Return of the Dwarf Lords (Legends of the Nameless Dwarf Book 4)

by D. P. Prior

  “A private match?” Nameless said. Already, the other soldiers were putting away their weights and heading for the bar. “Well, if it will save you face.”

  Jake sneered at that and returned his elbow to the tabletop.

  “Long arm you have there, laddie.” And thick as a tree-trunk. Jake was big for a human, but to a dwarf, he seemed a giant.

  “Sure you don’t need a box to stand on,” Jake said. “I don’t mind if you do. I want this to be fair and square. No excuses.”

  “Oh, I’ll try without the box, if it’s all the same to you.”

  Nameless pressed his gut into the table again, and put his elbow up top, near to the edge. If he could keep it close to his torso, he’d be able to bring in the strength of his chest.

  Jake didn’t object, and reached over to touch knuckles with him. That was good: opened up his arm a tad. Maybe he didn’t care. The man was phenomenally strong. You only had to look at him to see. If you added to that all the legends of his victories, the arms he’d broken, the huge men he’d wrestled into submission, it could have been he was making a concession.

  Well, if he was, he had another thing coming. Arm-wrestling wasn’t a favorite dwarven pastime, but Nameless’s pa Droom had been the miner’s champion; taught his sons the rudiments when they were kids; made them test their strength as they grew older, right up until the day the tunnel collapsed on him. It had to count for something. That, and all those chin ups and rows Nameless had been doing. But if there was one department he beat Jake hands down, it was biceps. Jake’s were big; Nameless’s were mountains.

  “I’ve been waiting for this a long time,” Jake said.

  “Since you first clapped eyes on me in Queenie’s Diner. So you keep saying.”

  The goading had started the moment Jake had come to work for him, but there was always something else to do. Finally, Nameless worked out a training system that didn’t need him to hover over the recruits as they did the basic lifts. He got three of them up to par, and they taught the others in return for ale. It seemed like a good plan at first, until one hadn’t shown up this morning, nursing one shog of a hangover. Still, two was better than none, and Jake would have seen another postponement as an excuse.

  They grasped hands. Jake went for a high grip, but Nameless got there first. He tried to raise his wrist and force Jake’s back, but it was like bending steel. Sweat squelched between their palms, and a glittering look of intensity came over Jake’s eyes. It was as if all good humor had fled him; as if they’d never been friends; never even met before now.

  Nameless puffed out a breath and shifted his leading hip into the table.

  “Ready?” Jake said, cold as death.

  Nameless flexed his fingers, curled his thumb beneath them. The hook grip worked well on his dead lifts; couldn’t hurt to try it here.

  “Ready,” he said.

  He braced for an onslaught that never came. Instead, Jake applied gentle pressure, as if he’d been expecting Nameless to go for the quick win and had done the same. Nameless met him force for force. He was savvy enough not to give it his all in one burst. Like bent-pressing a barbell overhead with one hand, supporting the elbow on the hips and ribs as you angled beneath the weight, these things took time. It was seldom just about brute strength.

  Jake ramped up the pressure, and Nameless gave a bit. His forearm dropped back an inch, but he held it there, tightened his grip, and pushed. Jake let him regain the upright, and they forced each other back and forth for a few test runs.

  Without warning, Jake brought his shoulder over the top and heaved. Nameless’s hand dropped toward the table, but he halted it with a twist of his torso that brought his chest into play.

  Jake grunted and held him, held him, held… He gave a fraction, then another. Nameless tried to bend his wrist back again, but it was set in stone. They both came upright, where they paused for breath, easing the pressure back a notch.

  Jake shifted his feet, then leaned in and over, wrenching Nameless’s wrist back and powering his arm down again.

  Nameless growled, narrowed his eyes, and resisted.

  But Jake was lined up too good, channeling all his force from his shoulder through his arm. Nameless pivoted his hip and got behind his wrist. He tried to pull Jake’s arm toward the corner of the table, at the same time as pushing it upward.

  Still he was forced down, but as he switched more of his effort to the pulling motion, biceps swelling and popping with veins, he opened Jake’s arm up a smidgen, then another; and as he did, it started to give.

  At first, it shifted up an inch, but as Jake tried to respond, he lost focus. Nameless sensed the opportunity and jerked from the wrist, raising his own, and bending Jake’s all the way back. Jake roared and strained with all his might, but Nameless was relentless.

  Driving through his hip, he rotated his spine, pressed with his shoulder, and pulled with his bicep. Jake’s arm continued to drop and open.

  Jake rallied, gave a strangled roar, but Nameless saw his chance. In a flash, he dipped and came over the top with his shoulder, then slammed the back of Jake’s hand into the table.

  “Shog, shog, shog!” Jake yelled.

  “Did I hurt you?” Nameless asked. He’d heard nothing snap.

  Jake glared at him for a moment, like he meant to fight, but then relief washed over his face, and he started to laugh.

  “You beat me!” he said, rubbing his hand and splaying his fingers. “Someone actually beat me.”

  “Look at it this way,” Nameless said. “At least no one saw. If your reputation’s that important to you—” He was going to say Jake could claim the victory.

  “Course they saw,” Jake said with a nod toward the bar.

  Nameless turned, and the soldiers raised their glasses and cheered.

  “And you don’t mind?”

  “Thought I would,” Jake said, “but I don’t. I feel… relieved. Now, come join me in a drink.”

  The big man came round the table and draped an arm over Nameless’s shoulders. They’d gone barely a step toward the bar, when screams sounded from outside, amid the clatter of cart wheels. A horse neighed from the road. Hooves clopped on the cobbles, and more were coming, by the sounds of it, their din building like a stampede, until they reached the street and slowed to a trot.

  A man’s voice yelled a challenge, and Nameless glimpsed a rider in a black coat above the swing doors. Another followed; then another.

  “They’re circling a carriage,” Jake said. He was peering through the shutters. “Shogging Maresmen.”

  “Maresmen?”—Hunters of the nightmare creatures that came over the Farfall Mountains from Qlippoth. “What the shog are they doing in Brink?”

  Before Jake could reply, thunder cracked, rattling the windows.

  Not a thunder, Nameless realized: a gunshot.

  There was a second booming retort from the street.

  “Oh, my shog,” Jake said. “You know who it is?”

  Nameless peeked through a shutter on his way to grab his axe from its hook on the wall. It was a carriage, right enough, drawn by two horses. Its lacquered door was in mid-swing, and a midget in a black cloak clung to it, blasting away with a pistol. Riders circled the carriage—hard men, by the looks of them, pocked and scarred, dressed in long coats and wide-brimmed hats. One went down, along with his horse.

  He knew right enough, even without the glimpse of bloodless skin, the flash of pink eyes. Knew enough to realize the fight hadn’t started outside his gym without reason. Knew enough to know he was needed.

  He gave Jake a wink and a nod as he barged out through the swing doors and yelled, “Shadrak!”

  THE GIRL IN THE CARRIAGE

  Shadrak hung from the carriage door as it swung open. He fired twice, dropping the horse and painting a red hole in the rider’s forehead.

  The carriage lurched to a halt outside the gym.

  A Maresman swept past, leaning over the saddle. He pointed a finger with fire burgeonin
g at its tip. Shadrak aimed at him, and missed as the door swung back and ditched him inside the carriage.

  The girl hadn’t moved. She just sat there, staring blankly, like butter wouldn’t melt.

  A spear burst through a wooden panel, and she didn’t bat an eyelash.

  Shadrak poked his head out the window, got off another shot, clipped a rider on the temple and pitched him from the saddle.

  “Move out!” he yelled at the driver, but they were dead in the water. The useless twat was slumped over the side with an arrow through his neck.

  Another thrummed past Shadrak’s ear, thwacked into the carriage and vibrated.

  Two more Maresmen rode into view. Both were weaving spells. The air began to hum—

  “Shadrak!”

  The Maresmen faltered at the sound of the voice. They started to wheel their horses.

  The swing doors to the gym crashed open, and Nameless came barreling out. His axe crunched through a Maresman’s ribs. The other aimed his open hand at the dwarf. Lightning sparked on the palm. Not a good idea: Nameless hated magic.

  The axe came down. No more hand; just a pumping stump where it had been.

  He was no nonce, Nameless. He could read a situation in a flash and do what was needed without thinking. And he was loyal to a fault. That’s why Shadrak had come here; why his mad dash from Malfen had brought them to Brink.

  Three Maresmen steered their mounts around the carriage and charged at the dwarf.

  Shadrak shot a horse in neck. Its forelegs buckled, slamming its muzzle into the road. The rider went sailing over its head, and straight into the path of Nameless’s axe.

  At the last instant, Nameless twisted the haft in his grip and flat-bladed the Maresman across the street. A cheer went up. Women. A fair few of them. Dame Consilia’s girls, come to take a gander.

  Shadrak had all but forgotten the slapper had set up shop in Brink, after her acting career in the big city came to a crashing halt. The guild lord, Koort Morrow, had made her. No theater manager would risk offending Morrow by refusing to book his wife. But the instant Morrow was whacked, the truth got out, and she couldn’t get another gig, even if she paid them. Dame Consilia had the acting ability of a throttled turkey. It was almost enough to make Shadrak feel guilty. Because at the end of the day, he was the one that had Morrow poisoned.

  The second rider leaned from his saddle to caress Nameless with a sparking hand. The dwarf flew back against the outer wall of the gym. Before the rider righted himself in the saddle, though, Big Jake was on him with a mace. No, not a mace: a globe dumbbell with the number “90” painted in white on its black surface. The Maresman’s teeth sprayed from his mouth in a shower of gore. He sat there for a second astride his mount, face no more than a mushy cavity, then he keeled over, ankle caught in the stirrups.

  The third rider tried to change course to go for Jake, but Shadrak shot his ear off. The man’s hand came up to cover the gushing wound, but Shadrak fired again and messed his eye up good and proper. He sagged over the saddle pommel, and the horse took it upon itself to gallop away down the street. The other two mounts got the message and followed.

  That just left the big scut, the leader who’d been on Shadrak’s arse since Malfen. He was nowhere to be seen, which meant he had to be on the other side of—

  The carriage careened onto two wheels. The girl flew from her seat. Shadrak caught her by the back of her dress as he tumbled toward the door. The flimsy fabric looked no more than gossamer. It should have ripped, but it didn’t. The stuff felt stronger than woven steel. He braced himself for impact as the carriage rolled over, but it didn’t quite make the ground. He turned at a grunt and saw Big Jake’s chest up close to the window. Another grunt, and a heave, and Jake uprighted the carriage.

  From the other side, someone cursed. There was a juddering clatter, then the thud of heavy boots landing on the roof.

  Shadrak aimed upward and let off a volley of shots. In response, a massive fist burst through the ceiling in a shower of splinters and grabbed the girl. This time, she did react. She screamed—a shrill, ululating cry that was almost melodic.

  In one quick motion, Shadrak holstered the flintlock and drew a dagger from his baldric. Precise as a surgeon, he went for the wrist, planning to slice through the tendon. Only, the dagger glanced off a wrist that was now sheathed in iron. Not sheathed, he realized: the wrist and the hand had transformed into iron—living iron that yanked the girl through the ceiling and out onto the roof.

  Scut of all scuts, no one was taking his merchandise, freaky metal hand or not. Clutching the dagger between his teeth, he grabbed hold of the top of the window frame and swung himself up top.

  The big Maresman spun toward him, girl slung under one arm and not even struggling. Iron spread like rust from the Maresman’s wrist, along his arm, over one side of his head, and down the over, till in a matter of seconds, he was metal top to toe.

  Shadrak cursed himself for an amateur. He hadn’t had a matter of seconds to stand and gawp. He should have struck while he still had the chance.

  The Maresman stomped, and Shadrak backflipped from the roof. As he landed lightly on the road, wood cracked, and the carriage collapsed under the Maresman’s weight.

  An iron arm thrashed about, sent shards and splinters in every direction, until the metal behemoth stood amid a pile of kindling. The girl tucked under his arm seemed miraculously unscathed, but still she had not moved.

  Big Jake cannoned into the Maresman, and bounced right off again. He got up with a grunt, rushed back in and went for a waist-high tackle. Despite Jake’s tremendous bulk and strength, the Maresman didn’t even budge. Instead, he raised his iron first.

  Shadrak flung his knife as a distraction. It clattered from the Maresman’s head, but the fist crashed down anyway. Shadrak winced as he awaited the snap of Jake’s back, but a streak of gold flashed past, sliced through the metal arm like butter. Quicksilver, rather than blood, gushed from the wound.

  The severed limb hit Jake on the head and knocked him cold, but it had to be better than a broken spine.

  The Maresman cried out in shock and dropped the girl, as gold zipped back to the waiting hand of Nameless and slapped into his palm: the Pax Nanorum, the fabled Axe of the Dwarf Lords. So, it was for real, after all.

  Not missing his opportunity this time, Shadrak lunged and grabbed the girl. Even to him, she was light, and he pulled her behind him as he drew both flintlocks—not just any old flintlocks, if there were such a thing: Ancient-tech weapons that just happened to look like a couple of poncy ornaments, with their walnut stocks and brass trimmings. He let rip with a barrage of bullets that pinged from the Maresman’s iron hide.

  The monster ignored him, and raised his foot to stomp on Jake’s head.

  Nameless threw the axe again, this time sheering the leg off below the knee amid a spray of shiny spew. The Maresman teetered on his one remaining leg as the axe slammed back into the dwarf’s hand.

  “See I’m going to have to teach you some manners, laddie,” Nameless said.

  The Maresman howled, hopped toward the dwarf, and swiped at him with his good arm.

  Nameless stepped around it and brought his axe down, taking the limb off at the shoulder.

  The Maresman screamed and lost his balance, toppling to the road in a puddle of metallic blood.

  The whores on the balcony cheered.

  Nameless acknowledged them with a wave and said, “Don’t worry, ladies, he’s quite armless.”

  As the whores jeered and groaned, Shadrak didn’t miss the hard edge in Nameless’s eyes. He’d witnessed on more than one occasion that the Nameless Dwarf was not someone to be trifled with. For all his good humor, for all his earthy loyalty, when it came to his foes, he was still the Ravine Butcher, the dwarf who had once slaughtered his own people in their thousands.

  The axe rose and fell, and the Maresman stopped moving. Iron flowed from his features like melting ice, until a man of flesh and blood, in the same
drab clothes and long black coat as the others, lay bleeding out on the road. And this time, his blood was the color it should have been. It was much more satisfying that way.

  Jake moaned and rolled to his knees, rubbing his head.

  “Ah, good, you’re awake,” Nameless said. “There’s a mop and bucket inside. Can’t have the road outside my gym covered in bodies and blood. Not good for business. I knew I was paying you for something.”

  Shadrak checked on the girl behind him. Her eyes stared blankly at nothing, her skin unscathed, the wispy fabric of her dress not even frayed, fluttering like cobwebs in the gathering breeze.

  Dame Consilia rushed to Jake’s side, helped him up. “You go lie down, lovey,” she said. She shot a withering look at Nameless, daring him to contradict her. “My girls will clean this up.”

  If the dame was expecting an angry retort, she didn’t know Nameless like Shadrak did. Instead, the dwarf chuckled into his beard and shook his head.

  “If you’re planning on joining him, lassie, you’ll need a bigger bed. He sleeps on a pallet in the basement. Now, if I thought he’d be entertaining the ladies…”

  “Nameless…” Jake said, his dazed voice blossoming into a warning.

  “Just saying, laddie.”

  Dame Consilia turned frostier than a tundra night. She hooked her arm in Jake’s and led him away from the gym, toward the pastel pink door of her house of pleasure.

  Jake pulled back, glancing pleadingly over his shoulder at Nameless, but the dwarf had already switched his attention to Shadrak. With a heave that belied her stature, the dame dragged Jake across the threshold.

  “Don’t you have no sheriff round here?” Shadrak said. He’d only made the trip to Brink once before, when he’d finally given in to Nameless’s request that he looked over the building destined to become the gym. Bodies were strewn and bleeding all over the place, and although Dame Consilia’s girls were already hurrying from The Panting Peacock with mops, buckets, and sheets to wrap up the dead, it was a task likely to take them hours.