by D. P. Prior
Nameless’s breath caught in his throat, and a thousand questions gamboled across his mind, each of them a thrill of possibilities and a precipice for the dashing of hope. Because before him, hacking out a cough, and peering up through rheumy, inquisitive eyes, was a dwarf who not only fit the description of ancient, but he was most definitely a man.
“Ancient Bub?” Nameless said.
“What? That old coot?” the old man said. “Are you asking for a smack in the teeth?” Suddenly, his eyes took on more focus, and a glint of something that hadn’t been there a moment ago awakened into life. “Hold on there.” He looked Nameless up and down, let his gaze linger at crotch level. “Either you’ve been stuffing socks down your knickers, or you’re a bloke.” He peered past Nameless at the three soldiers of the escort.
“Looks like it’s not just you two dried up prunes left, after all,” Kona said. “So, snap to it, Cid. The Matriarch’s expecting him ready for dinner, and no longer stinking of shit.”
Nameless patted his arse. “I know I was a bit scared going up in that balloon, but surely I didn’t—”
“Sweat,” Yyalla said. “It’s just a bit of sweat.”
“And I wouldn’t say it was that bad,” Shinnock said. If Nameless could have seen her face, she might have been smirking. Maybe even leering.
“Just because a dwarf gets old, doesn’t mean he’s a bloody skivvy,” Cid said. “I’m still a lord, you know.”
“Maybe if you could still perform like one,” Kona said, “the Matriarch wouldn’t treat you as a common-blood.”
Cid raised his hand to her, but Kona sniggered and backed away.
“Insolent pup,” Cid said. “You wait. I’ll be walking without a stick in a week or two, and then you’ll see.” For Nameless’s benefit, he said, “Strength lost can be reclaimed, if you know how to train.”
Nameless grasped his wrist and shook it vigorously. “A man after my own heart. I like you already. And let me tell you, Lord Cid,”—the old man bucked up at that and shot a triumphant glare at Kona—“I know a thing or two about training. Tell, me, do you have any weights?”
Cid led him inside and slammed the door shut on the soldiers.
The room’s low ceiling was almost enough to make a dwarf stoop, and the walls felt too close together. The air was stale, as if it didn’t circulate, and there were no windows. The only light came from the same hanging insects Nameless had seen in the corridors, though the glow here was duller, more sickly, as if the older they got, the more the insects lost their glow. You had to wonder how often they needed changing, and if Cid’s were ever changed at all.
The room had more the feel of a cell than living quarters, but maybe that was just the fashion among the Dwarf Lords. According to legend, they were a spartan people, living only for war and the defense of Qlippoth against every nightmare the mind of the Cynocephalus could throw at them. Why should they be any different here on Thanatos, where the environment was even harsher? And besides, Cid seemed to have everything a dwarf needed, everything except a keg of ale, that was: a low shelf of obsidian for a bed; a matching table and chair; a circular stone tub for bathing. Hanging on one wall were a pair of rifles like the one Shadrak used to have, only they were far longer, and the barrels flared into a funnel at one end. Somehow, everything fit into the small space as if by clever design.
“Don’t tell those bitches,” Cid said conspiratorially, “but I can barely get out of bed, never mind lift weights. And I certainly can’t give the ladies what they expect, if you get my drift. And not just me, either. Ancient Bub’s about as much use to them as a flaccid wineskin. I suppose that’s why you’re here: to do what we no longer can. Only question is, where the shog did you come from?”
“Ah, well,” Nameless said, mind abuzz with what he thought Cid was talking about. Is that what the Matriarch had in mind for him, and so soon after meeting? Did she have her sights set on his dwarfhood? He didn’t know whether to feel honored or affronted. “I’m not sure how long we have until I’m expected.”
“Long enough for you to fill me in,” Cid said. “But first, you’ll have to forgive an old dwarf’s ill manners. My dotage Is no excuse for forgetting my station. Joints creaked as he started to kneel, but Nameless caught him under the arm and made him stand again.
“What are you doing?”
“Sir,” Cid said, “I know an Immortal when I see one, and though I’m not the commoner Kona and the others would have me be, I am merely a lord, and as far beneath you as a the foothills from a mountain’s peak.”
“Then you don’t know me,” Nameless said, once more acutely aware of his past and the crimes he’d committed. “If anything, the opposite is true.”
“Curious,” Cid said, “an Immortal without the arrogance. I’m getting keener by the minute to make your acquaintance fully. Do you like beer?”
“Of course not,” Nameless said.
Cid wagged a finger and grinned. “Then I’ll pour you a pint as I run you a bath. I brew it myself from… well, it’s best I don’t tell you what I brew it from. Main thing is, it tastes passable.”
“It can’t be as bad as Ironbelly’s,” Nameless said.
“Never heard of it.”
“Then be thankful for small blessings.”
“But before I fetch you a flagon, let’s get properly introduced. Lord Cidruthus Tallish of House Kunaga.” He gave a shallow bow, then looked up expectantly.
“Kunaga? I thought he was a baresark.”
“First of the baresarks, so legend has it,” Cid said. “But he was also a lord. And what of you, Sir Immortal? What would you have me call you?”
“Uhm, Nameless.”
Cid frowned in bewilderment, but when Nameless said nothing further, the old dwarf gave a slow nod.
“I think I’m starting to get the measure of you, my friend. But never you mind. We’ve all done things we regret.”
LAST OF THE IMMORTALS
A bath and a beer could work wonders for a dwarf, but the things Cid told him played upon Nameless’s fears as Kona, Shinnock, and Yyalla marched him along uniform black corridors toward the heart of the citadel.
First and most troubling, there were only three hundred Dwarf Lords left, and out of them, just two were men: Cid and Ancient Bub, who was allegedly an expert on just about anything you’d care to name.
Lord Cidruthus Tallish of House Kunaga went into great detail about how Thanatos had claimed numerous friends of his over the years, how it had been slaughtering the dwarves ever since they arrived centuries ago. The maxim “kill or be killed” had come to define his people. It was the only thing that had enabled them to live for so long. Cid almost seemed to take pleasure in describing the war of attrition between the Dwarf Lords and the death world. Nameless supposed that was on account of his being descended from Kunaga, the bloodiest, most brutal dwarf in history. All barring one, that was.
Cid’s only living male rival, Lord Bubanthus Balderson of House Balloc, came from a long line of scholars and inventors. It was Bub’s ancestors who’d studied the flora and fauna of Thanatos, and developed ways to prepare it for eating. They had invented purifiers for the rain water that apparently burned like acid. The Dwarf Lords collected it in barrels and used it for bathing and drinking. Bub’s House had been the ones to design the balloon that had brought Nameless and the others up to the citadel, and they had pioneered the hanging lanterns formed from the carcasses of phosphorescent insects.
These days, maintenance of just about everything in the citadel fell to Bub, the last surviving member of House Balloc, and he was even older than Cid. When Nameless expressed a wish to meet him, to ask him about the Annals, of which Bub was the sole curator, Cid told him the meeting would come sooner rather than later. Bub was entrusted with the preparation of the Matriarch’s meals, and just to be on the safe side, he would be in attendance to do the tasting. If he failed to fillet out a razor-sharp bone, or missed a secreted poison sack or disease-infested organ, it wou
ld likely kill him before the Matriarch took a bite.
Death was like that on Thanatos, Cid said. Swift and unseen. Kind of like Shadrak.
Nameless kept expecting the midget to appear around every corner. He had no doubt Shadrak would come for them. With Kadee imprisoned by the Dwarf Lords, it only made it that much more certain. He only hoped the assassin didn’t kill anyone. With only three hundred Dwarf Lords remaining, it wasn’t like they could afford to lose any more.
As they drew nearer the heart of the citadel, the soldiers had to stop frequently to open black stone doors, hermetically sealed like those of the Dodecagon in Arx Gravis, the inner sanctum of the Council of Twelve. Nameless tried to glimpse how Shinnock opened each lock, but Kona and Yyalla stood in front of him to block his view.
He expected to see more guards, but it wasn’t until they came to the final door that they encountered anyone at all. Maybe there weren’t enough dwarves to go around, with their numbers in such decline. Even with the Dark Citadel a mere fraction of the size of Arnoch, they must have been hard-pressed to cover every point of entry and egress, which would nevertheless have taken precedence over the security of the interior.
The door was identical to all the others they had passed through: gleaming obsidian, utterly plain, save for a carved knob of rock.
The guards on either side were severe, even for Dwarf Lords. They each carried short swords with serrated edges, in hand and ready to use, as if drawing them from scabbards was a delay that could prove fatal. Like the Matriarch’s, their armor was close-fitting: a hauberk of ebon scales, articulated plates of charcoal slate protecting arms and legs, and great helms forged from scarolite, the ore the dwarves Nameless had grown up among no longer knew how to work. It was so tough, nothing other than more scarolite could scratch it, and it could absorb any force, including magic. That was why it had shielded the walls and doors of the Dodecagon, though shog knew how the builders had managed that. Forgotten lore, the Annal scholars of Arx Gravis used to say. A combination of the exquisite masonry brought from Arnoch, and the unfathomable science of the homunculi.
Sight of the scarolite helms set the blood pounding in Nameless’s ears. He felt suddenly cold, though sweat dripped freely from his forehead and stung his eyes. He’d ben trapped inside an identical helm after the butchery at Arx Gravis. The scarolite had insulated him from the curse of the black axe, but more than that, it had been imbued with theurgy of its own that had erased his name from existence.
This time, Nameless saw one of the guards twist the knob back and forth, presumably commencing some sort of combination, but once again, he was prevented from seeing too much when the other guard stepped in front. With a resounding clunk, the lock released, and the door opened. Nameless’s escort remained outside, while the guards in the scarolite helms led him into the chamber beyond.
Judging by the open doorways around the four walls, it was the hub of a suite of chambers. It was lit by the same hanging insects as everywhere else, though brighter and far less desiccated than those in Cid’s room. There was minimal furniture, all of it rock-carved: a long table and chairs, a bench against one wall, and a lattice-fronted stone cabinet. At the far end, an onyx throne sat atop a three-stepped dais, like a smaller replica of King Arios’s back in Arnoch.
A hunched and wizened dwarf with a beard as long as Cid’s, only wound about his neck like a scarf, looked up from setting the table. His eyes widened appreciably when he saw Nameless, but he touched a finger to his lips and flicked a look behind at an archway to the side of the throne. Clearly, this was Ancient Bub, and it was hard for Nameless not to break the silence and assail him with a barrage of questions.
Bub placed a black plate at each end of the table, stone knives and forks beside them. He disappeared through a doorway and returned with a covered dish. The cover was a dome of copper, patinated and tarnished by time. He hobbled off again, and this time returned with a stoppered flask of onyx, which he plonked at the center of the table, along with two age-worn silver goblets.
All the while, Nameless stood there, flanked by the guards in the scarolite helms. They could have been petrified, turned to statues, the little they moved. He thought about peering in through the eye-slit of one of the helms to see if there was a real dwarf inside, but decided against it. The idea of being eviscerated by one of their serrated blades was about as appealing as whatever was on the plate Ancient Bub had just uncovered.
It smelled richly of spices, but beneath that, Nameless caught a whiff of something malodorous, septic, like a wound festering with gangrene. Strips of rancid meat were heaped up on the serving plate, garnished with what looked like the razor grass that had penetrated his boot. The greenish blades glistened with drizzled oil, and had been sprinkled with grounds of what might have been pepper.
As if drawn by the stench, the Matriarch appeared in the archway beside the throne. She was preceded by an overpowering scent of musk, which mercifully smothered the smell of the food. Her satin beard and locks had been meticulously combed. Her amber eyes were accentuated by streaks of glittering blue paint daubed beneath them. Her cheekbones stood out like carved marble, and her lips were rouged the color of blood.
The impression was of unreality, of a face that transcended the years. It was hard to gauge how old she was, but if her toned and muscular arms were anything to go by, she can’t have been past middle age for a dwarf, and was probably much younger.
She wore only a slip of scarolite over her torso, a rigid scapular of green-flecked black ore that tapered in at her navel. The swell of her breasts was tantalizingly visible at its edges. They had been painted with swirls of the same glittering blue that set off her eyes. She looked tall for a dwarf, imposing. It was in large part to do with the soles of her black leather sandals, which must have been six-inches high. Crisscrossing straps studded with rubies wound their way up her shins.
She no longer wore her scarolite scimitar at her hip. Instead, she clutched the Axe of the Dwarf Lords in both hands.
Paxy’s blades were dull, as tarnished as the copper cover that had hidden whatever carcass it was that passed for food. She was unhappy, that much was clear, but her whispering voice in Nameless’s mind conveyed a sense of relief that he was here.
Nameless. My Immortal.
“Be seated,” the Matriarch said, and Nameless did as he was told without thinking.
It wasn’t magical beguilement, he was certain, but there was something about the Matriarch’s tone that told him she was used to being obeyed.
“Begone,” she said to the guards next, and they clipped their heels, pivoted to face the door, and left the room.
Matriarch Gitashan waited for the stone of the door to grind shut behind them before she said to Ancient Bub, “Serve us.”
Bub bowed deeply, then took the Matriarch’s plate and started to load it with meat.
“No, wait,” Gitashan said, holding out the Axe of the Dwarf Lords in one hand. “Put this somewhere first.”
Bub spread his palms helplessly, and Gitashan rolled her eyes.
“Of course, only an Immortal can touch it. Then fetch me the casket.”
Bub still hand’t spoken. Perhaps he needed to be granted permission.
Nameless assumed any such rule didn’t apply to him, and if it did, he could always plead ignorance.
“Casket?”
Bub winced and hesitated, as if he feared being struck for Nameless’s insolence. When nothing happened, he scuttled off through the open door once more.
The Matriarch studied Nameless for a long while, her amber eyes predatory, but at the same time, calculating. When Bub returned, carrying a case of scarolite molded in the exact shape and size of Paxy, Nameless gasped.
Gitashan seated herself at the table as she said, “Bubanthus, explain.”
The old dwarf set the case on the tabletop and opened its hinged lid. The inside was lined with velvet, and looked like it had never been used.
“King Arios wanted to send
the axe to Thanatos with the Lords of Arnoch, when the citadel’s doom was certain. This case had long been prepared so that those without Immortal blood could carry her, if the need arose. The Annals tell the tale of how, at the moment the case was to be taken through the portal, the lid burst open, and the Axe of the Dwarf Lords flew back to the throne room. She would not, it is said, be parted from her king.”
“Oh, Paxy,” Nameless breathed. “Good girl. Loyal to the last.”
Gitashan sighed and narrowed her eyes. “Loyalty to a king is to be commended, but who is the axe loyal to now? You might be an Immortal, but I am your superior by right and title.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more, lassie.”
Gitashan’s hold on the axe haft suddenly tightened as Paxy began to shake and buck.
“Calm, Paxy,” Nameless said. “It’s all right.”
No, the axe said in his mind. It is not.
With a violent wrench, Paxy ripped herself free of the Matriarch’s grip and flew across the table to Nameless.
Gitashan was on her feet in an instant, her eyes flashing sunbursts. “Guards!” she cried, and before the word had fully left her lips, the stone door crashed open, and the two scarolite-helmed guards surged into the room and sprang at Nameless.
He spun clear of his chair as a short sword thrust at him. Paxy swept down and shattered the blade. The other guard checked herself mid-spring and reset, weaving a web of steel before her as she came on more cautiously.
Nameless flat-bladed the first in the helm. The scarolite saved her from injury, but the power of the blow sent her flying across the table and crashing into the serving plate of rancid meat.
The other guard slashed and thrust with both swords in perfect harmony. Nameless batted one aside with Paxy’s haft, swayed past the second, and feigned an executioner’s chop at her head. She dodged, as he knew she would, and he kicked her feet out from under her. As she tried to rise, he smashed first one sword then the other from her hands, and they went clattering across the floor.
