the door. The handle shook violently, then clattered to the floor. There was a howl of wind, and the door flew open.

  There were no footsteps, but Shadrak felt something enter the room. A cold thrill ran beneath his skin, and fingers of ice clutched at the back of his neck.

  He waited, counting once more to his obligatory ten, and then he chanced a look.

  A ball of crimson flame hovered in the air above the headless bodies.

  Shadrak ducked down and raised the goggles. Whatever it was, it was kicking out a lot of heat. The blackness of the room was bathed with a flickering glow. Licks of orange, yellow, and red reflected from the weapons in the rack, limned the stone statue, bathed the bodies on the dais.

  Holding his breath, Shadrak peeked again. This time, he fell back, heart pounding, blood like the roar of a waterfall in his ears.

  It wasn’t a ball of fire hovering over the bodies. It was a skull. A skull with blazing rubies for eyes.

  He heard a clacking sound and looked again. Its jaws were opening and closing as it moved from one headless body to the next, considering.

  It circled behind them, and finally stopped directly above the armored colossus.

  Shadrak could see the armor clearly now: intricately fluted plate, its dark metal embossed with swirls and leaves that wound about its surface like a strangler vine. He didn’t doubt for an instant this was what they’d come for: the Lich Lord’s armor, crafted by the Cynocephalus in the bowels of Gehenna. Armor that rendered its wearer utterly invulnerable to attack.

  Slowly, purposefully, the skull started to descend. As it sunk onto the stub of neck protruding above the gorget, its jaws clacked maniacally, and then it pivoted once, twice, three times, as it screwed itself in place.

  Waxen skin seeped up from within the armor to coat the skull. Black dots pushed through its scalp, sprouting like weeds and forming a mane of dark hair that fell limply over the ornate pauldrons capping the shoulders. Almost immediately, the hair faded to gray, and then white, and yellowish stains streaked through it like the ravages of disease. Pallid hands came up to twist the head from side to side, making sure it was secure.

  Serpents writhed through Shadrak’s guts, and insects stung and bit beneath his skin. Waves of freezing air rolled off the armored figure, sent shivers deep into his bones. He pressed himself close to the floor, praying to Kadee not to let him be seen. He almost prayed to Nous, too, just in case, but then called out silently to the Archon instead. At least he might do something; might take pity and get him out of there.

  But nothing happened. The Archon’s pity was as empty as his own had been for the gargoyle. As empty, and as useless.

  Metal plates grated and squeaked. Had he been spotted?

  He started to crawl on his belly to the statue by the door. Behind him came the chink of metal on stone. It was over by the weapons rack.

  He slid behind one of the statue’s tree-trunk legs, rolled to his knees, lunged for the door handle.

  There was a cracking sound—like the unbinding of arthritic limbs—and something cold grabbed the back of his neck, pinning him to the floor. He gasped for air, thrashed and twisted. He managed to wriggle onto his back, but fingers of stone closed around his throat. The dull eyes and implacable face of the statue glared down at him, and its leer now looked more of a self-satisfied grin.

  “Splendid.”

  The voice came from behind the statue, lisping, almost whispered, but with the force of thunder.

  Metal scraped on stone. One step, two steps.

  A shadow fell over Shadrak, and the same voice said, “A burglar in my castle? What’s the world coming to?”

  Shadrak’s heart lurched. Maggots wriggled up from his guts. The statue slackened its grip just enough for him to turn his head toward the voice.

  The armored man loomed over him, ruby eyes excoriating, blue-tinged lips twisted into a sardonic smile.

  “A homunculus.” He leaned on the hilt of the greatsword. Blue veins webbed the back of his hands. “And an albino. My, did they cast you out? It’s a wonder they didn’t dash your brains out at birth or throw you to the seethers. I’m surprised you triggered the ward on the door. Oh, the poison needle was just a bit of fun, but a magic sigil… Even a defective homunculus should have detected that. After all, it’s your people I stole the idea from.”

  He arched an eyebrow, waiting for a response.

  Shadrak squirmed beneath the stone hand, fingers straining for his belt-pouch. The statue hoisted him into the air by the throat. He kicked and gasped as the armored man leaned in close, his breath rank with rot and old damp.

  “I’d like a name, if that’s not too much to ask.”

  Shadrak tried to say, “Shog you,” but he choked instead. Stone fingers squeezed, and his airways started to constrict.

  “Perhaps, as your host, I should go first. Blightey. Dr. Otto Blightey. I have a thousand-and-one other titles, but we can dispense with them. There. Now you.”

  “Shadrak,” he rasped, lips moving without his consent.

  Blightey gave a slight nod, and the statue let go.

  Shadrak landed in a crouch, then immediately put a hand to his throat. He wheezed and coughed, made sure he could still breathe.

  “You know, the locals here call me the Prior,” Blightey said. “I like that. It’s both quintessential and ironic. The kind of paradox truths are made from.” He lifted one hand from the sword hilt and waved his fingers at the statue. “Good boy. Back to your post. I don’t think our visitor is going to be any trouble.”

  Shadrak was already raising his pistol.

  “Are you?” Blightey snapped.

  The pistol slammed home in its holster before Shadrak knew what he was doing.

  “I do so like these artifacts of Ancient-tech that crop up all over the place,” Blightey said. “Utterly ineffectual against this armor, and even if it weren’t, the body is not my own.”

  “Wasn’t aiming at the armor,” Shadrak growled.

  “Ah, head shot,” Blightey said. “Very sensible. But equally futile. The best of the best have tried to destroy this old noddle,”—he tapped his head—“but even the Archon”—Blightey enunciated the name as if he kne
w Shadrak was working for him—“gave up trying and dumped me in the Abyss. Not a good move. There are things I had access to there I will be eternally grateful for. A trifle boring after a few centuries, but all in all, not as bad a destination as they’d have you believe; not once you put the frighteners on a few principle demons.”

  Shadrak reached toward a belt pouch, found himself grabbing his crotch instead.

  “Now, now,” Blightey said. “Less of that, if you don’t mind. It’ll make you blind.”

  “Where’s Ludo?” Shadrak said, snatching his hand away.

  “Did you know it means ‘I play’ in Ancient Urddynoorian?” Blightey said. “No? Don’t they teach Ancient Urddynoorian in homunculus school anymore? Oh, of course, you didn’t go to homunculus school, did you? You’re a reject. But never you mind, we’re all rejects here, one way or another. You could even say, I’m the ultimate reject.”

  Every instinct screamed at Shadrak to get out of there, but his legs wouldn’t obey him. Paralysis held him in its invisible grip, prevented him from reaching his weapons, for all the good they would do. He began to shake, felt the urge to plead well up from inside him, but he wasn’t giving Blightey the satisfaction. He fought against it with a lifetime of threats and intimidation.

  “I said ‘where’, shogger. I don’t give a rat’s arse about the meaning of the scutting name.”

  “My, you are testy,” Blightey said. “I can see we’re going to have lots of fun together. Your friend—I’m assuming you are friends, or is it more than that? It wouldn’t be the first time a consecrated Nousian has succumbed to the temptations of the flesh.” Blightey’s eyes flashed scarlet, and a frown crossed his face. He banished it in an instant. “No? No romance? Do you mean to say this friend of yours is truly holy? How novel. How stimulating. And what a fitting subject for our first bout of fun together.