The Archon's Assassin

by D. P. Prior

  “Because a man refuses to fight, it does not follow that he is a coward,” Ludo said. “Galen here is still smarting from Shader beating him at the tournament for the Archon’s sword. Forgive and forget, eh, Galen?”

  “Of all the infernal impudence!” Galen fumed, muscles bunching up around his ears. “He is a cheat and a cad, and you, sir, are a ruddy schismatic!”

  “Be mindful of who you are talking to,” Ludo snapped. He took a single step toward Galen. His bearing changed in that instant: back straight, shoulders squared, and there was a tilt to his chin. It was the poise of a man born to authority, like those on the Council of Twelve who claimed descent from the founding fathers of Arx Gravis. “Always carping on about obedience. How about showing some, and a modicum of respect to boot?”

  Galen dipped his head and spun on his heel. After a tense moment, his shoulders slumped, and he nodded to himself a few times.

  “I’m sorry,” Ludo said to no one in particular. “Difficult times. We’re all under a lot of strain. Galen, do be a good chap and see to Ekyls, would you? I think he may have done himself an injury.”

  Ekyls twitched, and a ragged snore ripped from his throat.

  Nameless shifted inside the hauberk until the links stopped pinching the chest hair poking above the gambeson.

  “This Shader of yours. He was once on Aethir?” He already knew the answer; knew it was the same man he’d fought with, come to respect.

  “Yes,” Ludo said. “He mentioned you.”

  Nameless almost asked what Shader had said about him, but he didn’t want to put Ludo in that position. He wasn’t proud of how he’d acted in those last moments of the struggle with Gandaw. If he’d had his way, it would have all been lost. Shader had praised his efforts, but Nameless knew when someone was just being kind. He knew what he was, what he’d done, and what he’d failed to do.

  Instead, he asked, “He is well?”

  “Very much changed from the man you would have known,” Ludo said. “Not everyone approves, least of all the Ipsissimus. The Templum Judiciary had him tortured, and would have continued until he broke or died, I imagine. I intervened. Our hierarchy doesn’t exactly encourage leapfrogging one’s superiors, so I was unopposed at the time. But, as is the way of things, word reached the Ipsissimus eventually.”

  “And this exile is the price of your intervention?”

  Ludo chuckled. “Galen likes to think so. Maybe he’s right, but it doesn’t help to dwell on it. I go where I am told, and he has orders to protect me. Of course, he gets above himself from time to time and seems to think his duties extend to mothering me.”

  Galen drew back from tentatively tapping Ekyls on the shoulder. To his credit, he’d obeyed his superior and gone to check the savage out, but he wasn’t exactly committed to the task.

  Nameless’s stomach knotted and grumbled, as if it had overruled the spark of interest Shader’s name had drawn from the ashes of his inner being. He wished, not for the first time, he had something solid to eat. It wasn’t so much a necessity—Aristodeus’s infusion would fuel him for weeks yet; it was more a need for fullness, for satiety, for the comfort of good food and strong beer; good company, too. These dullards weren’t much for singing. Galen was so puffed up with self-importance, he probably couldn’t even whistle in tune. And as for a farting contest, he was the sort who’d rather keep it in with a plug up his arse than let rip and reveal his base normality. Thing was, the buffoon always seemed to be eating, when he wasn’t fiddling with that ridiculous mustache. In one end, clogged at the other. Maybe that’s why his gut was so big. Just the thought of it made Nameless check his own through his hauberk. Part of him complained he had a bit of extra these days, but a quick tense of the abs convinced him it was all muscle. At least he had that to be thankful for. Even in his beer-drinking days with Thumil, his mid-section had retained the ridged definition of an iron breastplate. Carved from granite, he used to boast, but right now it felt like all his muscles were made from stone: heavy, and about as pliant.

  If Galen had an opposite, it was Ludo. Nameless hadn’t seen the adeptus touch a morsel. He was always wrapped up in that silly black book, looking for inane passages of scripture and twisting their meaning until they seemed to illustrate whatever point he was trying to make. At least when Thumil had done it, he’d stuck to some sort of literal meaning and used it as a point of departure for a critique of the Council of Twelve’s endless procrastination. But Ludo seemed determined to make his holy balderdash the be-all and end-all of every subject under the suns. Not much of a farter, either, judging from his demeanor; and if he attempted to whistle, chances were his teeth would all fall out. Nice enough fellow, to be sure, but not fitted to the hardships of a quest like theirs. He’d likely last as long as a keg of ale at a baresarks’ piss-up.

  Galen shook Ekyls a bit more vigorously now. It struck Nameless as a bad idea.

  “Come on, wakey wakey. Wha—”

  Ekyls’ hands caught Galen round the throat. Blue veins popped out along his forearms, and his mouth curled into a yellow, snarling slit.

  Galen thrashed about, but Ekyls leaned in, as if he intended to bite his face off.

  “Bloody heathen!” Galen growled. His fist crashed into Ekyls’ face, but the savage just squeezed harder. Galen caught him again, a solid blow in the mouth.

  Ekyls spat blood, and a tooth clattered to the floor. With a surge of effort, Galen rolled him over and started to pound his already swollen face. Ekyls went limp, and Galen stood, tugging his uniform straight. He coughed up phlegm and rubbed his raw throat.

  Ekyls struck like a serpent, biting into Galen’s ankle and pulling the legs out from under him. Galen grunted as his tailbone hit the floor hard. Ekyls leapt astride him, teeth straining for the jugular.

  It was getting out of hand. The coccyx bruising was enough to bring tears to a dwarf’s eyes, but ripping a man’s throat out was against the rules, as far as Nameless was concerned.

  He grabbed Ekyls by the hair and flung him against the wall. Ekyls sprang off of it with astonishing agility, and he twisted in midair, coming at Nameless with outstretched fingers. Dirty nails raked across chain links, seeking an opening. Nameless got one hand on Ekyls’ neck, the other on his groin, then he dipped and hoisted the savage kicking and screaming above his head.

  “Have to warn you, laddie,” he said, trying to keep the effort from his voice, “I’m starting to get a wee bit irritable.”

  Ekyls only struggled harder, and he spat a torrent of gobbledygook that had the flavor of abuse to it.

  Nameless slammed him into the floor. Ekyls’ head hit hard, and he lay still.

  “Did you see that?” Galen said to Ludo. “Damned barbarian tried to throttle me.”

  “Well, you did startle him,” Ludo said.

  Galen glared at Ekyls, raised a boot to kick him, thought better of it and lowered it. “Bloody savage!” He spun on his heel and thumped the wall instead. It answered with a resounding clang.

  “Must I remind you, Galen, about your language?” Ludo said.

  Galen growled something, caught himself, and snapped to attention. “Forgive me, Eminence. Always had a ruddy temper. Won’t happen again.”

  The clanging from Galen’s blow continued longer than Nameless would have expected. He was halfway to giving a grudging nod of respect for such a display of force, when he realized it wasn’t just the one clang: it was a succession of them—from outside.

  Something rattled; something scraped, and then there was the telltale screeching and grinding of a bolt being drawn back.

  Nameless hefted his axe to his shoulder. He did his best to still the pounding of his heart by whistling a ditty he’d once heard in a tavern and never managed to get out of his head. He’d be shogged if he could remember what it was called.

  Galen’s hand went to his saber, partially drawing it. He cast a look at Nameless; nodded that he was ready. “Give him ruddy murder, eh? Or go down fighting.”

  Ludo
shuffled to the rear, head bowed, lips moving silently. He hurriedly touched his forehead, the same way Shader used to. In his black cassock, he could have been mistaken for a necromancer preparing invocations for battle.

  The door rattled and shook, but didn’t open.

  Galen took a step forward, and his saber rasped as it came all the way out of the scabbard.

  A fizzing noise sounded from outside. Greenish gas started to spill through the hairline gap surrounding the door.

  Instinctively, Nameless held his breath and took up a position to one side. If he gripped his axe any tighter, he’d have snapped it in two. With a roll of the great helm and a sigh, he slackened off a little and chastised himself for acting like a new recruit. Maybe it was the long confinement at Arx Gravis, or the burden of guilt that sat like a mountain on his shoulders. Or maybe it was just the thought of being locked in a fire giant’s oven waiting to be cooked.

  The fizzing petered out, and the gas dispersed.

  Galen took another step—

  There was a flash and a bang and the stench of sulfur.

  A hole the size of a fist smoldered midway up the door. Nameless glimpsed movement through it, and a pink eye pressed up close.

  “Are you scuts gonna just stand there gawping,” Shadrak said, “or are you gonna help me get this shogging door open?”

  THE FIRST SHADOW

  Shadrak lay face down at the opening of a lava vent, the aroma of spiced meat thick in his nostrils. His finger rested lightly on the rifle’s trigger. Any more, and it would be too much.

  Twenty feet below, Albert’s fat face was quartered like a pie in the crosshairs. He stood atop a natural table of rock, stirring a stone cauldron that steamed and bubbled.

  The shogger had it coming, any way you looked at it. Always up to something, and lately, Shadrak had the sense it was something that concerned him. It wasn’t his usual paranoia. It was intuition. Something about the way Albert looked at him. The subtle change in his delivery. The way Shadrak’s skin crawled in his proximity, as if the poisoner were a breeding ground for fleas.

  Whatever it was, Albert was no mug. He’d bide his time, wait for the opportunity, then do what had to be done to make sure he held the advantage.

  Shadrak had learned the hard way it was better to be safe than sorry. That’s why he always made a point of knowing every last detail about his victims, as well as his colleagues. Sooner or later, the two became one and the same. It was only a matter of time. What he knew of Albert, he was only surprised it had taken so long.

  A wave of heat scalded Shadrak’s face as Sartis passed beneath the vent, the top of his head a forest of flames. The giant had paced relentlessly since Albert had started cooking. Likely, the poor bastard usually feasted on nothing but goblins he caught and tossed into his oven. Even Quintus the mule was bound to be an improvement on that.

  Perhaps this was it: the moment Albert showed his hand. However he’d managed it, he was in with the giant, at least for the time being.

  Albert offered the giant a taste, but the spoon was too small. Instead, Sartis bent down and tilted the cauldron. His lips sizzled as he pressed them to the rim, and he sighed like a parched man taking a cool drink.

  “Not too much, now,” Albert said. “Needs more spice.” He produced a glass vial from his jacket pocket, shook it vigorously, and poured the contents into the broth.

  That started Shadrak second-guessing himself. The herbs and spices for cooking were strewn about the pot. Whatever this new ingredient was, you could bet it wasn’t sage or marjoram. Which meant Albert might have been double-crossing Sartis. Either that, or he knew he was being watched and was just creating the impression of a double-cross.

  “Ready now?” Sartis asked, licking the grease from his lips with his forked tongue. His tail snapped and coiled in anticipation.

  “One last stir,” Albert said, “a pinch more salt, and voila, as they say in Gallia. All yours.” He stood aside and offered the cauldron to the giant.

  “At last,” Sartis said, lifting the pot with ease and draining the contents in one gulp. “Good. Very good.”

  Albert scrutinized him for a long moment, then he grinned. “Glad you like it.”

  “Now I’m really hungry.” The giant patted his stomach. “Come, let’s fire the oven.”

  “One should wait a while between courses,” Albert said. “Allow the digestive juices to… Wait, I thought we agreed they were to be sautéed. Do you have a skillet? A stone one would be fine. Other than that, I’d recommend—”

  “Now!” Sartis slammed the cauldron back down on the table, causing the cavern to tremble.

  Shadrak backed down the vent, paused at the opening to sling the rifle over his shoulder, and then dropped over the lip to hang by his fingertips. He found a foothold and swiftly started to descend.

  “Laddie, what’s happening?” Nameless called up from below.

  “Quintus is halfway to being a giant turd,” Shadrak said. He let go and dropped the last ten feet, landing lightly in a crouch. “Now, get a move on. They’re coming.”

  Nameless led them back down the slope into the mouth of the cathedral cavern.

  Ekyls was slouched sullenly beside the iron oven. A black and yellow lump stood out on his forehead, large as an egg. The rest of his face was a swollen mess. Ludo hovered over him like a guilty mother not knowing how to comfort a homicidal child. Galen stood some way off, sharpening his saber. He looked up expectantly as they approached, apparently bored of waiting and keen to engage the enemy.

  “Positions, everyone,” Shadrak said, then scrambled up a natural ramp and clambered onto a high shelf.

  “About ruddy time,” Galen said. He marched over to an enormous stalagmite and pressed his back into it. With a raise of his blade and a nod, he edged round the other side, out of view.

  Ludo took up his place behind the oven with all the enthusiasm of a man going to the gallows.

  Ekyls hissed and glared. “Stupid plan. Fight like a man, not hide like a boy.” He cast a sneering glance at the oven.

  It was meant for Bird, Shadrak could see that. The little man had never come back from the tube he’d apparently flown into. Was he hiding, like Ekyls said, waiting till it was all over before he emerged to pick over what was left of the rest of them? It wasn’t like Bird owed them anything, and the way he’d just run into Nameless on the road didn’t exactly bode well. If anything, the creep had the feel of Dave the Slave about him: showing up when and where he wanted, and keeping his true nature a tightly held secret.

  “Haven’t you learned your lesson, laddie?” Nameless said, angling his helm at Ekyls. “You’ve been told what to do, now move it.”

  Ekyls glared back but then grinned—a sharp-toothed grin dripping with poison. It told Shadrak he’d do as he was told this time, but it was acquiescence lined with threat.

  Ekyls loped off behind a natural plinth, dropped into a crouch, and twirled his hatchet. In an instant, he’d gone from sulking teenager to seasoned predator, and murder was writ large over his ruined face.

  Nameless ambled to his position behind a boulder at the cavern’s entrance. He looked as calm and sure of himself as ever, but Shadrak doubted even he could stand against Sartis.

  But what choice did they have? Even if they’d wanted to back out of the quest and leave empty-handed, the cathedral cavern was a dead-end. The only reachable vents all led to the cave with the table, and then on to the lava lake.

  If it had been down to him, he’d have spent more time planning, observing. It was only because these bumbling idiots had gone and gotten themselves caught that they were having to wing it.

  He should’ve come alone. Least that way, he could have taken Sartis out while he slept, and thieved the shogging gauntlets just like he used to thieve everything else, back in the old days.

  Shadrak tested his sight, focused in on Nameless’s half-melted axe. He shifted his aim to the eye-slit, and for the merest instant was almost tempted. Take the
money and run, they used to say back in the guild. Would that really be so bad? And it would get the Archon off his back, maybe even pave the way to him seeing Kadee again. But how could he face her, after murdering a friend in cold blood? Because, hard as it was to admit it, that’s what the dwarf was: a friend. Shadrak had no doubt what Nameless would do if their situations were reversed.

  He swung the rifle toward the entrance instead. It still seemed suicidal, but they were committed now. Who knew, maybe they’d get lucky. Ekyls was a rabid dog, too crazed to know when he was beaten. And Nameless had that air of invincibility about him, like a child, oblivious to its own mortality. Both were confident, and even if they were deluded, it was the best chance they had. Galen was just a duty-driven ass who’d sooner die than retreat. That made him a rare breed and stupid to boot in Shadrak’s book. Ludo was just a waste of shogging space. They’d have been better off staking him out as bait, for all the use he was.

  The ground began to shake with rhythmic thuds. Shadrak scanned the looming walls and reckoned he could reach a vent if the fight was going badly.

  He could almost hear the voice of the Archon in his head, telling him to let Nameless fall and have done with it.

  The cavern was bathed in shadow as the giant stooped through the entrance. Albert scurried behind, puffing and perspiring, small as a mouse in comparison. Or rather, a rat.

  Sartis’s nostrils puffed out black clouds of soot, and flames licked about his lips. Sweltering heat and sulfurous fumes rolled off his charred flesh. Red streams of magma pulsed in the thick veins branching beneath his skin like fault-lines.

  Sartis crouched before the oven and peered at the hole in the door. With a roar of rage, he ripped the door from its hinges and thrust a hand inside.

  “Gone,” the giant rumbled. “Gone, gone, gone!” He surged to his feet, spouting flames toward the ceiling.