Carnifex (Legends of the Nameless Dwarf Book 1) (17 page)

“Forgive me. I’ve said too much already. Just know, whatever happens, that
 
I am trying. Have trust, and I will see you through, one way or the other. You are far too valuable to lose.”

“Lucius,” Carnifex said. He felt the burn of tears welling at the corners of his eyes, but they wouldn’t fall. “Does Lucius know?”

Aristodeus turned back to the table, his gaze lingering on the scarolite helm. When he replied, he sounded distracted, thinking about something else. “He’s gone to the mines, to help bring back the… to bring your pa home.”

“How?” Carnifex said. He didn’t intend it, but his voice came out tinged with anger. “How did you know?”

“They sent a runner.”

“And you were here… in the guest room?”

Aristodeus traced the lines of the engraved “Thanus” on the helm. “What? No, I never like to impose. I let myself in and out, same as always. If you must know, I’ve been making enquiries, about the golem, about your brother’s obsession with the Axe of the Dwarf Lords, and about this helm.”

“That’s my mother’s. Who said you could touch it? My pa?” Mention of Droom caused Carnifex’s guts to clench. The breath caught in his throat, and he fought back a sob.

Aristodeus steepled his fingers and drew in a long, slow breath. “You have to understand, Carnifex, difficult times are upon us. We must be prepared.”

“For what?”

“Everything. I don’t expect you to understand, but this is a pivotal moment.”

“More of your patterns?”

Aristodeus nodded, then fished about in his robe for his pipe. He popped it in his mouth, realized he hadn’t filled it, and instead took it out again and wagged it as he spoke.

“I’ll be honest with you. More than patterns. Glimpses. Snatches of the future. But which future is still to be determined.”

“You know a dwarf called Stupid?” Carnifex said. “Because he sounds a lot like you.”

The widening of Aristodeus’s eyes betrayed that he did.

“What does he mean,” Carnifex said, “‘some names are best forgotten’?”

The philosopher’s mouth hung open. “Is that what he told you? What else did he say?”

“That I had to forget in order to find the truth of who I am, and ‘Beware the wiles of the Demiurgos’.”

“Forget,” Aristodeus muttered, “to find the truth.” He glanced at Carnifex. “Of who you are, or what you will become?”

“And that is?” Carnifex said.

Aristodeus closed his eyes. He rested one hand atop the scarolite helm, and with the other, he put his pipe back in his pocket. “Anything I say to you, any careless word, could play into the enemy’s hands.”

“What enemy?”

“No one you need concern yourself about.”

“What enemy?” Carnifex repeated. He pushed himself to his feet.
 

“Who do you think it is your precious Council has been afraid of all these centuries?”

“Maldark the Fallen. They don’t want to make the same mistake he did.”

Aristodeus shook his head. “Beyond Maldark. What was the reason for his fall?”

“Sektis Gandaw, the Technocrat.”

“Beyond him,” Aristodeus said. “The root of all deception, all hubris, all megalomania.”

“The Demiurgos? That’s your enemy? A myth?”

“I thought the same as you, for a very long time. But things change. Knowledge grows.” He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “People change.”

“I don’t need this,” Carnifex said. He turned back to the hearth and snatched up the kettle. “I just want my shogging…” His hand trembled, and he had to set the kettle down with a clang. “I just want my kaffa. Is that too much to ask?” His lips quivered, and hot tears streaked down his cheeks.

Aristodeus half rose from his chair, but Carnifex held up a hand.

“Don’t. Just stay where you are.”

“One more thing,” Aristodeus said, sitting down again. “One more thing, and I’ll say no more. Promise me you’ll do nothing rash. Whatever happens in the next few days, take Stupid’s advice: beware. If Lucius asks you to do anything, come to me first.”

“Shog off,” Carnifex said.
 

“I mean it. I’m trying to help him. Guide him, so he doesn’t get blindsided. Everything is in flux, but the future I’ve seen… it doesn’t end well. Not for you, not for him, and not for Arx Gravis.”

“And what about the future my pa spoke about? The one the homunculus prophesied?”

Aristodeus rolled his eyes.

“He said that through me and Lucius our people would become like the Dwarf Lords of legend.”

“Yes, dead!” Aristodeus said. “Isn’t that what happens in the story? The Destroyer came among them, and the city of Arnoch sank beneath the waves, never to be seen again.”

That wasn’t what Droom had meant. He’d said hope would arise from his boys. Only, it was hard to see how? What hope could they offer Arx Gravis? Carnifex knew what he was: a half-decent brawler with an appetite for ale. And Lucius was little better, only his appetite was for things to stuff his face with. About the only good thing about them both was Droom, and now even he was gone.

“I’m not listening to any more of your nonsense,” Carnifex said. “I’m off.”

“Where?” Aristodeus said. “Where are you—?”

“To the mines. To a tavern. How the shog should I know? All I know is I can’t stand another second in your company.”

“Then I’ll leave. This is your house, after all.” Aristodeus stood and turned to go, but at the same instant, the front door banged open, and footsteps came down the hall.

“Do you want me to…?” Aristodeus said.

“No. Sit back down, and stay out of this. This is family business.”

Carnifex went out into the hall. The tail end of a procession passed into the hearth room. Rugbeard was at the back, and he turned to look at Carnifex with red-rimmed eyes.

“I’m sorry, son. Really, I am.”

Carnifex made his way down the hall as if he were still dreaming his dream of blood. Every step was like wading through an oozing canal of crimson. He wanted to say something to Rugbeard, felt like he was the one that should be doing the consoling. In the end, all he could manage was a pat on the old dwarf’s shoulder, and then he entered the hearth room.

Four miners stood up from the stretcher bearing Droom that they’d just set down on the floor. Lucius was there, too, back to the door. He was staring into the cold hearth. He’d not even taken the time to get dressed: he had on his night robe and slippers, caked over with a layer of dust from the mines. He turned slowly, as if he were dreading doing so. His eyes met Carnifex’s, and his chin began to tremble beneath his beard. The lenses of his spectacles had steamed up from the temperature change coming indoors.

“Carn?” he said, sounding almost bemused. “Oh, Carn.”

Carnifex crossed the room and embraced him. Lucius shook and shuddered as he sobbed. Carnifex felt the pressure to cry building up within him, too, but something was blocking the tears from falling as freely as Lucius’s—anger, fear, dread; he couldn’t tell, his emotions were so tangled up. All of them, maybe. And then he knew; knew what it was that had him choking on his own grief: it was abandonment he was afraid of. The fear of being alone. Shog, he’d never have believed it before this day, but it’s something his mother had left him: a gaping void, into which he’d have pitched long ago, had Droom not been there to steady him.

He clung to Lucius even tighter, and the tears began to fall. They were all they had left now: two brothers, like chalk and cheese.

“It’s all right, Carn,” Lucius said, holding him out at arm’s length and sniffing back his snot. “It’s going to be all right.” He shook with another bout of sobbing, but then clamped down on his tears with iron resolve. “You’ve still got me, brother. We have each other.”

Carnifex nodded, wiped away his tears, but they continued to stream down his cheeks. He turned away, looked down at the stretcher. They’d covered Droom with a tarp.

“You want to see him, son?” one of the miners asked.

They all looked distraught, and most were covered head to foot in rock dust, so much so, they reminded Carnifex of the golem.

He shook his head; felt Lucius’s hand on his shoulder, reassuring him it was all right not to look.

“Apparently,” Lucius said in a shaky voice, “some of the miners heard more thuds, deep down, just before the…” He teared up again, and a miner finished for him.

“Shook the whole mine, they did. Never heard the like.”

Rugbeard was leaning against the wall beside the door. He was looking at his feet as he said, “I have. It was the same thing as before. I only hung around after the night watch because they was one lad short. I might be an old drunkard, but I can still work a seam. Only wish they’d given me the eighth level, instead of Droom. Then your pa might still have come home without needing to be carried.”

He looked round as Cordy and Thumil bustled into the room. Thumil was in his nightshirt, his hair an unkempt mess, and Cordy… she was still wearing the dress she’d had on last night. The purplish marks left by the baresark’s fingers stood out on her neck.
 

Cordy made a beeline for Carnifex and hugged him. Her tears soaked into his shirt, but his own were all dried up. He felt numb, and could barely bring himself to pat her lightly on the back.

Thumil embraced Lucius, and then caught Carnifex’s eye. He’d been crying, too, by the look of him, but there was something else: He wasn’t just sad; he seemed regretful, like it was somehow his fault. Carnifex wanted to ask him what it was, but before he could muster the words, Thumil turned away and knelt down beside the stretcher. He put a hand atop the tarp and shut his eyes, lost in memories.

When Aristodeus popped his head into the room, Lucius went straight over to him and began to talk in animated frenzy. Aristodeus nodded in agreement with whatever he was saying, but every now and again flashed a look at Carnifex.
 

“Thumil came to get me,” Cordy was explaining, “after the Red Cloaks woke him with the news.”

He gently eased himself past her and edged toward the door.

“I tell you,” Lucius was saying, “we’re running out of time. We need the axe.”

Aristodeus shook his head. “It was an accident. A cave-in.”

“No,” Lucius said. “No. They heard thumping in the deep.” He turned to the miners. “Tell him.”

Thumil stood, and the miners all looked to him, as if awaiting permission to speak.

“First things first, son,” Thumil said. “We need to take care of your pa.”

When Lucius started to object, Carnifex said, “Brother, it’s too fresh. Now isn’t the time. Pa’s dead. Let’s see him to his rest, eh, laddie?”

Lucius closed his eyes and nodded. “Forgive me, Carn. I’m just… I’m just…”

“You both are,” Aristodeus said. “Carnifex is right, Lucius. Take care of your pa, then take care of each other. Don’t worry about me; there’s no need to keep taking me to the Scriptorium. There are plenty of things I still need to do.”

“Glad to hear it,” Cordy said. “Did you know Droom? Because we all did, and if it’s all the same to you, we’d like to be alone with him now.”

“I knew him,” Aristodeus said, but he was already backing out of the room. To Lucius, he said, “Is it all right if I borrow the scarolite helm for a bit. I wanted to run some tests.”

“Yes, yes, whatever,” Lucius said, but he was already passing among the miners who’d carried Droom home, shaking each by the hand and nodding his thanks.

“Lose it, and I’ll cut your hands off,” Carnifex said.

Aristodeus flashed him an angry look, but then he was gone.

“There’s something I’d like to read,” Thumil said, plucking his book from the pocket of his nightshirt. Cordy must have been right: he probably slept with it.

Lucius nodded, and everyone linked hands and formed a circle around the body of Droom Thane, née Screebank. Arx Gravis would never see his like again, Carnifex felt sure of it.

ORPHANS

They held the pyre for Droom on a plaza at the very top of the city, close to the tunnel he’d passed through on his way to the mines most mornings. A light drizzle had dampened the wood and sent up more smoke than they’d have liked. Some dwarves muttered about the sooty clouds being seen above the ravine, maybe drawing unwanted attention from the denizens of Malkuth, but Carnifex insisted they go on, and no one had a mind to refuse him.
 

It was a good turnout, and even a couple of the councilors were in attendance—Old Moary, who’d known Droom all his life, and apparently even delivered him from his mother’s womb; and Councilor Dorley, who’d come out of respect for Lucius, with whom he’d collaborated on a paper or two. A platoon of Red Cloaks was there out of respect. Droom had served briefly, before going to work permanently in the mines and giving away his helm and warhammer.

As the last of the smoke plumed into the overcast skies, Rugbeard presented Carnifex with a bottle of
Urbs Sapientii
mead.

“My contribution to the wake, son,” he said.

Carnifex thanked him, and passed the drink to Cordy to take care of. It reminded him too much of the birthday present he’d never received. And now, he never would.

Rugbeard gave Lucius a clothbound book with a rigid cover. “The rest of them are waiting for you back home,” he said. “A complete set of the
Annals
I copied myself. Took me close to fifty years. This here’s the volume you keep harping on about. The one you’ve been studying.”

“You wrote out the complete
Annals
?” Lucius said, already flicking through the crisp, yellowish pages. “By hand?”

“How else would I do it?”

“But this is… This is too much. Thank you, Rugbeard. I don’t know what to say.”

“Just read them, son. Read them proper-like.”

“Wait a minute,” Lucius said. He was scanning a page over and over. He jabbed at it with his finger. “There’s no mention of golems here. No mention of the Axe of the Dwarf Lords being lost in Gehenna.”

Rugbeard cocked his head. “Like I said, someone must have tampered with the original. Only mention of the
Pax Nanorum
’s in the legends of Arnoch in volume one, when the axe went down with the city. Still, I could be wrong. As everyone keeps telling me, the booze has probably rotted my brain, and these old eyes don’t see as good as they used to. If you do decide to sneak out of the city and look for the axe in the bowels of Gehenna, I’ll give you a clue: it’ll be the one with the twin golden blades that shine like the suns, and returns to your hand when you throw it.”