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

by D. P. Prior

  “Not so cocky, now, are you?” Jaym growled through a mouthful of foam. “Not so shogging tough.”

  Nameless wiggled his toes, relieved he could still move them. He shifted his hip and winced as a dagger blade of pain ripped through his spine. He tried to sit up, but Jaym’s fist hammered into his face, and his head bounced as it hit the ground.

  “Ku-na-ga!” the baresarks cheered.

  Nameless could have sworn the rest of the crowd had joined in. To his fuggy brain, it sounded like a reunion of angry sky gods was having a thunderclap tourney. He rolled to one side and lifted his head, straight into the path of another skull-jolting punch.

  “Shog,” Nameless spluttered, putting a hand to his mouth. “Shogging tooth’s out.” He swilled coppery blood about until he located the offending molar with his tongue and spat it into his palm. “I liked that tooth.”

  He narrowed his eyes to see through his distorted vision.

  Jaym was all bunched up, a mountain of muscle. His traps were up around his ears, and his arms were like swollen tree trunks.

  Nameless pushed himself into a sitting position and licked at the gap where his tooth had been. “That was my favorite tooth. My mother gave it to me. Actually, my mother gave me—”

  “Shut the shog up and fight!” Jaym growled, and the baresarks responded with another chorus of chanting.

  “You cheating coward,” someone heckled.

  Nameless turned his head to see.

  It was Lampol Drynn, peering above his shield. The dwarves either side of him elbowed him to keep him quiet.

  “What you say?” Jaym stormed toward him.

  “I said—” but Drynn didn’t get to finish. Jaym ripped the shield from his arm and pounded him in the face over and over.

  Nameless found his knees but was swaying like he’d downed a keg of Thumil’s home brew.

  Drynn’s legs buckled, but Jaym held him by the collar and kept delivering bludgeoning blows to his face. Something cracked, and blood spurted in rhythmic gouts.

  “Oh, shog,” Nameless groaned, making it to his feet and lurching. “Someone keep the ground still.”

  The crowd had gone quiet, the only sound the thump, splat, thump of Jaym beating Drynn to a pulp. Surely someone would put a stop to this. Surely the other Red Cloaks in the shield circle…

  Nameless slapped himself hard on the cheek, but it just felt like a sack of coal slid from one side of his skull to the other. He tried again, then he palmed his forehead. Still Jaym pounded away, bent over the prone Drynn, and no one else moved.

  “I once knew a shogger called Jaym,” Nameless sang to the tune of an old folk song he and Thumil had terrorized the taverns with.

  Thump, splat, thump.

  Nameless took an unsteady step toward the baresark. “Who played an unusual game. He lay on the grass with his thumb up his…”

  Jaym dropped Drynn’s limp body and spun round.

  “Glad to have your attention,” Nameless said. He staggered to the left but steadied himself by stamping and rolling his head. “Now, I’ve a bone to pick with you, laddie.”

  Jaym growled and lifted his blood-drenched fist for the crowd to see.

  “That’s what you get for plucking your own piles,” Nameless said.

  The baresark roared and lunged, his fist scything in a whooshing roundhouse. Nameless swayed to one side and felt its wind pass in front of his face. Jaym came back at him with a left, but Nameless blocked with his forearm. The impact did everything he hoped it would. Streams of magma surged through his veins, firing his muscles and burning the fog from his brain. And he thanked shog for the blood of the Immortals.

  Jaym swung again with his right, connecting with Nameless’s cheek. Nameless rolled with the punch and only felt it smart. He ducked inside and hammered a right into the baresark’s ribs. Jaym grunted and countered with a downward hammer blow to the back of Nameless’s neck. Nameless went with it and slipped away to one side, raining a combination of uppercuts into Jaym’s body, and then almost launching himself as he cracked a fierce uppercut to the baresark’s jaw. Something popped and Jaym staggered back.

  Nameless followed up with a jab to the nose and a cross to the shoulder. Jaym bellowed and charged, but Nameless sidestepped and cracked him a good one on the temple. The baresark whirled, thrashing about wildly but not connecting. His jaw was off to one side, and blood oozed from the corner of his mouth.

  Nameless ducked beneath a wild swing and crunched a fist into Jaym’s forehead, opening a deep cut above the eye. Blood gushed down the baresark’s face, but it only seemed to make him more enraged. Nameless hit him again and again, bobbing and weaving, accepting numbing blows to his arms and rolling with the punches to his head. He landed another colossal blow to Jaym’s chin, this time expecting him to go down. If he hadn’t been a baresark, he would have. By the time he realized he should have been unconscious, he could still have ripped Nameless limb from limb. Jaym barely staggered under the blow, and responded with a fierce back-fist that sent Nameless reeling away against the shield circle.

  Someone slammed a shield into his back. He glanced over his shoulder to see that it was Kal. Before he could say anything, Jaym was coming at him, arms outstretched and groping.

  Nameless batted a hand aside and threw a punch, but Jaym got hold of his collar and tugged him in close. Nameless kneed him in the groin, but Jaym didn’t flinch. The baresark’s hands closed around his neck and squeezed. The pressure on Nameless’s windpipe was staggering, and he could already hear the cracking protest of cartilage. He frantically wrestled with Jaym’s wrists but could find no purchase. He stamped on toes, angled an elbow toward his face, but nothing seemed to have any effect.

  Nameless’s breaths came in wheezy gasps. His cheeks were swollen to bursting point, and his head started to swim.

  The dull muffled thrum of the baresarks’ chanting was barely distinguishable from the desperate tattoo of his struggling heart. On impulse, he allowed his body to go limp. Jaym relaxed for an instant, and Nameless threw himself forward, headbutting him squarely on the bridge of the nose.

  Jaym’s head went back in a spray of blood. Nameless wedged a foot behind him and pushed. Jaym toppled backward like a felled tree and, at the same time, Nameless launched himself, landing knees first on his chest and cracking an elbow into his face. The breath whooshed from the baresark’s lungs, and he grunted, but he didn’t lie still. He swept Nameless from him with a massive arm and lumbered to his feet, letting out a bloodcurdling roar and seeming to swell with the sound. Nameless was up in an instant, dancing away and wondering how the shog he could end this.

  A keening wail carried on the breeze, and everyone looked skyward, expecting to see some horror among the dispersing clouds. It was a bizarre trick of the wind, or perhaps of Qlippoth, like the shifting of terrain that had plagued their journey to the forest of tar. It was hard to tell how close they were, but Nameless knew there wasn’t much time. The feeders had come at last.

  “Look back down the valley,” he yelled above the heads of the shield-bearers. “They’ll be coming along from the—”

  He ducked on instinct, and Jaym lunged past him, his fist finding nothing but air.

  “That’s it, maggot-cock,” Nameless said. He leapt onto the baresark’s back and wrapped a forearm around his neck. “We don’t have time for this.” He applied pressure with his other arm and grimaced with the effort.

  Another chorus of screeches cut through the air, but Nameless didn’t dare look. Jaym smashed him backward into a shield, knocking the wind out of him. Still, Nameless clung on, even when the shield-bearer cracked him in the back of the head and shoved the pair of them into the center of the circle. Jaym spun around like a dog chasing its tail. He flailed with his arms. Nameless took a back-fist on the cheek that made his eyes water, but all he did in return was tighten his hold.

  Jaym put his head down and charged the shield wall, bowling over a dwarf and then turning to scrape Nameless along the
edge of the neighboring shield. Something sharp tore open the skin of Nameless’s shoulder, which began to burn like shog. He slammed his forehead into the back of Jaym’s skull. The baresark let out a gurgling choke and pitched over backward, landing with sickening force on Nameless’s ribcage. Jaym followed up with an elbow to the guts and then rolled from side to side, trying to crush Nameless with his weight.

  “Hold on,” Nameless told himself through gritted teeth. Hold on and squeeze.

  He found purchase with a foot and used it to lever them both over so that Jaym was facedown and Nameless was astride him. He leaned back, strengthening his chokehold, and the baresark gasped and shook.

  Jaym reached behind, trying to grab hold of something, but Nameless put a knee against the back of his shoulder and pinioned him. Jaym’s other hand flapped weakly against the dirt a few times and then stilled. All tension went out of the baresark’s neck, and Nameless let his head drop with a thud.

  He rolled off and swayed as he stood. His head was pounding, and his body was a muddle of different pains. In his mind, he heard the crowd cheering his name, or lack of one, but in reality, the fight with Jaym had all but been forgotten. The dwarves were looking about with panic in their eyes, and the only sounds were the approaching shrieks and the gabbled responses.

  “My axe,” Nameless growled, pushing past Kaldwyn Gray and peering through the crowd. “Where’s my shogging axe?”

  Kal’s hand fell on his shoulder, and Nameless turned. The contempt had left Kal’s eyes. If anything he looked in awe.

  “Butcher…”

  Nameless glared at him. He’d had about all he could take from the shogger.

  “Sorry,” Kal said. “Don’t know what else to call you. Look, I…”

  “Out of my way,” Nameless said, barging past.

  A group of baresarks parted for him like gobsmacked sheep. Nameless tensed but then realized they were completely cowed.

  “What?” he said. “No Ku-na-ga? Not even for me?”

  The green-haired lout shook his head and looked away.

  “Ho hum,” Nameless said.

  Old Moary was crouched over the prone body of Lampol Drynn, examining his eyes and rummaging through an ancient medical bag.

  “Will he…?” Nameless asked absently, looking around for sign of the approaching feeders.

  “I think so,” Moary said. “Skull’s as thick as a brick, same as his dad’s was.”

  “You have to get him into the tunnels, along with everyone else,” Nameless said.

  “But we can’t move him until—”

  “No choice.”

  Nameless forced his way through the frightened crowd. The dwarves were huddling together, asking each other what was going on in hushed whispers. It was the sort of thing that would get them all killed. Had they learned nothing from the slaughter at Arx Gravis?

  “Dinner time!” Stupid hollered from somewhere amid the confusion. “And guess who’s on the menu?”

  “Where?” a white-robed councilor yelled. It was Nip Garnil, looking like he urgently needed the latrine. “Where are they?”

  “What are they?” someone else cried.

  Panic spread through the crowd, with everyone asking questions and no one answering.

  “Now, you all just shut the shog up!” Silence fell like a hammer blow, and all eyes turned toward the base of the volcano.

  Twenty feet above, on a knuckle of charred rock, Targ stood with a spyglass raised.

  “These ol’ eyes can’t see as good as they once could, but I can make out a shit load o’ nasty-looking shoggers spilling into the arse end of yon pass. By my reckoning, must be a mile or two off yet. Sound’s probably amplified by them valley walls.”

  Nameless caught sight of Weasel slipping through the crowd, clutching a sack of tokens close to his chest, and casting shifty-eyed looks all around him.

  Stupid’s hat bobbed in and out of sight until he emerged just below Targ.

  “Now, I says we do what we dwarves do best and head underground,” Targ said. “My boys have scouted out these here lava vents.” He cocked a thumb toward the openings further up the base of the mountain. “Grab what you can, but be quick about it, then get your sorry asses up here in an orderly fashion.”

  Shouts and cries went up in a panicked chorus. Some folk headed to the tents, while others tussled over packs and provisions. Here and there, children cried amid the confusion.

  Nameless cut a beeline through them all and yanked the Axe of the Dwarf Lords from the stone. He lifted her high, and Paxy shone with the brilliance of a thousand stars.

  “Now, you listen to me!” His voice boomed like thunder, and Paxy flared in time with each syllable. He frowned at the shining blades then continued. “You’ve been told what to do, now just do it. Grab what you need, but make it quick. Then get up to those openings as fast as you can.”

  “That is a decision for the Council!” someone yelled.

  Nameless scanned the crowd until he saw a white-clad dwarf step toward him.

  Yuffie the Corrupt, as Nameless liked to think of him. He had a gut like a pregnant donkey’s, and his beard was tied with so much silver braid, it was a wonder he could lift his chin.

  “You tried telling us what to do once before,”—Yuffie swept out his arm, taking in the whole assembly—“and we all know what happened then, Corrector.”

  Old Moary tottered into view, two dwarves carrying a stretcher behind him bearing Lampol Drynn.

  “Councilor Yuffie,” Old Moary said, “this is not the time—”

  “Oh, but I disagree, Councilor Moary. This is why we have a Council. Why the Council was created in the—”

  Cordy stepped out of the crowd. “I agree with Councilor Moary. I say we grant emergency powers…” Her hard eyes met Nameless’s for an instant, and then she jabbed a finger in his direction. “… to the Nameless Dwarf.”

  Nameless froze, his mind a whir of confusion.

  “I object!” Yuffie said.

  “Object this,” Old Moary said, and thumped him square on the jaw.

  Yuffie screamed like a berated child. “You hit me!” he cried. “You see that? He hit me!”

  Old Moary held his fist up to Yuffie’s face. “Hit you again, if you don’t shut your whining.”

  “Well?” Cordy demanded.

  Nameless shook his head. “Not me,” he said. “I can’t.” Not after Arx Gravis.

  “Fine,” Cordy snapped.

  “Are you all as mad as me?” Stupid cried from his perch up on the slope. “He who spoke first speaks most sense.”

  “Yes,” Nameless said, looking up at Targ. “The fool’s right. Targ should lead, at least until the people are safe.”

  “Gets my vote,” Old Moary said.

  Nameless’s eyes widened in surprise. It was most out of character for the councilor to be so decisive. His whole reputation was built upon his legendary prevarication.

  Old Moary must have read his thoughts from his expression. “Wasn’t always a crusty old councilor,” he said. “I was known for being impetuous in my younger days, and there’s nothing like a crisis to make a man feel young again.”

  The rest of the councilors emerged from the crowd, looking as lost as everyone else.

  “My vote, too,” Cordy said, and turned on her colleagues, as if daring them to contradict her. No one did.

  “Well I ain’t much of a leader,” Targ said, “so I’ll just have to do what comes natural. Councilor Moary, reckon you can organize this rabble and bring ’em up here without too much squabbling?”

  Old Moary straightened up, his joints cracking and popping. “Consider it done.”

  “Councilor Cordana,” Targ said. “Make sure we have enough supplies for a long haul. We’re gonna need to make sure it’s rationed. Just the essentials, mind. Don’t want no wasted load.”

  Cordy immediately turned to the crowd and started collecting volunteers.

  “And someone make sure those baresarks bring Jaym a
long,” Targ said. “I’ve a feeling we’re gonna need him.” He made his way down the slope, while all around, the dwarves were charged with activity.

  The councilors were in among them, forming teams and issuing orders, doing what they should do, rather than wasting weeks and months on endless circular debates that served nothing but the status quo.

  Targ stopped at a cart and pulled down a large sack that clanked when it hit the ground.

  “Said I’d got something for you,” he said when he reached Nameless, “and I reckon now’s about as good a time as any.”

  He reached inside the sack and drew out a chainmail hauberk. The links were well oiled and glistening. There were breaks in the chains here and there, where the armor had turned a blade or two, no doubt.

  “It was your pa’s, son, from afore he took to the mines for a living. Gave it to me when I was down on tokens. Told me to barter it for grub. He was a good bloke, your pa. Best I ever knew.”

  Nameless felt a tremor pass through his limbs as he touched the cold metal. He saw a fleeting vision of his father with tears in his eyes. It was the last time Droom had read from the family roll of names, like he always did on Nameless’s birthday, which was also the memorial of his ma’s death. Thumil had been there. Cordy, too. And then he saw Lucius. Poor Lucius, so bright and yet so foolhardy. Lucius who had started all that crazy black axe business and paid for it with his life.

  “How come you still have it?” he asked.

  “Shame, I guess,” Targ said. “This old armor meant a lot to Droom, I could tell that. Yet he parted with it so a mate could eat. A stupid mate, who’d wasted all his tokens at the seven card table. I made a promise to myself that day, a promise I keep even now. I gave up the cards, and I kept the armor as a reminder. I offered him it back once, but he told me to keep it, give it to someone who needed it more than I did. Well, that’s what I’m doing now. Not only that, I’m giving it to the bloke it should rightly belong to.”

  “Thank you,” Nameless said. “This means—”

  “That ain’t all,” Targ said, reaching back into the sack and drawing out a horned helmet. “Your pa’s lucky helm. Like the mail, it’s yours now.”