Revenge of the Lich (Legends of the Nameless Dwarf Book 3)

by D. P. Prior

  “Save the fooling for the fool,” Stupid said. “Your neck’s already two thirds in the noose. There’s no wit left here. The humor’s gone from the people of the ravine, but the last laugh’s on them. The Demiurgos loves a grumpy face and a joyless heart.”

  Jaym advanced, his swollen thews threatening to burst through his tattooed skin. “I’m gonna bust you up, Butcher. I’m gonna pulp your shogging head, break your bones, rip out your stinking—”

  “Jaym!” Grago snapped, like he was correcting a dog. “Down!”

  Jaym swayed and shot a look back at him.

  “Here, baresark!” Grago said with a click of his fingers.

  With drooping shoulders and lowered head, Jaym trudged over to stand with the councilor. Grago whispered in his ear, slitty eyes flicking over the rest of the Council, taking in the closest soldiers. A handful nodded almost imperceptibly, Kal among them. They may have been letting Grago know they were keeping an eye on Jaym, but Nameless had a nagging feeling tugging away at his guts. Jaym seemed satisfied with whatever Grago had told him and turned to glare at Nameless. There was no trace of humiliation about him. If anything, he was gloating.

  Nameless narrowed his eyes, determined not to let the baresark stare him out. He didn’t have to wait long, though, as Jaym suddenly pitched over backward, his body racked with spasms.

  A gasp rolled through the crowd, and there were angry calls of “Cursed.” Fingers pointed at the axe.

  “Give him space,” Weasel shouted as he rushed to Jaym’s side. “Go on, clear the decks.”

  He knelt behind the baresark’s head and placed his knees either side to support it.

  “Happens all the time, whenever he gets angry. Show’s over, folks, unless you wanna see a grown dwarf piss his pants, and believe you me, you don’t want him finding out, if you do.”

  The councilors shuffled forward, obscuring Jaym and Weasel from Nameless’s view, and at the same time, the Red Cloak returned bearing an intricately carved casket of green-flecked scarolite. He placed it at the feet of Old Moary, who raised his hands until he had the crowd’s attention.

  “You all know what this is.” He opened the lid and lifted out two stone tablets inscribed with swirling letters.

  Nameless had only seen paper copies before, in his brother’s study. The script was the same as that on his axe: Old Dwarven.

  “The Tablets of the Law,” Old Moary said. “The statutes of Arx Gravis that have guided us since the Great Betrayal, since Maldark the Fallen led us to the brink of destruction.”

  “Aye, but that’s not the half of it, you dour-faced ingrates,” Stupid muttered.

  Someone hissed at that. The dwarves had never forgiven Maldark.

  Old Moary suddenly looked flustered, turning this way and that, as if he had no idea what to do with the tablets now he’d removed them from their traditional resting place.

  “Allow me,” Grago said, taking them from him and holding them at arm’s length, like he might have done someone else’s soiled laundry. He caught the attention of a Red Cloak and practically slung them into the man’s arms. “Stick them in a sack or something, won’t you.”

  Old Moary’s eyes widened. “Be careful, for goodness’ sake.”

  Grago shook his head and folded his arms over his chest. “Now what?”

  “Well,” Old Moary said, licking his lips. “I think he’s going to—”

  Nameless went down on one knee and tenderly placed the axe inside the casket. “Sorry, lassie,” he said as he closed the lid. “I know you’re just trying to help.” He wanted to tell her he’d be back to get her, but he was never much for lying.

  He went to stand but swayed and would have fallen, had Stupid not caught him by the arm.

  “Fools like to rush in where sane folk balk. They stand on the brink and often fall over the edge; they put their trust in the fickle, lay down the source of their strength, and place themselves at the mercy of those who have none.” He helped Nameless to stand. “But the gods of Arnoch love a good fool.”

  Nameless’s restored energy left him like wine draining from a perforated costrel. His limbs grew flaccid, his body sagging, until only some dimly-remembered sense of balance kept him standing. He felt as though half his heart had been stolen from him.

  Grago clapped his hands, and a couple of Red Cloaks carried the casket to one of the unfinished stone shelters.

  “There,” Old Moary said. “Like I was saying. He means us no harm, that much is clear.”

  “The only thing that’s clear here, Councilor, is that there’s no need for a trial,” Grago said. “We all know he’s guilty, and we all know what happened last time some among us failed to take the appropriate action.”

  Nameless looked up at that. Looked up and glared at Grago. The councilor glared back, his eyes narrowing to dark slits.

  “Are you saying Councilor Thumil should not have—” Nip Garnil started.

  “Indeed, I am,” Grago said, raising his voice so that the crowd could hear. “If it hadn’t been for his misplaced liberalism, we might still be in Arx Gravis. We might still number in the thousands, rather than a paltry five-hundred.”

  Cordy doubled over, as if stabbed in the stomach.

  Nameless wanted to go to her but knew he was the last person she’d want offering her comfort.

  “Oh, I know he meant well.” Grago softened his voice and spoke directly to Cordy. “But we have our traditions for a reason. A very good reason. We dwarves have shown ourselves vulnerable to deception, and it is only the law that shields us from further error. That’s the way it’s been since Maldark, and that’s the way it must always be.”

  It was hard to interpret the look on Cordy’s face. It could have been suppressed anger, but it could equally have been acknowledgement of her husband’s misjudgment, and by association, her own.

  Old Moary coughed and flapped his hand around until someone thought to give him a tankard frothing with ale. He took a swig and found his voice.

  “Bad form, Councilor Grago. Bad form indeed to speak so of the deceased, especially in front of Councilor Thumil’s widow.”

  The other councilors grunted their agreement, but Grago merely waved away their objections.

  “Tell that to the survivors who lost husbands, wives, and children. Why, we’ve all heard how Councilor Cordana grieves the loss of her babe, and she has my heartfelt sympathy, but does that not tell us something? If I were to adopt the bad form you speak of, Councilor Moary, I would ask Councilor Cordana what she would do if time could be turned back to the end of the first massacre. Would she support her husband’s stance, knowing what she does now?”

  Nameless’s heart had slowed to a sporadic thump, but it almost stopped beating altogether as he waited for Cordy’s response.

  A hush settled over the proceedings and all eyes turned upon her.

  “My Thumil was… was a great man.”

  A chorus of “ayes” passed along the crowd. All the councilors nodded, except for Grago. Jaym pushed back through them to stand at his side, britches stained with damp. Most of the color had drained from his face.

  “No one’s disputing his greatness, my dear,” Grago said. “What I am questioning is his wisdom as it relates to this specific incident. We all know of your husband’s ideals, his spiritual leanings, and many of us can see the goodness that gave them birth.”

  More nods of agreement.

  “But,”—Grago held up a finger and showed it to all sides of the crowd as if he were charming a snake—“would you place his ideals above the consequences we have witnessed?”

  Nameless lowered his head. He knew how he’d answer the question, and he had no right to expect anything more from Cordy. When it came down to it, it didn’t really matter whether it was Nameless or the axe that was responsible. Whether it was nature or the malice of the Demiurgos and his offspring, the homunculi. People had been slaughtered in their thousands. A child among them. Cordy’s baby.

  “No,” Cordy
said. “No, I would not.”

  A chill blew beneath Nameless’s skin, sank deep into his marrow. It was what he’d expected. It was what he’d wanted.

  Grago turned his palms up and raised his eyebrows. “So, what’s left to discuss?”

  Old Moary coughed and spluttered, took another gulp of ale. “Plenty, Councilor Grago. Plenty. Why, there’s the statutes, the traditions, which you yourself said there is a good reason for.”

  Grago shook his head and wagged his finger. “No, no, no, Councilor Moary, you miss my point. It is because our traditions were flaunted that we find ourselves in this quandary. ‘Action begets more action’, did not the Law Fathers say? If this Nameless Dwarf had not acted outside of the law and retrieved the black axe, if we had not permitted the philosopher to hold him rather than destroy him, if Thumil had not extended clemency, when the appropriate response should have been execution, then we would not now be forced to act against our nature.”

  Stupid hopped from foot to foot. “Nature gifted, nurture perverse.”

  “Be silent, fool,” Grago said.

  “Fools are always silent to the dunce without ears to hear.”

  Jaym growled, and Stupid backed away, kowtowing like he was leaving the court of a king.

  “There is still much to debate,” red-faced Councilor Bley said.

  “To what end?” Grago said. “Should we prattle on until he hacks the heads from our shoulders? Sticks them on spikes? Enough, I say. Enough. It’s time we cast aside antiquated laws and acted to save our people.”

  The crowd cheered its support, and the councilors turned to one another in hushed debate.

  All except Cordy. She just stood there, ghostly and broken. Stood there with her gaze locked on Nameless. He looked deep into her doleful eyes and knew what she expected of him. What he expected of himself.

  “Councilor Grago is right,” Nameless said. “The time for talking is past. Every dwarf here knows my guilt, and I do not deny it. Don’t waste your time on a trial, when the outcome is already obvious.”

  Grago smiled. “Good. Good advice. You see, there is a sliver of redemption, but I’m sure you all agree, it can never be enough.”

  Nameless’s limbs hardened into stone. “No,” he muttered. “It can’t.”

  “Councilor Cordana?” Grago said. “Do you agree?”

  Her eyes brimming with tears, her fists shaking at her sides, she answered, “Yes.”

  Grago nodded, and hands grabbed Nameless.

  “But,” Old Moary said. “But…”

  “Councilor, Councilor,” Grago said. “Let’s not be insensitive to the lady’s grief. What was it you were saying about bad form?”

  Old Moary’s mouth hung open, nothing but dribble coming out.

  “Corporal Gray,” Grago said.

  Kal stepped forward and saluted.

  “I want the prisoner chained to the far wall of the ravine. Not too near the shelters, mind.” Grago ran his eyes along the line of his fellow councilors, daring them to contradict him. None did. “Oh, and Corporal.”

  “Councilor?”

  “Tell the sappers their skills are required.”

  Kal frowned at that and glanced at Nameless. “Sappers, Councilor?”

  “I think you know what for, Corporal. Thank you.”

  Nameless knew, the same as the rest of the dwarves must have known. Not that anyone living had seen such punishment enacted. It was a throwback to an earlier, much harsher age. Not that Nameless was worried. If anything it was rather fitting. His name had already been erased from history, and now his body was about to be blown apart, the remains buried beneath an avalanche of rock.

  “With me,” Kal said to the dwarves holding Nameless.

  Jaym started to follow, but Grago restrained him with a hand on the shoulder.

  “I would have beat you,” Jaym said as Nameless was led away. “You hear me, Butcher? I had you beat.”

  “About the hammer,” Nameless said, trying desperately to inject some humor into his voice but finding only a lifeless monotone. “Sorry. Old Paxy gets a bit overprotective at times.”

  “Paxy?” Jaym grunted, frowning so much his face looked ready to implode.

  “Don’t think too hard,” Stupid said with a hop and a skip. “It’s not good for you.”

  The crowd drew back to let Nameless and the Red Cloaks holding him through. Some of them whispered, some averted their eyes.

  “Hey, Butcher,” a man called.

  The Red Cloaks paused beside a dwarf propped up on a stretcher.

  Nameless’s mind was a torpid daze. Hadn’t he seen the fellow at the lake? He was sure Nils had called his name but couldn’t for the life of him remember it.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Yeah, me too. Sorry you ever lived. Shog knows what that lad sees in you.”

  “Lad?”

  “That’s what I said. The boy back at the forest.”

  “You mean Nils?” A pang of regret passed through Nameless’s gut. He’d led the boy all the way out here and then left him to fend for himself.

  “That’s him. Good kid, and a damn sight better off with you out of the way.”

  Nameless turned his eyes on the pale face of Raphoe. Its eerie glow lent a touch of madness to the proceedings. It brought Silas to mind. Another failure. How could Nameless keep him from the path he’d chosen, if it was all to end here? He looked down at the dwarf on the stretcher. “I’m inclined to agree with you…”

  “Cairn. Cairn Sternfist. I would have told you to remember it, but there’s not much point.”

  The Red Cloaks pulled Nameless away and led him to the face of the cliff. He was roughly spreadeagled, his chains fixed to iron pitons in the rock. One of the Red Cloaks slapped him on the cheek.

  “Cheer up, mate, it’ll all be over in a flash.”

  “Nice one, Toan,” the other said. “In a flash. Like it.”

  A dozen retorts swilled about at the bottom of Nameless’s mind, but the only thing that rose to the surface was another regret, this time for Ilesa.

  Shog, he missed her. Missed her feistiness, missed her dry wit; but most of all, he missed her touch. For one brief moment, back on that new-formed isle with the serpent patrolling the lake, she’d made him feel like a dwarf again.

  Too late for regrets, he told himself. Way too late. He was ready for this, ready to go into the dark one last time.

  As if in response to his deepest yearnings, a squad of sappers approached, some carrying picks, hammers, and chisels, others cradling clinking sacks. They set their loads down at Nameless’s feet. While four of them began to cut into the rock face at various points around his body, an old-timer unpacked glass vials from the sacks. They were sealed with corks through which a length of wire poked, and each was filled with black powder.

  Nameless licked his lips. He’d ordered their use in the siege of New Londdyr.

  “Sulfur, charcoal, and saltpeter,” Stupid said gleefully, clapping his hands like an excited child. “Lots and lots of it! Enough to bring a ton of rock down on your nonce.”

  “For a fool,” Nameless said, “you certainly have a knack for speaking the truth.”

  NILS

  Nils weren’t happy with the state of play down in the canyon below. Nameless was chained to the far wall, and there were dwarves chipping away at the rock face all around him.

  “Why ain’t he doing nothing? He could have had them back there. What’s he have to go give the axe away for?”

  Silas peered over his shoulder. “Can’t see. It’s all a blur from this distance.”

  Not to Nils it weren’t. He’d always had good eyes, ever since he was a kid. Mom said he could spot a brass dupondii from a mile away. She’d been half right about that. Fat lot of good it did him, though. Dad always claimed it was his; said he must’ve dropped it last time he passed that way.

  It was an odd feeling staring down at the dwarven settlement. Raphoe was low on the horizon, bathing the canyon floor with shif
ting silver and giving it the look of a ghostly river. Nils had never before seen a moon from this vantage point. It made him think of the time he’d climbed up on a chair to look at Dad’s bald patch. He’d got a clout for it, but it had been worth it for the laugh.

  The night air was cool and crisp. He would have called it clean, but for the lingering whiff of peat in his nostrils. Still, the chances of the bog monster chasing them all the way up here were pretty slim, he reckoned. Last they’d seen of it, the thing was bubbling back into the sod of the moors.

  He got on his belly and looked down the sheer canyon wall. He felt his guts lurch, and his vision blurred until he squinted half a dozen times.

  There was a dwarf with a crossbow on a ledge about thirty feet below. There were others lower down, spread out along the side of the canyon at various heights. The far wall was clear. In fact, the only activity there was from the dwarves hammering away at the rock around Nameless. Every now and again a gray-haired dwarf would pass one of them something that glinted in the moonlight, and they’d poke it into a hole. Some crazy looking beggar in patchwork clothes and a silly hat was dancing a daft jig as they worked. Soldiers were organizing the rest of the dwarves into well-ordered rows off to the right and on Nils’s side of the canyon. A bunch of white-robed politician-types had the choicest positions at the front.

  “Why do you suppose that lot are standing so far…” Nils answered his own question before he’d finished asking Silas. He suddenly knew what the dwarves working the rock face around Nameless were up to. “Shog me for a silly shogger. They’re sappers, ain’t they?”

  “How should I know?” Silas said. “I can’t see, for the hundredth time.”

  Nils was sure of it. He’d seen dwarven sappers at work before, on the walls of New Londdyr. How could he have been so stupid? That’s why they were cutting holes into the rock face. They were filling them with explosives.

  He craned his neck to speak to Silas and gagged. He’d not noticed before, but the wizard stank like crap. You’d think with all that magic, he’d be able to rustle up a hot bath and some perfume.