Nikka
Nikka
By
David Gilchrist
Copyright © 2017 David Gilchrist
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
For Alexander, Oliver and Lewis. For Blair and Campbell. For Alistair and Katy.
The next generation of G’s
Nikka
‘Nikka,’ said a voice in the darkness.
Nikka used to have a surname. A lifetime of man ago, before he had been taken to this place. But it had been lost, along with everything else. It was never his anyway. It was his father’s name. Nikka had worn it like a hand-me-down cloak; patched and repaired, discarded by its previous owner. It sloughed from him in the black depths below the Rathou mountain, and its loss went unnoticed.
‘Nikka,’ the voice repeated, insistent this time. It was Lidla Cotte. Of course it was him, for who else could it be? Lidla was the only other dark-skinned Cerni dwarf in their slave gang, the rest were all Volni - the pale skinned dwarfs.
‘You will get us all whipped if you sit about dreaming,’ warned the old Cerni through pain-gritted teeth. Nikka grunted in reply, then he returned to the stone.
This had saved him when all else had been stripped from him. He had finally come alive when he discovered that he could work the stone. Melding they called it back in Sordir, his home city. At least Sordir was as close as he had ever come to having a home.
So he concentrated on the granite; felt its fractures and frailties. As his senses became sensitive, he focused on his task. It had taken him years of working with the stone, moulding it, shaping it, to achieve this level of mastery. At first, the immensity of the surrounding mountain had overwhelmed him to the point that he was able only to delve; to gouge great, inaccurate chunks of rock from the mountain. But with repetition came understanding, and with understanding came proficiency.
Melding stone was not the only thing he was adept at. A lifetime ago he had been a murderer and a damned good one. He was highly paid and sought after; an assassin some like to name it, but Nikka knew it for what it was. Assassin gave it too much gravitas; too much style. He had been a killer; a ruthless and efficient killer. It was true that sometimes his work had been almost artistic, but not for the joy of it. He had varied his methods to keep the others guessing, and to help fight the boredom.
The guttural voices of the Volni slaves beside him brought him back to his immediate task. The main entrance to this home had to be enlarged. At present, it resembled a rat-hole. Even a pale-skin would struggle to crawl through that hole.
Nikka had known that the Volni enslaved and captured Cerni. The two dwarven races had never known peace between them. But he had been surprised to learn that the pale-skinned Volni enslaved their own people as well as the Cerni.
Nikka moved around the oval opening, behind which many Volni worked at connecting the void to other passageways and rooms in the dwelling. He felt the stone start to move under the influence of his power, tasted the ferrous tang of meld in the air as he worked. It was ever present down on these black depths, but when he worked with the stone directly, it filled all his senses. He spat out the bitter taste in his mouth and then continued around the gap.
‘Still not used to it after all this time?’ Lidla asked. ‘I think my sense of taste is nearly as dull as my eyes.’ The chuckle which broke from his lips was overtaken by a rasping cough.
There was no light in this place, for what use did the Volni have for it. Having lived under the Rathou for innumerable generations they had no use for light. Their eyes were sensitive to differences in heat rather than light. This was a trait that the black-skinned, surface dwelling Cerni shared with their Volni cousins, but the Volni’s eyes were far more sensitive to heat and intolerant of light.
‘It is not that, it is just…’ Nikka’s voice trailed off before he completed the sentence. It reminded him of blood he was going to say.
‘Aye, Son,’ said the older Cerni over the noise of the other gangs. ‘I know.’
Nikka had told him of his past, many years ago. Twice he had told his tale. Once to the darkness and once to his friend. Every detail he had spilled out into the blackness and then to a stranger. A stranger and the Volni that comprised his work team, not that any of them could understand him. Nikka gave him all the details of his life: every life taken, every debauched encounter; the wealth accrued and squandered. It was a charred piece of his soul that he spat out for them to examine. He had hoped that baring his worst sins would leave him clean, purged of his dirty deeds. But it had just left him empty.
Lidla dragged himself towards Nikka along the short corridor that would act as an entrance to this dwelling. Nikka heard sharp barks in the distance, echoing around the cavernous fore-hall that surrounded the dwelling area. The guards doing their rounds.
‘Get back to it old man or the guards will batter you,’ warned Nikka. Lidla managed to turn back to the wall as the first of the Volni guards appeared, but he was too late. The guard uttered a guttural obscenity at the elderly Cerni as he thrust his curved baton into Lidla’s ribs. Lidla spasmed with pain as the stick discharged its eldritch energy in to his body.
Nikka shot to his feet. This would get the whole crew disciplined, but he would not let Lidla take this punishment. It would kill the old Cerni. So he drove his fist into the ugly, colourless face.
The satisfaction he felt was short lived. Two or maybe three of those damned sticks were driven into him and he lost all control of his body. The explosion of pain that ricocheted around his senses was too much to bear. He vaguely felt the boots and fists that assaulted him after that, but it was irrelevant. He had been beaten bloody and senseless so many times that he had become inured to it. At least Lidla would be spared.
When the guards eventually tired of kicking Nikka, they wandered away leaving their unintelligible threats to ring in his ears. He spat out gobs of congealed blood onto the dusty stone floor and then rolled over and sat up. Lidla doubled over beside him, wheezing and coughing.
‘Come on you lazy old goat,’ joked Nikka, trying to lift the old Cerni’s spirits. ‘We must return to work or they will be back. And this time they will not go so lightly on us.’ Nikka shuffled over to Lidla and forced him up. He was as gentle as he could be, but the guards would kill Lidla if they found him idle once again.
Then the enslaved Volni were with them. At first, Nikka thought they meant to take revenge for Lidla’s failings, for it was they that would suffer, but one of the colourless Volni embraced the old dwarf. Its pale limbs wrapped around Lidla. In years gone by this would have been impossible, but the meagre rations that they received were not intended to preserve their bulk.
After a few moments, the Volni released Lidla. Lidla’s coughing stopped and he managed to walk over to the wall and start work. Nikka put his back against Lidla and worked on the opposite wall. In doing so, he took some of Lidla’s weight and they could talk without drawing the attention of any unwanted eyes.
The Volni that came to Lidla’s aid melted back into the blackness, working on whatever part of the encampment they had been sent to. Nikka shuddered when he imagined those white fingers touching him.
‘How are you?’ he said to Lidla. �
�Did they harm you?’
‘Harm me?’ the Cerni laughed in response. ‘I feel at least half as old as I did this morning - which would make me only twice as old as you.’ The ghost of the rasping cough was still there in his voice though, exposing the lie.
Nikka tried to see the Volni slaves, but his vision was not as developed as the Volni’s. With no idea which one had helped his friend, he offered a silent thank you to him or her (or it). Then he laughed to himself; the thought of him thanking one of them, here in this dark hole in which they had been kept imprisoned for so long.
‘Sign of madness that,’ said Lidla. Nikka smirked and pushed his hands through the brittle top layer of sandstone. This had taken him years to master and he still made mistakes, although these were only due to fatigue and the conditions.
He rearranged the stone that marked the boundary of this opening so that the surface of it would shine. He did this with every surface he could. It took him longer to do this and cost him more energy, but it felt like a small victory. There would never be enough light down here to highlight his work, but it did not matter at all. The intricacy of the finish would be a reminder to him that he could be more than just a killer.
As he removed his hands from the stone, he felt the full weight of Lidla on him. Then it slid away from him and Lidla crashed to the floor. Nikka spun and dropped down to his friend, but he was too late. Lidla was so cold that Nikka could only just make him out. Lidla had been dead for some time; propped up against Nikka, his legs locked in place.
He shouted Lidla’s name, but regretted it at once. The guards were coming. There would be no burial for his only friend. The Volni would drag the corpse away and throw it down one of the innumerable chasms here.
As the clatter of figures approaching reached Nikka, he felt dark anger rise from within. The terrible rage that he used to feed upon flowed through his veins once more. Nikka reached down to pick up a rock, but as he did he felt the hard jab of a Volni’s stick in his shoulder and the familiar agonising pain that accompanied it rushed into his body.
But he was ready, and his anger welcomed it. Where his anger led, pain would always follow; his pain or someone else’s or both, it did not matter. No, it did not matter at all.
He turned around and grabbed the stick in both hands, letting the bolts of hateful agony sear his soul. Then he pushed himself through the stick, for it was made of stone. It was black stone from the bottom of the earth, but it was stone and he knew it intimately. The Volni opened his mouth to call out, for the arrogant guard had come alone, knowing he could deal with a single team. But Nikka’s anger was too keen to let the Volni make any noise.
Instead of melding the staff and transforming it into something harmless, he pushed his talent further out, sensing the particles of rock that were present in the Volni’s body.
In an instant, he turned those unseen grains of sand into magma and the Volni burst. The sickening noise was lost in the cacophony of the ever-present noise down here. Nikka dropped the hated black stick and vomited what little was in his stomach upon the floor next to the puddled remains of his captor. Then he kicked the stick far away.
He waited there, shaking in the afterglow of anger and self-revulsion for an eternity of heartbeats, but no-one came. Then, he became aware of the eyes upon him. From every opening and crevice, the Volni slaves in his team looked upon him with their tiny, blind eyes.
One shout from them and Nikka was dead. So, he looked down to the floor, avoiding the splashes of liquefied Volni, towards Lidla, but there was nothing he could do for him now.
Nikka had to get out, right now. He must try and reach the surface or die. So he turned back to the Volni that remained, watching and waiting. Then, as he took his first step away from them, they smiled.
He thought of taking them with him, as perhaps they would know the way, but he doubted that. Having no way to force them to go, he returned their smile and then he turned his back on those poor wretches. If they wished to be free, then they would need to find their own way out.
So he crept forward, toward the nearest exit from this chamber. His temper cooled and his instinct for survival began to assert itself. He did not know what lay through this opening, but he seldom saw anyone go this way.
He approached the gap by pushing himself as tight to the wall as he could. Then he eased himself along the rough stone until he was close enough to look into the next area.
There were guards there. Only two, but what could he attack them with? He would not go back and retrieve that damned black stick. Then a cry behind him made up his mind for him. He ran at the two guards and barrelled into them both at the same time. He managed to keep hold of one as he went down, so he seized the Volni’s unprotected head and rammed it against the floor. It made a satisfying crunch as it connected with the stone.
The second one swung his hammer into Nikka’s flank. The crack that followed rivalled the one from seconds earlier, but Nikka grabbed the shaft of the hammer and pulled the Volni to him, lowering his head as his opponent over balanced. He knocked the Volni unconscious and before he had time to think, he swung the captured weapon over his head and down upon his fallen foe. He would consider the stains this would leave on his soul later.
The shouts from behind were louder now and so were the screams. They mixed in the dead air. The Volni slaves were paying the price for allowing his escape. Soon one of them would break. He needed to move.
More shouts came to him, this time from ahead. Not angry shouts of pursuit, but barked laughter and raised voices of confident Volni moving through this section of the labyrinthian underworld. They would not be looking for him, but a stray Cerni would either be taken or killed. And once they discovered his crimes, he would be slain.
Nikka should crave death. At first he had. Better death than imprisonment, he had believed. But his mind had other ideas. And now he wanted to live – wanted to breathe air that moved – wanted to see natural light; sunlight not this urchaid-light. If he could only get to the surface.
But he had more immediate problems. He could not risk being seen, but he could not go forward or back. So he climbed. There was a shelf up near the roof and, if he reached it in time, he could hide. With arms burning from lack of use and legs threatening to rebel at any moment, he scampered up the jagged rock face.
But he was not going to make it in time. Pinned between the roof and the wall of the chamber using his bare hands and feet, he held his breath as the Volni came around the corner. All it would take would be for the damned things to look up and he was lost.
Three shambling figures wandered into sight, followed by a couple of Volni guards. The figures stumbled about as if they were blind, or lost. Colliding with each other and the walls of the cavern, they progressed slowly towards Nikka. The two Volni guards were using long metal poles to hit the figures, laughing to each other as they did so. The three figures seemed immune to the abuse, making no sound at any of the blows they received.
Closer and closer they moved toward the hiding Cerni, whose arms now trembled with the strain. He ground his teeth together as he watched them approach.
One of the three figures wandered away from the others, moving out from the centre of the passageway to the spot below Nikka. It walked until it struck the wall that Nikka had just climbed. Then it tilted its head back and stared straight at him.
For a heartbeat, Nikka was caught in those dead eyes. It was a Volni that stared at him, but one whose life had departed. He had seen these aberrations being moved around. They were dead but animate; animate but without purpose.
A Volni guard approached the dead figure and struck it with his metal rod. The figure ignored him and continued to stare at Nikka. The other Volni guard roared with a guttural laugh and then barked something in their own tongue. Then the first Volni retorted with a similar shout and cracked his bar harder over the head of his captive.
The dead figure’s head imploded with the strike. Then the Volni began to disintegrate. Pie
ce after piece fell off in dry sheets, which broke into powder as they hit the ground. The Volni guard that had struck him leapt back uttering a curse, the other was doubled over with laughter.
Nikka saw his chance and let go of his grip with his feet. Using his momentum, he swung his body and landed face-up on the shelf. He gasped in pain as he landed, knowing that he had done all he could. If the Volni spotted him, he was dead. His stamina was spent. Nikka stared at the roof which felt like it was mere inches from his face. He had risked too much to fail now, but life did not care for fairness or want. Chaos and uncertainty had been as much a tool of his former trade as stealth and secrecy, and knowing when to employ them had served him well.
So he lay there and let chaos have its turn of the dice. He lay and listened as the noises grow louder from where he had fled from. At first there was outrage. Then there was pain. Screams and commands echoed all around Nikka on his shelf of rock. He closed his eyes trying to fight the disorientation that the reflecting sounds caused.
And then he wept as he heard the Volni slaves being tortured for his escape. He doubted that the masters would kill them all. He hoped he was far enough away that the Volni slaves would not know his location. His capture now would not help them.
Then it came to him; the only way he could get out. He rolled himself onto his side and pressed his face and body onto the wall. Then he placed his hands on the rock as well and pushed his mind into it. At once, the stone responded as he melded the rock. He began by pushing his arms inside. He needed to use more force than he wanted to. It ran the risk of exhaustion, but the alternative was to be discovered.
Once he had hollowed out a space big enough to fit in, he started to seal himself in. The work was rushed and would be incomplete, but that suited his purpose. He wanted the rock to look rough and unremarkable.
Nikka collapsed onto his back when it was done. The only gap left to the outside world was a hole near his mouth, which brought in a little air. There was no room for him to move, but he did not care. With his task done, he slept.
Nikka_The Redemption of Wist Book Page 1