Nils’s mind reeled. He hadn’t expected that, and more to the point, how had Jankson Brau known what he was thinking? His eyes alighted on the pointy hat and that particular matter became much clearer.
“My father’s head of the Night Hawks in New Jerusalem,” Nils stuck out his chin and checked to see who was listening. “I doubt you’d say that to his face.”
The three goons snickered, but Brau showed no reaction besides drumming his fingers on the tabletop. Nils could have sworn that little tongues of fire sparked off at the contact.
Without warning, Brau swept his arm towards the merchant and his men. As if struck by a hurricane, they flew across the room on their chairs and crashed into a huddle of drinkers. The fat merchant scrambled to his feet and hurriedly ducked out of the tavern followed by the hunchback. The bespectacled man stooped to pick up the coins that had spilled from his pouch, thought better of it, and bowed and scraped his way to the door. No one complained in the slightest. Apparently, the clientele of The Grinning Skull knew better; a couple of them even reset the chairs at Brau’s table before nodding and backing away.
Brau turned his palm up to indicate that Nils should sit.
“Little men often carry big ideas of who they are,” he said as Nils seated himself opposite the armed men. “In the case of Shadrak the Unseen, I’d say he wasn’t too far from the mark; but he’s the exception rather than the rule. Whilst it is admirable for a son to look up to his father,” Brau inclined his head towards Nils, aureate coronas shimmering, “it is far more important that an operative in your line of work learns how to see clearly. Your father is an arse. Do I make myself clear?”
Nils gulped and felt his face flush again, only this time for a different reason.
“Clear sight,” Brau went on as if he didn’t really expect a response. “Take the example of our friend, Ilesa. Your brain was addled by the size of her breasts, am I right?”
Nils shook his head but couldn’t think of anything to say.
“You’re not the first. I’m sure they are magnificent.”
There were nods and grunts of agreement from the three heavies.
“But,” said Brau raising a finger to emphasise his point, “they are not real.”
Nils frowned his lack of understanding.
“Magical enhancement,” said Brau. “Illusion. Ilesa changes her appearance in order to get what she wants. Now that she knows you’re not looking to hire, she’s probably as flat-chested as you are.”
“Shame,” said one of the heavies.
“Shut up, Danton,” said Brau without even sparing the man a look.
Nils twisted his neck to peer over his shoulder as someone started strumming a banjo and crooning in a voice like a suffocating bear. The crowds started to pull away from the fire to stand in a rough semi-circle about the musician. Tankards were raised and a chorus of whoops and jeers went up before most of the tavern was singing along.
“Entertainment,” Brau said, stifling a yawn. “Keeps the masses distracted. Keeps them in their place; but I guess you know that, what with you being a big man from the big city. Must have been terribly exciting during the siege.”
Exciting wasn’t exactly the word Nils would have chosen. He’d been packed up and ready to flee with the rest of the guild. They’d forced the mad mage, Magwitch, to open up a portal that would have taken them into the middle of nowhere, but thankfully the siege had been broken, and the dwarves had fled back to Arx Gravis.
Nils didn’t know a lot about the causes of the war, only that it began when an upstart dictator overthrew the Council of Twelve in the ravine city, butchered his opponents, and then fanned the flames of hatred against the Senate and people of New Jerusalem.
No one had seen hide nor hair of the underground dwellers for centuries until they spilled forth from the earth like an army of ants whose nest had been disturbed. Within days they’d torched the lands around New Jerusalem and set their sappers to work on the Cyclopean Walls.
Rumour had it that Shadrak the Unseen played a not insignificant part in the defeat of the despot, but then he’d taken off and left the guild up for grabs. The dwarves withdrew from contact with the surface once more, and soon after they left Arx Gravis. That was kind of the point of Nils’s mission.
“My client,” he said with the requisite gravity, “seeks the survivors of Arx Gravis; those who fled the ravine city after the siege of New Jerusalem.”
Jankson Brau sat up and clasped his fingers before him on the table.
“Really? And who is this client of yours?”
Nils was a little embarrassed about that. He didn’t rightly know. He shrugged.
“Don’t know his name. Said he didn’t have one. He just said he needed to find the dwarves.”
Jankson Brau’s eyes narrowed.
“Did he now?”
Nils didn’t like the tone of his voice. He felt he was being toyed with, mocked.
“Paid my dad a lot of money for information. Our snitches said they’d been seen heading towards Malfen.”
Nils suppressed a shudder. Malfen was the last outpost of Malkuth, a border-town of cutthroats ruled over by the notorious Shent, said by some to be a left-over from the experiments of Sektis Gandaw. Nils didn’t know about that and didn’t really care. Dad had been quite clear in his instructions: lead the dwarf to The Grinning Skull amongst the bandit dwellings outlying Malfen, introduce him to Brau and then head straight back home.
Brau apparently knew everybody’s business in this neck of the woods. All traffic passing through Malfen came to his attention. He undoubtedly had some sort of arrangement with Shent, maybe even warned him of pending visitors. It wasn’t a lot of traffic, mind, for what sane, self-respecting person would have business in such a den of scum? Besides which, there was nothing beyond Malfen save for the cursed lands of Qlippoth. No one would go there. At least no one without a death-wish.
Brau was leaning towards Nils now.
“So, where is he then?”
“Outside,” Nils cocked a thumb towards the door. “Said he didn’t want to draw attention.”
“Attention to what?” asked Brau.
“Fact that he’s a dwarf.” Actually, Nils thought the dwarf had mumbled something about avoiding temptation, not drawing attention, but his version seemed to make more sense.
Brau sat back in his chair and made swirling patterns on the table with the flat of his hand.
“A dwarf looking for dwarves in the vicinity of Malfen,” he mused out loud.
Nils nodded.
“Funny that,” said Brau to the grunted agreement of his thugs. “Whole bunch of dwarves passed through here not so long ago. Hundreds of them, I’d say. Said they were heading for Qlippoth. Good luck to you, I said, but—” Brau rocked suddenly forward and fixed Nils with his two-toned eyes. “—no one gets into Qlippoth without first passing the Ant-Man.”
Nils swallowed.
“A-a-ant-man? You mean S-S-Shent?”
“He’ll expect payment at the very least,” said Brau. “As do I.” He held out his hand.
Nils shook his head.
“I’m sorry?”
The three heavies pushed back their chairs and stood, hands on hips. They were all watching Nils with dark eyes. Nils cast a look around. Maybe Ilesa was still there. She’d seemed friendly enough. He thought he saw her amongst the spectators gathered around the musician, but no one even batted an eyelid in Nils’s direction. He may as well have been alone with Brau and his goons.
Reluctantly, Nils opened his purse and began to count out some coins.
“How much?” he asked in as manly a voice as he could muster.
Brau snatched the purse from him.
“More than you’ve got there, boy.”
“But—”
One of the heavies reached over the table and dragged Nils out of his chair by the collar. Nils knew he should do something, knew he should draw his sword, but it was all he could do to stop his bladder from leaki
ng.
“The choice is simple—” Brau was saying as the door flew open and a gust of wind sprayed them with sleet.
The thug released his grip on Nils’s collar and everyone in the tavern turned to look at the figure in the doorway.
The dwarf stood there, sodden and miserable. His beard and hair were plastered to his face. His eyes were like pools of mud. He stood motionless, the rain dripping from his dour clothes and forming a puddle on the floorboards. The axe was in his hand, unwrapped, its twin blades gleaming orange in the glow from the fire.
The dwarf sniffed the air and nodded in the direction of the bar. He then casually leaned the axe against a table, un-shouldered his pack and dropped it on the floor. Raising a curling eyebrow at Nils, he took a step into the tavern.
“You okay, laddie?” his voice rolled out across the room.
Nils swallowed and smiled lamely at the man holding him.
“Um,” was the only thing he could manage to say.
The dwarf grinned and waved to the gawping crowd.
“Carry on lads, carry on. Madam,” he winked at Ilesa and gave a little bow. “A tavern is a place for making merry. Play on, sir bard, and if you’re half decent I’ll stand you a drink.”
Nils slipped back down in his chair and watched as the dwarf strode up to the bar. He couldn’t quite see over the top but he reached up with a meaty fist and rapped hard on it.
“Bar-wench,” he called. “A flagon of stout and the same again for my friend.”
The dwarf then turned to Jankson Brau with a big toothy smile gaping beneath his moustache.
“Toss that over here, laddie,” he indicated Nils’s purse and then patted his own pockets to show they were empty. “Unless this round’s on the house.”
Brau looked like he was about to comply, but then took a hold of himself.
“Who the shog do you think you are to talk to me like that? Why, you shogging little stunted—”
The dwarf reached up and took the two flagons from the bar and sauntered over to the table, plonking himself in the chair next to Nils.
“That’s a lot of wasted words, laddie. I don’t mind an insult in a tavern, but two is taking it a bit far. Now little and stunted mean pretty much the same thing, so I’ll grant you that as one. Shogging has an altogether different meaning, making it two. If you stop there, you’ll be all right. Three, though, would be no trifling matter.”
Brau’s jaw hung slack as the dwarf took a deep draught of his beer and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Froth clung to his beard like the scum hemming the coast of the Chalice Sea.
The three thugs didn’t seem to know what to do with themselves. Their eyes flicked between Brau and the dwarf. Finally, one of them spoke.
“Do you want us to sort him, guv?”
The other two drifted into position behind the dwarf’s chair.
Brau’s eyes lingered on them for a long moment and then he turned his gaze on the dwarf.
“Your friend says you are looking for the dwarves of Arx Gravis.”
“True, true,” said the dwarf, taking another gulp of stout and raising his empty tankard. “More!” he bellowed across the room.
“What happened?” asked Brau with a sneer. “They leave you behind?”
The dwarf glowered at that and all his good humour seemed to dissipate.
“Not exactly,” he mumbled into his beard. “It’s more a case of them fleeing and me following.”
Brau’s eyes widened.
“It’s you,” he said at last. “You’re the one who made them march on New Jerusalem. You’re the one who slaughtered them if they refused.”
A lump suddenly formed in Nils’s gut; his mind was whirling with the possibilities of what might have happened on the journey from New Jerusalem—what still could happen. The Ravine Butcher! Here. Right next to him.
Nils inched his chair back but stopped dead when it scraped against the floor. He ground his teeth and cringed as a nervy tingle crept across his skin. It was the same feeling he used to get whenever Magistra Archyr raked her fingernails across the chalkboard to silence the class.
The dwarf stared into his empty tankard. “Then you know I must find them.”
Brau laughed and clapped his hands.“Why? So you can finish what you started? No wonder they’re willing to risk the horrors of Qlippoth.”
“No,” the dwarf looked up from under craggy brows. “I need to show them there’s nothing left to fear.” He spoke almost to himself. “I need to bring them back from Qlippoth before it’s too late; before they are lost forever.”
The barmaid approached the table like an obedient dog and set a full tankard in front of the dwarf. He gripped the handle and studied the froth.
Brau glanced at his thugs and, with the slightest of gestures, sent them over to the bar. They took up their perches on stools and made a show of watching the musician, but Nils could tell they were still keeping an eye on the table.
The dwarf tilted his head back and drained the tankard in one long draught. He belched loudly, wiped his mouth and then shook the tankard at the barmaid for another refill.
“I told you, laddie,” he let out a rancid burp in Nils’s face, “it’d be too much of a temptation coming in here.”
Nils grimaced and coughed as far back in his throat as he could manage. He was starting to see what he meant. He was also getting worried that the dwarf was playing right into Brau’s hands. The wizard was watching him drink with a slightly bemused but self-satisfied grin. He caught Nils’s glance and the grin turned into a smirk.
“Tell me,” Brau said to the dwarf, “why is it you have no name? I’d understand if the shame of your recent activities led to your being stripped of it, but I heard you had no name when you usurped power from the Council of Twelve.”
“Nothing wrong with your hearing then.” The dwarf accepted another drink from the barmaid, who’d had the foresight to bring a huge pitcher to the table. She glanced at Brau, who nodded.
“You’ve heard of the Pax Nanorum?” said the dwarf.
“The Black Axe of the Dwarf Lords?” Brau made a steeple of his finger-tips. “I heard that was the source of your power. Funny, though, I’d always thought it was just part of the foundation myth of Arx Gravis.”
The dwarf sloshed some more ale into his tankard from the pitcher. His eyes were glazing over and he was starting to slur his speech.
“It’sh real enough,” he said. “Though my brother got shmall thanksh for dishcovering it. Bashtards killed him. I went after the axe. Found it in Gehenna.”
Nils was starting to lose interest. Either the dwarf was talking nonsense because he was drunk, or he was mad. He suspected it was a bit of both. Brau, however, was listening intently. Perhaps he was just humouring him, Nils thought.
The dwarf swilled the beer in his tankard.
“Shuch...shuch power,” he said as if he were speaking about a lost lover. “Shuch shtrength. Could have been the shalvation of my people.”
Brau leaned forward, keeping his voice soft.
“But they took it from you; didn’t trust you with all that might. They wanted it for themselves, am I right?”
The dwarf continued to stare into the depths of his flagon.
“No. They didn’t want it at all. It was the axe they didn’t trusht. I…I grew angry. I…I took control of the counshil.”
He turned and indicated his pack by the door with a jab of his thumb.
“Shogging phiosh…philosho…wizard trapped me. It’sh in the bag…Shogging helm broke the link with the axe. Shtole most of my memory and my name with it.”
The dwarf turned back to his drink and took another gulp.
“Couldn’t remove the helm and the shogger had to feed me with magic. Told me there was a way to remove it without me shuccumbing to the axe. Shtupid shogger got it wrong. I grew…grew too shtrong. I did…shuch things. Shuch things.”
He looked up and there were tears in his eyes.
�
��That’sh why they’re running. My people. I harmed my people.”
Jankson Brau poured him another drink from the pitcher.
“So the helm stole your memory and your name, eh?”
The dwarf nodded, a trail of drool rolling down his chin.
“S’right. Memory came back once the helm was broken, but the name’sh gone. Gone. Without a name you’re no one. Can’t be a dwarf with no name.”
“So what do we call you?” said Brau.
“Shadrak used to call me Namelesh…Nameless. A good friend. Good, good friend.”
Nameless’ head thumped onto the table.
Nils winced. That had to hurt. Or at least it would when the dwarf came round.
Brau rubbed his hands together with glee.
“I’ve heard of this helm,” he said clicking his fingers and pointing to the dwarf’s pack.
One of the heavies fetched it for him. Brau unfastened the straps and pulled out a concave piece of black metal. Nils leaned closer. It was one half of a full-faced great helm. The black metal was veined with green, which sparkled even in the dim light of the tavern.
“Scarolite,” Brau said as he pulled the other half of the helm out of the pack. “The puissant ore of the homunculi. Worth a bloody fortune. Gentlemen,” he raised the two halves of the helm so his thugs could see. “We’ve hit the jackpot.”
The crowd around the musician broke away so that they could gawp at the helm, muttering to each other, nodding and pointing.
Nils stood and tugged down the front of his shirt.
“Well,” he said. “I guess that’s our business concluded. Introductions made and all that. I’ll be off then.”
Two beefy hands clamped down on his shoulders. He’d not even seen the heavies move, he’d been so focused on the dwarf and his helm.
“There’s still the small matter of my consultation fee,” said Brau.
“Everything I have is in that purse,” said Nils. “You can keep it.”
Brau stuck out his lower lip and looked genuinely sad.
“Not enough. Not by a long chalk.”
“That’s right, boss,” said one of the thugs. “Reckon we should sell him to the Ant-Man.”
The Ant-Man of Malfen Page 2