The Ant-Man of Malfen

by Derek Prior; C. S. Marks

  Nils struggled to break free but both his wrists were deftly twisted into locks. The thug on his right tweaked the back of Nils’s hand, sending shooting pains all the way to his shoulder. Nils squealed and bent double, both arms held up straight behind him, his elbows extended almost to breaking point.

  “Ordinarily,” said Brau, “I’d demand a ransom, but knowing your father for the scum-bag he is I think it’d be a waste of time. Tony’s right, I could sell you to Shent, but he doesn’t pay too well these days. Might be easier if we just slice and dice you ourselves, unless you’ve got a better idea.”

  Brau looked at Nils expectantly.

  “My dad will pay,” Nils insisted. “I know he will.”

  “My dear boy,” said Brau, “you really must get a grip on this emotional thinking. Your father would laugh in my face if I asked him for a ransom. Do you really think he prizes you above money? Clear thinking is what’s needed here, not idealistic fancy. What do you think, Danton?” He turned to the third thug who was looming over the unconscious dwarf. “Is it worth the effort of taking him to Malfen for the sake of a few Dupondii?”

  Danton rubbed his chin and then his eyes lit up.

  “There are two of them,” he said. “Double the takings.”

  “No, no, no,” said Brau. “The dwarf’s too dangerous. If any of the stories about him are true, we can’t risk him getting away from Shent and coming for revenge. Take him outside and kill him. No, take them both outside. I really can’t be bothered to think about this anymore.”

  Nils tried to kick out at the shins of both men holding him, but with his arms locked behind him all he could manage was to prance about on tiptoe. With practised coordination, the thugs bent his elbows, and ran his wrists through to the front of his body, gripping his hands by the thumbs. Then they leaned into the back of his shoulders and frog-marched him towards the door.

  “No,” Nils cried out. “I can get you the money!”

  Brau wasn’t listening. He was fitting the two halves of the black helm together and muttering to himself. Nils caught Ilesa’s eye but she just blew him a kiss.

  His captors turned him around to face the table once more.

  “What about him?” one of them asked, indicating the dwarf.

  “I’ve got him,” said Danton, grabbing a fistful of beard and yanking the dwarf from his chair.

  Nameless hit the floor like a sack of potatoes and Danton started to drag him along. The thugs were about to turn Nils around again when Nameless’ hand shot out and grabbed Danton by the ankle. With a terrific surge of strength the dwarf flipped Danton onto his back and clambered to his feet. Before Danton could recover, the dwarf’s booted foot came down on his neck with a sickening crack.

  The two thugs holding Nils dumped him on the floor and drew daggers.

  The Nameless Dwarf snatched up a chair and grinned. Nils was shocked to see the sparkle in his dark eyes—the dwarf was clearly enjoying himself and not showing the slightest sign of drunkenness. In fact, he looked fresher and more alert than he’d done before he started drinking. It was as if the thrill of violence had burned the alcohol from his blood.

  The man Brau had called Tony lunged at Nameless, who deftly side-stepped and smashed the chair over his head. Tony collapsed from the waist, right into the path of Nameless’ knee. There was a spray of blood as his nose split like ripe fruit, and then the dwarf stepped in to pummel Tony’s torso with his fists as if he were tenderising a shank of mutton.

  Maybe Nameless was still a little drunk, Nils wondered, as the dwarf paid no attention to the other thug who was advancing more cautiously. Nameless seemed lost in his own world, thumping out a rhythm on Tony’s rib cage. Incredibly, Tony kept his feet but he swayed and swaggered until Nameless cracked him a meaty right under the chin and Tony went down hard.

  That was the moment the other thug leapt. Nameless turned and grabbed his wrist, staying the knife a mere hair’s breadth from his face. The dwarf swung with his other fist but the thug caught his forearm and the two were locked in a grapple. The thug’s neck veins stood out like earthworms and his face turned purple with effort. Nameless’ arms were knotted and swollen but his face was eerily calm. The thug made the mistake of looking him in the eye, clearly trying to rattle him, the way boxers did at the fights Nils’s dad had taken him to. It was a mistake. The man saw the effortless ease with which the dwarf held him and must have realised he was being toyed with.

  Nils saw an orange flare out of the corner of his eye and turned to see Brau, still seated, with fire forming at the ends of his fingers. Nils tried to shout a warning but his mouth was dry and no sound came out. Without thinking, he drew his sword and ran the thug through the back. The man crumpled to his knees and toppled sideways to the floor.

  The flames swelled around Brau’s hands, the air about them rippling. Nameless suddenly spun, overturned the table and leapt at Brau. Before the mage could react, Nameless had him by the wrists and shoved his flame-wrapped hands into his own face. Brau screamed as his flesh popped and sizzled, and when Nameless released him his face was a charred and weeping mess.

  Cold steel touched Nils’s throat and he froze.

  “That’s enough,” said Ilesa. “Back away or I bleed the boy.”

  Nameless took hold of Brau by the hair and slammed his head against the wall. The wizard slid to the floor.

  “There’s a touch of magic about you, girlie,” said the dwarf, advancing on her.

  Nameless’ eyes smouldered and, to Nils, there was an aura about him that made him seem as hard as stone. He was like the indomitable elements outside. Right now, Nils wouldn’t have wanted to be Ilesa for all the gold in Aethir.

  “Last warning, stumpy,” she said, pressing the blade a little harder and breaking the skin.

  Nils felt a trickle of blood rolling down his neck. He was shaking now and the pressure in his bladder was getting uncontrollable. What if the dwarf didn’t care? What if he just came at her and she slit his throat to make her point? This was not a good situation. Not good at all.

  Nameless glowered and strode towards them. Ilesa backed away, pulling Nils by the hair as she kept him between her and the dwarf. Suddenly, she yelped and fell, Nameless’ axe clattering to the floor behind her. Nils broke away and ran to stand with the dwarf.

  Ilesa still had hold of her dagger and rolled to her feet. She retreated through the door into the porch, drawing her sword with the other hand and narrowing her eyes. Nils noticed the absence of cleavage. Clearly she preferred the flat-chested look for fighting.

  Nameless continued towards her unperturbed and picked up his axe. He slapped the haft into his palm and gave a satisfied growl. Ilesa stumbled back, almost tripped over her own feet, then turned and scarpered.

  “Hmm,” said Nameless watching her go. “Nice arse for a human.”

  “Don’t go there,” said Nils. “She can change shape to get what she wants.”

  “Interesting,” said the dwarf. “Do you think she could lose a bit of height and sprout facial hair?”

  Nils frowned at him but Nameless was already on his way back over to the upturned table. He picked up the two pieces of the great helm and stared at them for a moment before placing them back in his pack. He gave Jankson Brau a prod with his foot but the mage just groaned.

  “Shog,” said Nameless. “I was going to ask him if he’d seen any dwarves come through here.”

  Nils puffed out his chest.

  “They did. Told me that before you came in. I was just on my way out to tell you when you barged in and nearly ruined a bloody good piece of work. That’s what you hired me for: professionalism they call it.”

  Nameless snorted and his eyes narrowed beneath their ledge-like brows. Nils felt an icy knot in his stomach and licked his lips so that he could carry on.

  “He said a whole bunch of dwarves passed through on their way to Qlippoth. That means they must have gone to Malfen. It’s the last border town and there’s nowhere else for food and
supplies within a hundred miles.”

  “Good,” said Nameless chewing on the end of his moustache. “Good, good, excellent. Coming?” The dwarf strode to the door and peered out at the roiling clouds beyond the porch. “It’s a fine day for a stroll.”

  Nils scampered after him.

  “That wasn’t part of the deal, remember? My job was to get you to Brau, nothing more.”

  “True, true,” said Nameless. “And I thank you for your service. Good. Very good. Well done.”

  With that, the Nameless Dwarf wandered out into the rain bellowing a tuneless song. Nils couldn’t quite catch the words, but he was sure there was something about a fat-bottomed girl and a flagon of ale.

  Nils watched the dwarf disappear into the storm and then went to gather his coins and pouch. Jankson Brau stirred and muttered something. Fearing it might be a spell, Nils made a run for it.

  He briefly considered going after the dwarf, but then common sense got the better of him and he turned east for the long trek home to New Jerusalem.

  ***

  The rain clouds scattered before a fierce northerly wind. By the time Aethir’s twin suns had dipped below the horizon, Nameless’ good humour had passed behind a heavy curtain of blackness.

  The dark moods were never far from the surface these days. He’d always been prone to bouts of melancholy, but they’d grown more frequent and crippling since the atrocities at Arx Gravis; since the finding of the black axe.

  Even now, the merest thought of the Pax Nanorum sent the acid burn of desire through his veins. Nameless could still taste its promise of power, and still thrilled at the clarity and focus it gave him—the supreme confidence in his own righteousness.

  Had he been so easy to dupe? Was the axe playing to his weaknesses—like the raven-haired woman’s arse? For all his strength, for all his training and battle-hardiness, Nameless—or whatever he’d been called before the great helm had stripped him of his name—had fallen at the first hurdle. He’d been nothing more than a pawn of the Demiurgos, a puppet no different to the Technocrat, Sektis Gandaw. Worse even, Nameless mused, for at least Gandaw had had a plan, a purpose. Under the spell of the axe, Nameless had achieved nothing but senseless destruction. If he hadn’t been stopped by Shadrak, he would unquestionably have been the last of the dwarves; and the streets of New Jerusalem, bastion of the free, would have turned into canals of blood.

  Where would it have stopped, Nameless wondered? Would he have slaughtered everything in Malkuth? Would he have carved up the lunatic lands of Qlippoth? For all he knew, he’d have wreaked ruin on the underworld of Gehenna and taken the axe to the very gates of the Abyss. But, of course, that’s where it would have wanted to go. He’d learnt, way too late, that’s where it came from. Another deception, another trap carefully set by the Demiurgos, frozen at the centre of his self-made realm and perpetually reaching out with malign intent.

  Stopped by Shadrak.

  Nameless pictured the diminutive assassin, cloaked in black but with the pallid face and pink eyes of an albino. Killed more like. Shadrak’s shot had been perfect—straight through the eye-slit of Nameless’ great helm. He should have died; he sometimes wished he had; but the axe hadn’t let him. Nameless shuddered as he recalled what had happened next, when Shadrak had held high the skull of Otto Blightey, its eyes swirling pits of flame that sucked at his soul.

  Nameless winced, clamping his eyes shut and rubbing his forehead. Enough. It was not a train of thought he could endure.

  With a deep breath he opened his eyes and scanned the craggy escarpment he’d been traipsing across for the best part of an hour.

  There was a spray of scraggly trees skirting the banks of a crater to the west. As good a place as any to set up camp for the night, Nameless thought, and so he set off towards it with the grim resolve to drive all thoughts from his mind, before he ended up dashing his own brains out with a rock.

  The grey half-light of dusk had given way to night by the time he’d got a fire going. He’d not brought a bedroll; he’d not even given it any thought upon leaving New Jerusalem and had spent the last few nights cold and miserable.

  Nameless found some jerky in the bottom of his pack and held it up before his face. Eating had been a chore since the removal of the helm. Before that, he’d not needed food or drink: the philosopher, Aristodeus, had supplied him with magical sustenance through tubes inserted into the veins. Nameless guessed it might not have fully worn off as he was never hungry. He’d have sooner not eaten at all, but somewhere in the back of his mind he was nagged into doing so.

  He ripped off a strip of meat with his teeth and chewed. Its saltiness roused his thirst but he was out of drink. He spat out the half-chewed jerky and stared into the fire. The wood he’d found was damp and sent up more smoke than flame. It spat and hissed, popped and crackled, and whatever warmth it gave off was lost on Nameless.

  His head had started to pound from the ale. That’s how it always was with him. He drank until he dropped and then, at the merest sign of trouble, he was sober in an instant. Unfortunately, that didn’t spare him the hangover. He’d also noticed that, whilst drink picked his mood up, especially when in good company, afterwards he was plunged into a deep depression. Already his limbs felt heavy and the bones seemed made of ice. His face had tightened into a mask of rapidly drying clay. It felt like some malign sorcerer had cursed him, causing his body to slowly petrify.

  A distant screech tore through the night air. Nameless raised an eyelid but was met with only the heavy blackness of the sky, interspersed with pin-pricks of silver.

  Aethir’s moons would appear soon. They were always late on the heels of the setting suns. First would be the tiny disc of Enoi, the furthest of the three; next, pock-marked Charos, and then finally the immense orb of Raphoe would climb above the horizon so close you could reach out and touch her. Raphoe’s ivory glow would provide as much light as the dawn on a clear night.

  The screech, whatever it was, must have come from over the border. Malfen was only a few miles to the west, nestled between the Farfall Mountains and guarding the pass into Qlippoth. The denizens of Qlippoth never crossed the mountains, and if the rumours of their creation were true, it seemed likely they could not.

  Aethir, so the myth had it, was a sort of cocoon thrown up around the Cynocephalus, the dog-headed ape born to the goddess Eingana following her rape by the Demiurgos, her brother. Malkuth, the so-called ‘Bright Side of Aethir’ had been tranquil, until the coming of the Technocrat, Sektis Gandaw, from Earth. Qlippoth, however, was populated with creatures from the nightmares of the Cynocephalus; the horror was limitless, for who could say what kind of dreams afflicted the abandoned son of the Father of Deception?

  But that was where the dwarves were heading, such was their fear of what had happened in Arx Gravis; their fear of what Nameless had done to them. The dwarves had always been wary of action—at least since their betrayal of the goddess Eingana to Sektis Gandaw. They no longer trusted their own actions, and so they had hidden away in the depths of Arx Gravis at the foot of the ravine.

  Nameless’ brother, Lucius, had rebelled against the centuries of isolationism and had finally located the Pax Nanorum, the mighty axe of the ancient dwarf lords. Lucius was condemned by the Council of Twelve and fed to the seethers in the pit of Gehenna.

  At least that’s what Aristodeus had told him during the feedings in the bowels of Sektis Gandaw’s former mountain, the Perfect Peak. The philosopher had attempted to fill in the gaps in Nameless’ memory, but he’d studiously avoided the real details that would have given Nameless a sense of his past, a handhold on the fractured identity that diminished like a melting iceberg.

  For all Nameless knew, Lucius could have been a made up name: it evoked no corresponding image in his mind; no familiar face; no firmer ground upon which to reconstruct himself.

  Whether from rage or sorrow—Aristodeus didn’t say—Nameless had taken up Lucius’ work, travelling the deepest strata of Gehenna unti
l he found the axe. He remembered almost everything from the instant he’d touched it—not even the Scarolite helm had the strength to eradicate such rapture. The Pax Nanorum had not been as he’d expected—it was black rather than gold or silver—but there’d been no denying its puissance.

  All deception, he now realised bitterly. It had been a plant to ensnare the dwarves, to lure them out of hiding so that they could fulfil a hidden and terrible destiny. The dwarves may have been an ancient race, but even in that they had been deceived. They were amongst the first experiments of the Technocrat, Sektis Gandaw, who had used his dark science to alter the structure of Earth-born creatures in his exploration of the building-blocks of life.

  During Gandaw’s first attempt to use the Statue of Eingana—the fossilised power of the goddess—to unweave creation, the dwarves had made a horrifying discovery: Gandaw hadn’t simply moulded them from the flesh of humans, as they’d thought: the dwarves had been joined with the substance of the homunculi, the diminutive humanoids who lived in subterranean cities in the depths of Gehenna.

  The homunculi were creatures of great age and knowledge. They had been instrumental in some of Gandaw’s greatest discoveries—including Scarolite, the ore from which Nameless’ helm had been made. It was when the homunculi refused to mine the Scarolite, on the grounds that they weren’t built for manual labour, that Gandaw conceived the idea of making dwarves.

  The homunculi, however, were not of Gandaw’s creation, nor were they creatures from Earth. They were begotten, not made: creatures formed from the very substance of the Demiurgos himself.

  That was the discovery that led the dwarves not to trust themselves, a feeling that was validated by their betrayal of Eingana—and by extension the whole of creation—to Sektis Gandaw. Nameless had thought them weak and deluded, but following his mistakes with the axe he now knew them to be the less deceived.

  Images of blood erupted in his mind. Images of slaughter. He’d been consumed with an insatiable frenzy. He had tolerated the dwarves, but only so far as they enhanced his power. Any who obstructed him were butchered—and not always cleanly.