Carnifex (Legends of the Nameless Dwarf Book 1) (12 page)

“No they didn’t,” Lucius said. “That’s a misreading of the Annals. You have to know the genre before you give too much credence to what a particular volume says. I should know. It’s what I specialize in: the liminal spaces between myth and reality, between legend and lore.”

“So, no nameless dwarves, is that what you’re saying?” Aristodeus said. “No punishment worse than death?”

“Purely literary,” Lucius said. “You seriously think the Founders had the ability to take a name out of time?”

“Not by themselves,” Aristodeus said. “They were aided by the homunculi, creatures of chaos and deception made from the same material that constitutes the Abyss, where time has no meaning. They have the lore to alter time, believe me. I’ve seen first hand. But for something like name-stripping, something so localized, they’d have needed a buffer, something that could weather forces inimical to Aethir; and something that could insulate the victim, so that only he was affected and no one else.”

“Aye,” Rugbeard said. “Scarolite’s what the
Annals
say. Did you not read that bit, Lucius?”

 
“Of course I read it. A helm of scarolite’s all that’s mentioned. Nothing about how the stripping was done. All Aristodeus says has no basis in the
Annals
. Some passages are not meant to be taken literally. And even if it were possible to remove a name from time, why would you even want to?”

“When your population is in peril of extinction,” Aristodeus said, “as would have been the case for the refugees of Arnoch—”

“Oh, please!” Lucius said. “And you call yourself a philosopher.”

“Who decides what’s myth and what’s history?” Rugbeard said. “You? My view: that story’s more credible than the flying axe you set so much store by.”
 

“What I was trying to say,” Aristodeus said, “was that they needed some alternative to the execution of criminals.”

 
“Aye,” Rugbeard said. “So, try not to be obtuse, Lucius. You know the tale. Times were lean. Crime was rife. Bloody crime. And yet the Founders couldn’t afford to lose a single dwarf. It was bad enough if someone was murdered. Doubly bad if you had to kill the killer, too. But the name-stripping was deemed worse than death by just about everyone. It took away a dwarf’s lineage. These nameless dwarves would have become pariahs of no social standing, living apart from the main populace, but at least they would have lived. Generations later, when the population was stable, the practice was banned.”

Violent criminals, outcast from dwarven society. Carnifex started to get an idea of his own. He opened his mouth to speak but closed it again. He’d seen how these debates went with Lucius. He’d be a laughing stock, or simply snubbed. But he thought he was onto something, nevertheless. It would explain why the baresarks lived like they did; why they had no traditions or heritage, no roll call of family names.

He looked out toward the headframe instead of throwing his idea into the discussion. It looked like Thumil was commandeering the housing at its base as a field hospital. The injured were carefully carried inside, whereas the dead were simply covered in their cloaks and, for now, left where they had fallen.

“So, why isn’t there any record of it?” Lucius said. “Besides the vague account in the
Annals
? Myth is woolly, Rugbeard; history is packed with details that can be verified. If name-stripping really happened, why is there no mention of who it was done to?”

Aristodeus slapped himself in the forehead. “Because the names were taken out of time, you nincompoop!”

“And if there’s no names,” Rugbeard explained, “there would have been no record of them. Even if there had been before the name was stripped.”

“Which of course makes no sense,” Aristodeus said, “while making perfect sense.”

“Come on, Kal,” Carnifex said. He started to head out into the cavern to see if there was anything he could do to help, but then something else struck him, and unfortunately, Aristodeus seemed to be the best person to ask. “What if there are more of them? More golems in the mines?”

Aristodeus glanced at Lucius and then back at Carnifex. “Judging by the passages Lucius showed me, I’d say it’s very likely. Or at least likely more will come.”

“And how are we supposed to stand against them? What if they attack the city?”

“Why do you think our ancestors had the Axe of the Dwarf Lords?” Lucius said.

“They didn’t,” Rugbeard said. “That’s just a myth.”

“Then how do you explain this?” Lucius held the open book beneath Rugbeard’s nose. “I found this yesterday, something I’ve suspected was in the
Annals
for quite some time. You see, there’s more than just the mythical passages about Arnoch that mention the
Pax Nanorum
—the Axe of the Dwarf Lords. This here is from the time of the Founders, and it mentions the axe in the context of incursions from Gehenna: golems, just like the one we’ve seen here today.”

“Then, the
Annal
s have been altered,” Rugbeard said.

“How?” Lucius said. “Look at the page, the binding. It’s all intact, all consistent. I’d say it’s more likely you just missed it, while you were skipping the denser sections in search of good yarns with which to bolster your waning popularity.”

Rugbeard’s face reddened. He clenched his jaw and looked like he was about to explode.

“Bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?” Carnifex said. “That you should just stumble across a reference to golems in the mines, and then one happens to appear.”

“Coincidences happen,” Aristodeus said. “And no, there’s no magical connection, if that’s what you’re implying. Sometimes, I think dwarves will believe anything, so long as it isn’t the truth.”

“What’s important to me,” Lucius said, “is that if the golems are for real, then it’s likely the Axe of the Dwarf Lords is, too. The last mention in the
Annals
is of it being lost in Gehenna, when the Founders pursued the golems after a particularly nasty incursion. Apparently, no one returned.”

Carnifex looked round at the Red Cloaks milling about the cavern, checking the fallen to see which ones to carry to the field hospital, and which to leave beneath their cloaks. Some wept freely. Most would have known each other. He should have been with them, not listening to Lucius and Aristodeus spouting their nonsense. So what if their theories were true? It didn’t help those who had fallen. Didn’t help their families to grieve their losses.
 

But a nagging thread of worry had woven its way into the back of his mind. He wished he could shrug it off, but it was already taking root.
 

Coincidence.
 

Despite his protestations to the contrary, the philosopher didn’t believe any such thing. There was design here. Unseen forces were at play. First the homunculus breaking into the Scriptorium, and now a golem, a creature made by the homunculi, entering the mines. What if Lucius was right, and there really was an Axe of the Dwarf Lords? If the golems were coming again in force, would the dwarves need to find the axe if they were to have any chance of surviving the onslaught?

Thumil’s golden helm was bobbing back through the mass of Red Cloaks. Before Carnifex could lead Kal to go and meet him, a sniveling voice had him turning back toward Aristodeus, Lucius, and Rugbeard.

“You know, I don’t believe in coincidences, either,” Baldar Kloon said, emerging from the throng with two other Black Cloaks flanking him.

“Oh?” Aristodeus said.

“Explain to me, philosopher, how it’s all peace and quiet round here, then you show up and this happens.”

“You think I had something to do with it?” Aristodeus sounded both incredulous and angry.

“Either that, or you knew what was about to happen,” Kloon said.

“What, and then came for a front row seat?” Aristodeus said. “That really is the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard today.”

And yet Carnifex couldn’t help wondering if Kloon had a point. All that talk about seeing patterns, and yet when everyone else was starting to discern one, Aristodeus played the coincidence card. But why? What would he have to gain from being here when the golem attacked? If anything, his presence had been crucial. If he’d not shared the secret of cutting out the letter and changing ‘truth’ into ‘death’, the creature might still be on the rampage. But all that did was make it likely the philosopher was a force for good, rather than the menace Kloon seemed to imply. Or was he? Clearly, Aristodeus knew a lot more than he was willing to let on.

“Either way, you two are coming with us,” Kloon said, indicating for his men to arrest Aristodeus and Lucius.

“Now don’t be absurd,” Lucius said, starting to back away.

Kloon grabbed him by the collar. “Absurd, is it, fatso?”

Carnifex stepped in and punched Kloon so hard his head snapped back, and he pitched to the floor.

The other two Black Cloaks drew their swords.
 

Kal moved to intercept them.

“That’s enough!” Thumil yelled, jogging toward them.

The Black Cloaks hesitated, each eyeing the other for what they should do next.

Carnifex hefted his pickaxe to his shoulder and advanced on them.

They both retreated a pace.

“Marshal,” Aristodeus said, “there seems to have been a misunderstanding.”

“I’ll say.” Thumil glowered at the Black Cloaks, and they visibly wilted.

“Pick Kloon up and take him with you. Councilor Grago will get my report on this incident, mark my words.”

They did as he told them, and carried the unconscious Kloon up onto the platform and toward the train.

“Suppose you want me to drive the shoggers,” Rugbeard grumbled, not even waiting for an answer as he shuffled after them.

“Diplomatic as ever, eh, Carn?” Thumil said.

“He grabbed my brother.”

Lucius nodded his thanks and his relief. “I didn’t know you cared.”

“I don’t,” Carnifex said. “But it brought a tear to my eye when he called you fatso.”

Lucius sucked in his gut. “Is it that bad?”

“Laddie,” Carnifex said, “you’re the scholar of the family, the font of all knowledge. You don’t need me to tell you.”

Lucius frowned and worried his lip. “Best lay off the pies, then.”

“Right,” Thumil said. “No need for you boys to hang around here.” He clapped Kal on the shoulder and narrowed his eyes with approval at Carnifex. “You did well, and you should get yourselves cleaned up. When I’m finished here, I’ll need to debrief you before I make my report to the Council.” He let out a long sigh, looking suddenly weary. Whether from the incident, or the prospect of another grilling by the Council, it was hard to say. “And Carn,” he added, “Don’t forget Cordy’s bash tomorrow night.”

—The launch of the new beer.

“Sorry, Kal,” Thumil said. “You’re on duty, but life, as they say, goes on. It’ll take more than a golem and the shogging Krypteia to stop what she has planned. Kunaga’s Ale House at suns down, Fexy. Don’t be late.”

KUNAGA’S HOUSE OF ALE

Kunaga was a legendary hero and a baresark to boot, a rare example of what the wild dwarves could become when they cooperated with civilization. The tavern was aptly named, Carnifex thought as he pushed through the ironbound door: you needed to be a hero to survive such a den of violence and iniquity as Kunaga’s House of Ale. Either that, or a Ravine Guard. He and Thumil frequently came to the lower levels to unwind after a day’s work, and though the locals didn’t exactly like it, they’d grown used to it, and tolerated their presence.

Thumil was already on his third mead when Carnifex found him at the bar. Normally, they’d have come together, but tonight, Thumil had insisted on helping Cordy set up for the launch of her family’s new beer. The Kilderkins had been preparing for weeks, and had arranged for a coordinated tapping of kegs in select taverns about the city. Most were on the upper levels, where her aunts and uncles did the majority of their trade. Her cousins took the middle tiers, and Cordy got Kunaga’s, as near to the bottom of the ravine as a half-decent dwarf would dare venture. Still, Cordy didn’t seem to mind. If anything, she’d already made herself at home.

She was down the far end of the bar, telling the landlord, Brol Farny, how to do his job. Farny was a scut and a shogwit, but he knew how to tap a keg and pour a flagon of ale without spilling a drop. Nevertheless, Cordy had him cowed like a mangy cur, and he was hooked on her every word, no matter how many times she repeated herself.

Thumil ordered a mead for Carnifex, and as the bar wench poured it and plonked it down on the counter, he raised an eyebrow and shook his head.

“I tried telling Cordy Kunaga’s was too rough a shunt-hole for her to promote the family beer. It would have made more sense for her Uncle Gornon to set up here and give her some swanky tavern on the seventh.”

Carnifex snorted a laugh and took a slurp of mead. “She listen?”

“What do you think?”

Cordy chose that moment to shove Farny out of the way so she could heft a keg of ale onto the counter. Farny started to cuss her out, but bit his tongue when she eviscerated him with a glare.

“Well, laddie, I have to say, she seems to have blended in rather well.”

Thumil watched her with evident admiration. “Always said she had a trickle of baresark blood in her. Anyone so much as looks at her the wrong way, they’ll be cleaning their teeth with a brush up the backside.”

“Aye, she was the terror of the
Ephebe
, that’s for sure.”

“Listen, son,” Thumil said. He nodded to the bar wench, and she bent down, coming up with a double-bladed axe held in both hands. The blades gleamed from where they’d been polished to mirror-brightness, and the haft glistened from a recent oiling. Thumil took it from her and lay it on the bar. “Consider it a late birthday present. Can’t bear seeing you axe-less, and the thought of you with a spear or a sword is enough to make my beard molt.”

“Thank you, laddie. I was starting to wonder what I’d use. My pa insisted on taking the scarolite pick to work with him this morning. Said they don’t have enough to go around as it is.”

Thumil took a long pull on his mead, then turned on his stool to watch the people coming in. It was still early, but Kunaga’s was already filling up.