Geas of the Black Axe (Legends of the Nameless Dwarf Book 2)

by D. P. Prior

  “Garnil…” He sought out the weasel. “You’re dead.”

  Before Garnil could react, Nameless threw the black axe, and it came back to his hand bloody.

  “Konin…”

  Konin stood and bowed obsequiously.

  “Second to Councilor Grago.”

  “Castail: token distribution. Let it be known there will be extras for anyone who blows the whistle on dissidents. And work on the appearance. Make them think you really are descended from the Lords of Arnoch.

  “Bley…”

  The enormously fat councilor stood and lowered his eyes. His portliness reminded Nameless of Lucius. It was the only thing that saved him.

  “I like a dwarf who eats more than his fair share. Shows he knows how to get what he wants and rise to the top of the heap. You’ll be quartermaster general to the army.”

  “Army?” Thumil said.

  “Yes, army, Marshal. The one you are about to assemble. I want every serving Ravine Guard ready to march come morning. Not only that, but every able-bodied dwarf, man or woman, who does not directly provide an essential service to the city.” They were all trained at the Ephebe from the age of seven. They could all fight. “The Krypteia will keep watch over those who remain.”

  “But,” Old Moary said. A fine tremor had started up in his fingers. “That would mean thousands leaving the ravine.”

  “And I want thousands, Councilor Moary.”

  Nameless wondered why the old councilor was still alive, what possible use he could be. But then he remembered: it was Moary who’d delivered his pa Droom into the world. Moary had apparently been a surgeon, before the shakes had forced him into retirement. For now, that would have to be good enough to justify his place in the new order.

  “But there is not the armor,” Thumil said. “Nor cloaks, weapons, shields.”

  “Then make do, Marshal. Make do. Tell the new recruits to bring what they have from home. We are dwarves, warriors from the womb to the grave. The Senate of New Londdyr won’t know what’s hit them.”

  Grago coughed into his fist.

  “Yes, Councilor?”

  Grago bowed even lower this time.

  He was good. Out of them all, he was destined for the longest life.

  “What are we to call you? I mean, Nameless Dwarf hardly seems fitting anymore.”

  Nameless thought about that. Grago was right. Nameless Dwarf denoted a criminal, someone convicted of the most heinous crimes. It wasn’t the sort of title to inspire a downtrodden people to greatness.

  Then he remembered something Rugbeard had told him; something the old drunk had found in the Annals, and it seemed suddenly prophetic.

  “You will tell the people the Corrector has come among them. He has come, let them know, so that they may truly live again. That they might rise from the bowels of the earth and stride upon the surface, a new generation of Dwarf Lords.”

  SOUL-FATHER

  Nameless followed Thumil down the steps that wound around the Aorta until they reached the fourteenth level from the top. They were trailed by half a dozen blacked-cloaked Krypteia, not because they were needed, but because they created an impression.

  Thumil carried the golden helm that had been returned to him following Mordin’s demise. He seemed reluctant to put it on. Still, he may have been saving it for when he re-donned the armor and red cloak of the marshal of the Ravine Guard. Certainly, the helm would have looked incongruous above the white robe of the Voice.

  Arx Gravis hadn’t changed at all since Nameless had left. It shouldn’t have surprised him. Save for security, that was: there were noticeably more Red Cloaks patrolling the walkways and plazas on every level they passed, and the Krypteia were much more visible than they had been before.

  Crowds had gathered in response to the horns and whistles that had sounded upon Nameless’s arrival outside the Dodecagon. It was early yet, and many took the opportunity to grab a kaffa and a bite to eat from the stalls set up to feed the miners on their way to work. Dwarves muttered and pointed at Nameless. Their worry was almost palpable in the air.

  There were Black Cloaks either side of Thumil’s front door when they reached the house. There would be more dotted around out of sight. Standard precaution for a Voice and his family. They would have to be recalled, and Thumil could go back to stationing Ravine Guard around his property now that he was marshal again.

  Nameless checked behind. He had the feeling the Krypteia trailing him might any second plunge a knife into his back. It was an irrational fear, swiftly quelled by a whispered voice inside his head.

  They are not stupid. They know they cannot penetrate the Lich Lord’s armor. You are quite safe, so long as you manage these dogs with a firm hand and a rod of iron.

  The Krypteia exchanged looks with each other, and quick glances with those on the door.

  “My Lord Corrector?” one of them said. He was a tough-looking bastard, face carved from stone, hair shaved into a narrow strip that ran across the crown of his head.

  Nameless glared at him through the eye-slit, and the Black Cloak looked back unwaveringly.

  “You are?” Nameless said.

  The Black Cloak clicked his heels and thumped his breast. “Margun, my Lord Corrector. Margun Coalheart.”

  “Coalheart? Is that your real name?”

  “No, my Lord Corrector, it is not. My family name is—”

  “I like Coalheart.”

  “My Lord Corrector.”

  “You believe we can rise as a race, Margun Coalheart?”

  “I do.”

  “You want our enemies crushed, so we can return triumphant to the surface?”

  Coalheart grinned, and the answering glimmer in his eyes showed he’d do whatever it took to make it happen.

  “What do you think I should do with the Council of Twelve?”

  Thumil flinched at that. More looks passed between the Black Cloaks.

  “Whatever you decide, my Lord Corrector, you have my full support,” Coalheart said.

  “And what of you others?” Nameless asked. “What do you think?”

  A dwarf with cheeks cratered by scars from the pox slammed his fist into his palm. “You won’t just get vague pledges of allegiance from me, my Lord Corrector. I tell it as it is.”

  “Oh? And you are?”

  “Kordred. Kordred Kin-killer, they call me, on account of—”

  “Your real name,” Nameless said.

  “But I thought…” Kordred said, glancing at Coalheart.

  Nameless rapped the black axe against the Shield of Warding.

  “Pyrite, my Lord Corrector. Kordred Pyrite.”

  “Pyrite, eh?” Nameless said. “Fools’ gold. So, Kordred Golden-fool, what advice were you going to give me regarding the Council? And do please, as you said, ‘tell it as it is’.”

  Kordred licked his lips and looked to his companions for support. They were mask-faced, and they seemed to imperceptibly shuffle toward Coalheart.

  “It’s no secret, my Lord Corrector. Everyone knows they indulge in endless circular debates and make sure nothing ever changes.”

  He huffed out a sigh, as if to say, “There, I’ve said it.”

  Nameless let the silence hang between them for a dozen heartbeats, then a dozen more. Kordred’s lick-lipping turned to cheek twitching. He gave a nervous cough, wrung sweaty hands together.

  Finally, Nameless turned the great helm on Coalheart.

  “Kill him.”

  Without hesitation, Coalheart lunged at Kordred, got him in a chokehold, and squeezed. Kordred sputtered, Kordred flailed, Kordred weakened, Kordred died.

  And Coalheart went to the top of the class.

  “You have command of the Krypteia, Coalheart,” Nameless said. “Under me, of course.”

  Coalheart clicked his heels again and gave his chest-thumping salute. He really was very good.

  “Right, Marshal,” Nameless said, turning back to Thumil. “Let’s go see this soul-daughter of mine.”


  Nameless pushed the door open. Something else that hadn’t changed: good old fashioned dwarven hospitality, where everyone was always welcome, although some more than others.

  “Thumil?” Cordy’s voice came from down the hall.

  She stepped out of the hearth room, a tiny bundle cradled in her arms.

  She’d gained a little weight, but it looked good on her. Her golden hair was in disarray, her blue gown ruffled and a little stained. The swell of her breasts above the neckline drew his gaze more than it should have. In the past, he would have looked away with shame, but now, he stared with unabashed desire.

  She’s yours, if you want her, the black axe whispered. Who’s going to stop you? Thumil?

  Cordy’s eyes were fixed wide with horror. Instinctively, she pulled the baby closer, shielded its head with her hand.

  Nameless wrenched his eyes away. His pa would never have looked at a woman that way; least no woman but his wife; and she’d have encouraged it, if what folk said was true: that no dwarves ever had greater love than Droom and Yyalla.

  Thumil set his golden helm on the table inside the front door, the same spot he’d reserved for it when he was marshal before. It brought a sense of completion to the house.

  No one moved for a long while. Cordy’s eyes flashed accusation at Thumil, as if she were asking what he was thinking bringing the Butcher to their home, exposing their daughter to this monster.

  Nameless broke the stalemate by slipping his arm out of the Shield of Warding and leaning it against the wall. He was surprised it let him, but maybe it sensed he was safe here. The axe, too, allowed him to set it down, and then he extended his arms and took a step toward Cordy.

  She flinched and drew back.

  “Cordy, it’s all right,” Thumil said. The quaver of his voice didn’t carry the same message, though. “He just wanted to see the baby.”

  She ran her eyes over Nameless, taking in the helm and plate armor that encased him head to foot. Her eyes strayed to the shield, then lingered on the axe.

  “Is he…” she breathed. “Is he all right?”

  Nameless ran his hands over the Lich Lord’s fluted breastplate, gestured at the shield.

  “I was duped before, Cordy. Duped by the homunculi. By the Demiurgos himself. They made me see demons in place of dwarves, and they blinded me to the truth of the axe. Lucius was right all along. This is the true Axe of the Dwarf Lords. The armor, the shield, these gauntlets… they ward me from deception and reveal the true greatness of the axe. It is a gift to us, Cordy, the means to raise us from the ravine to take our place upon the surface once more.”

  Cordy looked past his shoulder at Thumil. In her eyes, Nameless read that she thought him mad.

  “I know it’s hard to see, right now. All I ask is your trust, your friendship. Arx Gravis will become a city of heroes, and New Londdyr… New Londdyr will become another Arnoch.”

  She was trembling. He’d never before seen Cordy tremble.

  “Am I scaring you?” he asked in the gentlest voice he could muster.

  She nodded, and the baby snuggled into her breast began to cry.

  “Let me see,” Nameless said. “Babies like me. You remember when Blodd Nowyn had her first? The little dwarflet thought my pecs were udders.”

  He reached for the baby, and Cordy turned her back on him.

  Streamers of shadow arced from the black axe and fired his anger. He clenched his gauntleted hands into fists.

  “What the shog’s wrong with you?”

  Thumil stepped past, got in between them. “Please. Nothing is wrong. She’s just tired. Having the baby, you know, it took its toll. Forgive me, my Lord Corrector, perhaps some other—”

  “Now,” Nameless said. “I want to hold my soul-daughter now.”

  “Yes,” Thumil said. “Of course. Cordy…”

  She turned a glare on him and bared her teeth.

  “Please, Cordy. It will be all right.” Thumil flicked a look at the great helm, as if seeking a guarantee.

  “Of course it will be all right,” Nameless said. “We three are family. Isn’t that what you wanted when you shacked up together? Isn’t that what you said?”

  “That was before,” Cordy said, her voice thick with emotion.

  Thumil placed a hand on her cheek, made her look him in the eye. They were both terrified, Nameless could see that, but it was ridiculous, and he was growing more than a little impatient.

  “I’m not leaving without holding the baby.”

  “Please, Cordy,” Thumil said.

  He pried her arms from the child and held it aloft. He kissed it on the head then passed it to Nameless, eyes not straying, even for a second.

  Nameless gasped as he brought the baby to rest against his breastplate. Instantly, the child stopped crying.

  He couldn’t feel the softness of its skin, its warmth, as there was no part of him free from steel or scarolite. So, he contented himself with gazing down into its rosy face, where the first wisps of beard were already in evidence.

  “Marla, you say?” he said to Thumil.

  “After my grandma,” Thumil said.

  “It is a good name.” Not as good as Yyalla, but he could live with that.

  With great care, he handed baby Marla back to her mother.

  “Congratulations, Cordy. You, too, Thumil. I’m proud of you both.”

  The looks that passed between them were masked, but they both betrayed relief and bewilderment.

  “And I would be honored to be the soul-father, even if belatedly. I take it that’s not going to be a problem.”

  Cordy’s eyes flashed at Thumil, but the marshal put a hand on her arm, and said, “There could be no one else.”

  “Then we must celebrate,” Nameless said. He looked behind at the doorway, where Coalheart stood at the head of his Black Cloaks. “You are not required here, Coalheart. I am among friends. You will wait for me outside.”

  Coalheart saluted and shut the door behind him.

  “I should put the baby down,” Cordy said. “It’s time for her nap.”

  “So soon in the day?” Nameless said.

  “She’s not sleeping at night,” Thumil said, rather too quickly.

  “I see. Well, it’s good to see she’s being cared for so diligently. Very good. Family is important, you know. Sometimes, I think it’s the most important thing we have.”

  Cordy took Marla toward the back of the house, where the bedrooms were, and Thumil led Nameless into the kitchen.

  “It’s tidier than when you lived alone,” Nameless said. Before, there had always been dirty crockery all over the place, but now everything was put away exactly where it should be.

  “That’s Cordy for you,” Thumil said. He sounded more relaxed, but it was forced. Tension oozed from every muscle.

  “It’s sad,” Nameless said, not intending the words to come out. He really meant that: sad that he had fallen so far from his oldest and dearest friends. Sad that they no longer trusted him; that they were scared half to death of him. But he would change that, make them see sense.

  “Sad?” Thumil said. “Me and Cordy, you mean?”

  He stood with his back to Nameless, looking for something to drink on the beer shelf. At least that was the same as Nameless remembered it: fully stocked, and something for every occasion. Except maybe this one.

  The black dog’s pawing took him unawares, but he almost welcomed it. At that moment, he thought he would trade all his newfound power just to be able to remove the helm and drink with Thumil once again, sing bawdy songs together.

  He lowered himself onto a stool at the kitchen counter.

  Then the thought occurred to him: Aristodeus and his homunculi friends must have had a way to reverse the melding of the helm to his flesh. The philosopher had only not done so because, he claimed, removing it would leave Nameless prone to the malice of the axe. So, either Baldilocks had been duped, or he was in on the deception all along, which would be no surprise. Either way,
he would suffer for it. Once the dwarves had taken New Londdyr for their home on the surface, he would send them against the Perfect Peak.

  Thumil turned away from the beer shelf. “I’m sorry. It was thoughtless of me. You can’t drink in that helm, can you?”

  “It is enough for me to watch you drink, old friend,” Nameless said. “Please, select a beer. Wait, is that Urbs Sapientii mead I see? Pour yourself one.”

  “I couldn’t,” Thumil said. “It wouldn’t feel right.”

  “I insist.”

  With tremulous hands, Thumil opened the bottle and poured himself a flagon of golden mead.

  Nameless watched intently as Thumil took a sip and set the flagon down.

  “More, Thumil. It hardly wet your lips.”

  Thumil eyed him nervously, and took a longer pull.

  “Keep going. Drain the flagon.”

  It’s what the marshal would have done in the past. It’s what Nameless would have done, too. The first drink never touched the sides. The second was slower, unless they had a surfeit of tokens and someone was buying a third.

  Thumil drained the flagon and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Pour another.”

  With a barely suppressed sigh, Thumil did so, but he sipped this one more slowly.

  “Sing,” Nameless said.

  “What?”

  “Like in the old days. A bawdy ballad. A shanty. Something to get the blood flowing.”

  “I don’t think I can,” Thumil said.

  “Try.”

  “But Cordy’s just put the baby down.”

  “Ah, yes,” Nameless said. “The baby. Your baby. And hers.”

  The silence that hung between them was broken by the scrape of the axe making its way down the hall. Thumil watched in horror as it slid across the floor and flipped itself onto Nameless’s lap. The Shield of Warding came next, skimming across the flagstones, till it came to rest against his stool.

  “It is good you are a thoughtful father,” Nameless said. “I trust you have been a good husband to Cordy?”

  Thumil had a grim set to his jaw, but he nodded. “I hope so. It has certainly been my intention.”