by D. P. Prior
“So, what’s this plan of yours?” Shadrak asked Aristodeus. “This alternative.”
“I don’t know yet. Hence this meeting. If we all put our heads together, we may yet come up with something.”
“Right,” Shadrak said. “And in the meantime, you’re going to rely on prayer to stop Nameless going on the rampage?”
“I do not pray,” Aristodeus said.
“No, that wouldn’t stoke your ego, Baldy, would it?”
Mephesch raised a placating hand. “We of the Sedition bring much lore to the table. With time, we will find a way. Trust me.”
“Trust you? Mate, you’re a homunculus. You gotta be having a laugh.”
“As are you,” Abednago said. The face on the screen looked down at Mephesch. “Or didn’t Bird tell him?”
“He told me,” Shadrak said.
“And you believed him?”
“I believed Bird, but that don’t mean I trust the rest of you shoggers more than I can throw you.”
“That is a shame,” Mephesch said. “We were hoping you would replace Bird. We were going to ask you to join the Sedition.”
Shadrak shook his head. “Bird said he was there when the homunculi wanted to kill me. I was a baby, for shog’s sake, and you wanted me dead, just because of what I looked like. Or are you going to tell me you lot had nothing to do with it, that it was these rivals of yours?”
A homunculus on the third level leaned over the rail. His skin was dark as coal, and his eyes were burning embers. “Oh, they were there, Shadrak the Unseen. Back then, there was only a fledgling resistance—Mephesch and a handful of others. They wouldn’t have dared stop a culling at the time. The only person you have to thank for your life is Bird, same as I will ever be indebted to him for mine.”
“Enos is right,” Mephesch said, “though it pains me to be reminded. Bird was changed by his sojourn in Qlippoth, and when he returned, he showed some of us another way. Yes, we share the guilt for your rejection. At the very least, we were indifferent. But now, you are as precious to us as Bird was, and I can’t tell you how grieved we all are at his passing.”
Shadrak glared up at the homunculi crowding the walkways. He suspected Mephesch was telling the truth for once, but how could he know for sure? And why did he care? You can’t discard a child then treat them as family when you realize the error of your ways.
“Want to know what I think of your offer?” Shadrak said. He raised his middle finger and turned to make sure he took everyone in with the gesture.
“I’ve wasted two days waiting for Baldy to come up with a plan, time I could’ve spent following Nameless, gauging his new strengths, looking for opportunities. But, do you know what?” he said, turning his eyes on Abednago’s face on the screen. “Mr. Ropey-Head here has given me a glimmer of hope. If Nameless hasn’t gone back just to butcher, then maybe he’s still in there,”—he tapped his head—“still reasoning.”
“Yes,” Aristodeus said. “My thoughts exactly. If we could get you into the ravine with a team of the Sedition—”
“No,” Shadrak said. “I work alone.”
Shadrak swirled his cloak around him and headed for the door.
“Won’t you at least let me guide you?” Abednago said. “I know Arx Gravis. It’s virtually my home. Right now, the top of the ravine is crawling with Krypteia. There’s no way in from above.”
Shadrak turned back to face Abednago’s screen. “So? I have a planeship.”
“I know,” Abednago said. “And I can show you exactly where to land it.”
RESISTANCE
The plane ship came to rest beneath the lake at the bottom of the ravine. Shadrak exited via a hatch at the top that protruded an inch or so above the surface of the water. Under his feet, fish continued to swim by, unobstructed, as if a ship the size of a city hadn’t just landed smack in the middle of their domain. And it hadn’t, in a sense. According to Abednago, whenever the plane ship came into contact with anything denser than air, it was as insubstantial as a ghost, and only those who knew where to look, and how, were capable of finding the myriad entrances that dotted the hull.
He hesitated a moment, adjusting to the perception that he was standing on water. But the instant he stepped away from the hatch and it started to close, he plunged beneath the surface.
Burdened by the sealed bag strapped to his back, which contained his rifle and his bundled black cloak, Shadrak struck for the shore with slow, easy strokes.
Overhead, pockets of crimson sunlight bled between the walkways spanning the chasm all the way to the top.
As he drew near the shore, he caught snatches of gibbering from the sheer ravine walls that loomed behind squat buildings and covered stalls.
He climbed up onto the embankment then slipped between a couple of warehouses and emerged by a canal. The barge moored there was in darkness, so he climbed aboard and entered its single cabin.
He unslung the bag, opened it, and fumbled around inside until he felt his goggles. He put them on, and they whirred into life, granting him enough green-tinted light to see by while he assembled the sections of the rifle. Once he’d finished, he donned his black cloak, ran his fingers over the blades in his baldrics, checked the glass spheres in his pouches, his two flintlocks, and the Thundershot tucked into the back of his belt.
Only then was he ready to go.
As arranged, the homunculus, Abednago, met him by the ravine wall behind the wharfs.
“It is brave of you to do this, Shadrak. Bird would have been proud.”
Shadrak ignored the compliment. Nothing these shoggers said meant a thing to him. All he cared about is whether there was a way to free Nameless from the black axe; and if there wasn’t, he’d do everything in his power to put the dwarf out of his misery.
“Come,” Abednago said. “A resistance is already forming, but it could be snuffed out at any moment.”
He led Shadrak along the banks of the canal till they reached a system of caves set into the rock face.
The stench was overpowering as they made their way down one twisting passage after the next. Bones and half-eaten carcasses littered the floor.
“Gibuna warrens,” Abednago said. “Flesh-eating primates that have been known to snatch dwarf children. The resistance expelled them during the night. They’ve taken to the ledges and the struts beneath the walkways now.”
Abednago held up a hand as the sound of voices reached their ears. The air shimmered around him, and in his place stood a dwarf in a patchwork of rags and a crooked, tall hat.
“They don’t trust homunculi,” he said. “They would sooner listen to a fool.”
As they rounded the bend, flickering orange light cast long shadows across the wall of a cathedral cavern. Upwards of two-hundred dwarves were seated in a circle on the floor. More stood back from the rest. These ones were wild-looking, thickly muscled and bare-chested—both the men and the women. They were inked over with so many tattoos, there was scarcely an inch of untainted skin.
At the center of the gathering, a golden-helmed dwarf in a red cloak and white robe paused mid-sentence to take in the new arrivals.
Shadrak recognized the face from when he’d left Arx Gravis the first time: Thumil, head of the Council, and a one-time friend of Nameless’s.
“Stupid,” Thumil said to the dwarf who had moments ago been Abednago. “And Shadrak. No one else?”
“Shadrak works alone,” the motley fool said.
“Not enough. We need the homunculi, Stupid. We need their lore.”
“Yeah, well I am homunculi,” Shadrak said. It felt odd, hearing himself admit it. “And from what I’ve been told, homunculus lore is about as helpful as shog in this situation.”
“So, you have a better idea?” a woman holding a baby said. Shadrak remembered her, too. “Because last time he was unstoppable.”
“Forgive me,” Thumil said. “Shadrak, this is Cordy, my wife. We are the closest thing to family the Nameless Dwarf has left.”
“Corrector,” Cordy half spat. “That’s what he calls himself now. And he’s no part of my family, not after what he’s done this time.”
“Then it’s a good job he has me,” Shadrak said. “And as to a better idea: no I don’t shogging have one. But that doesn’t mean I won’t come up with one. If there’s some way to stop him, free him from the spell of that scutting axe, I aim to find it.”
“And if not?” Cordy asked.
“Killing’s what I do for a living, lady. And believe me, there’s always a way to get the job done.”
He’d proven that with the Archon, hadn’t he? Some targets just took longer to work out, to observe for signs of weakness. But they were always there, if you looked hard enough.
PHANTOMS
The third day after the army had left for war, reports started coming in about insurgent attacks throughout the city. Black Cloaks had been killed, and stockpiled food and supplies had been taken. Graffiti on the Aorta walls denounced the Corrector’s tyranny and pledged undying support for the rebellion. A rebellion everyone said was led by Thumil.
Discontent spread like cancer among the thousand or so dwarves left in the city. The skeleton staff assigned to keep things running had diminished even further. People simply hadn’t turned up for work, and those that had were disgruntled about having to double up on their chores. It was fresh produce that was chiefly affected, and Nameless decreed that folk would simply have to make do.
Dorley gave a speech to the Council about the people’s sacrifice in aid of the war effort, and then the councilors were sent out to tour every level and show solidarity. Nameless had half a mind to send them all the way to the bottom, to show solidarity to the baresarks and gibunas who lived down there. It would certainly have been entertaining, but he decided against it. While the councilors did as they were told, they were a useful means of delegating control. Even with most of the population gone, and with the Black Cloaks on constant patrol, Arx Gravis was still too big a city for one dwarf to manage by himself.
The mines had come to a standstill, but that was to be expected, with the majority of the miners now recruited as sappers, in what was perhaps the most crucial part of the attack on New Londdyr.
Taverns remained open, but most were empty.
The Ephebe continued with only the most basic training for the children. Many instructors had gone with the army, to hone the rusty skills of the civilian soldiers.
News came via carrier pigeon that the siege of New Londdyr was underway, and that teams of sappers were already tunneling beneath the Cyclopean Walls and planting explosive charges.
It seemed an opportune moment to go on a tour of the city, raise morale by telling the people how close they were to victory.
By early evening, as Raphoe peeked down into the ravine, Nameless rode a goat cart at the head of a parade of Black Cloaks and councilors. The straggly crowd that had been assembled along the seventh level walkways was halfhearted in its cheering, but he attributed that to overwork and anxiety about the war.
Whenever he saw a mother with a baby, he had the driver stop the cart, and he got out to hold the child and offer his thanks to the mother for helping to make Arx Gravis strong again. Most of them were tight-faced and tearful. What woman wouldn’t be, to be told her offspring was going to one day be a Dwarf Lord?
As Nameless’s entourage passed beneath the arch of an aqueduct, something glinted in the moonlight as it fell from on high and hit the walkway in front of the goat cart. Flames erupted. There was a thunderous boom. The cart flew apart, and Nameless was flung over the edge of the walkway. He hit the stones a hundred feet below. The Lich Lord’s armor bore the brunt of the impact, but it did nothing to lessen the shock.
He thought he heard cheers from above, but as he clambered to his feet, axe still in hand, and the Shield of Warding on his other arm, he was met with silence. Hundreds of wide-eyed faces stared down at him from above. They’d thought him dead, he could see that, and now they were both astounded and horrified that he’d survived unscathed.
Coalheart rappelled over the side and dropped down beside him.
“My Lord Corrector, you are all right?”
Nameless scanned the crowd overhead. Black flames surged from the Pax Nanorum, mirroring his anger. People started to step back out of sight.
“Heads on spikes, Coalheart. Heads on spikes.”
“My Lord—”
“Take them from the civilians. Give these rebels something to think about. Ten for the cart, another ten for the goat, and fifty for the attempt on me. They need to learn, Coalheart. Dissidents will not be tolerated.”
Coalheart nodded approvingly. “Seventy heads, then. I’ll organize death squads.”
“You can use the spikes from the mines,” Nameless said. “Hammer them into walkways, walls. If anything like this happens again, we’ll make a railing of spiked heads all the way down the steps of the Aorta.”
Coalheart’s smile showed he was the dwarf for the job. He swiftly wiped it off and returned to a grim look of sober professionalism. “I’ve dispatched Black Cloaks to apprehend the assassin.”
“Good,” Nameless said. “But be prepared to be disappointed.”
“You have my word, Corrector, that we will—”
“I know who it is, Coalheart. He makes an art out of being unseen.”
The exploding glass globe that had dropped from the top of the aqueduct had been a dead giveaway.
But Shadrak was no fool. He’d have known from their fight with Blightey anything he might try was futile. He was just testing Nameless out, garnering ideas, looking for the slightest weakness. And then, when he knew all there was to know, he’d strike so swiftly, Nameless would never see him coming.
“There’s a homunculus assassin in the ravine, Coalheart. If he came in from up top, it was only with permission. I want every concealer-cloaked Krypteia stationed there put to death. I want their heads on spikes, too. Replace them with men you handpick yourself. Ensure they are aware of the consequences of treating with the enemy.”
“My Lord Corrector.” Coalheart clicked his heels and nodded. The hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He was still relishing his new role.
“And Coalheart, I want guards stationed at every ladder leading to the foot of the ravine. No one comes up, no one goes down, is that clear?”
“My Lord Corrector?”
“The portal beneath the Sanguis Terrae.” The way Nameless had entered Gehenna. They way he’d come back with the black axe. “He could have come in that way.”
And then he remembered the plane ship. With a craft like that, Shadrak could have come in any way he wished. The plane ship could even merge with the ravine walls.
For all his invulnerability, Nameless was gripped with dread. A foe that could be anywhere, who could strike at any given moment, and who was skilled in all the various ways of killing… Even if there was only one crack in the Lich Lord’s armor, enough to slip a knife through, Shadrak was bound to find it.
“Forget that order. He could be anywhere.” He turned a circle, hunting for the barest hint of movement. His breaths came in ragged gasps. His breastplate resonated with the racing of his heart.
“I’ll double your personal guard, Corrector,” Coalheart said. “Triple it.”
“No,” Nameless said.
His guts twisted, and his legs suddenly felt like they were missing bones. He reeled, and Coalheart steadied him.
It was stupid, he knew. Utterly stupid, wielding such power and yet being afraid of phantoms. He’d never felt so terrified in his life. He’d never before been particularly frightened of dying.
See, the black axe said, and the shield, armor, and gauntlets silently concurred, you are safe from no one. Nor will you ever be, while even one enemy remains. These people who applaud as you parade among them would cheer louder with you at the end of a hangman’s rope. You have no friends here, Corrector. Not among these people who stripped you of your name. To the
m, you are less than nothing.
“Take me back to the Dodecagon,” Nameless rasped. “Lock me inside.”
“Corrector?”
At least that way, Shadrak couldn’t come at him, not without opening one of the doors and giving himself away. And the scarolite that lined the chamber would be another layer of protection.
“Now, Coalheart!”
Together, they made their way to the steps of the Aorta and back up to the seventh level.
NEWS OF THE WAR
It wasn’t the first time Nameless had felt the Dodecagon was like a tomb, but as the door ground shut and left him alone within its twelve impregnable walls, he wished it really was. Anything had to be better than the panic that had turned the blood in his veins to ice and set his limbs trembling. Even the oblivion of death.
You must resist, the black axe said in his mind. This assassin is a homunculus, a creature of deception. You are under a beguilement. The only way out is through the force of your righteous anger. You know this. You have always known this.
The axe was right. It seemed to know him better than he knew himself. How many times in the past had he turned fear into rage, weakness into strength? But this was different. This was no natural fear: it infected him all the way down to the marrow.
He seated himself at the head of the debating table and rested the Shield of Warding against his knees. The empty chairs served only to remind him of absent foes. What kind of a way was that to govern? Twelve squabbling idiots, each determined to have his own way, and in the process ripping the city to shreds, or bringing it to a grinding standstill.
He glanced about the chamber, at the embossed heads of the Dwarf Lords peering from the center of each of the twelve doors. They glared judgement at him, made him feel the butt of some secret joke.
He lowered the helm to stare at his hands encased in the fire giant’s gauntlets. He grew fascinated watching his metal-clad fingers clench and unclench around the haft of the black axe.