Carnifex (Legends of the Nameless Dwarf Book 1) (18 page)

“Are you mocking me?” Lucius said.

“Course not, son. Course not. You take care now, the both of you.”

Carnifex peered over his brother’s shoulder at the page as Rugbeard made his way through the funeral crowd.

“You can’t just insert a passage in the
Annals
,” Lucius muttered. “Do you have any idea how old the originals are? It would stick out like a sore thumb.”

“Maybe the homunculus altered it,” Carnifex suggested. “When he broke into the Scriptorium.”

“Oh, really?” Lucius said. “And brought with him some aged parchment, faded ink, and waxed thread to stitch it?”

Carnifex shrugged and looked around for Cordy’s take on it, but she’d moved away while he was talking to Rugbeard, and was deep in conversation with Thumil. He shrugged, and had another stab himself. “Don’t homunculi have some fancy lore? You know, magic or science or something?”

“Just because you loved Pa dearly,” Lucius said, “doesn’t mean you need to believe every word he said. Those were children’s stories he read us.”

Carnifex was about to contradict him. “What about the homunculus who’d broken into the Scriptorium?” he was going to say. “The wand it had, and the disk?” Surely they constituted lore as tangible as the pies Lucius liked so much. But something changed in his brother’s demeanor. Lucius sighed with what sounded like resignation; or perhaps it was grief, pure and simple. For once, he didn’t seem to have the will to argue.

Lucius rapped his knuckles on Carnifex’s head. “We’re grown up now, Brother. Big boys.” His cheek twitched, and his eyes brimmed with tears. “Orphans.”

Carnifex pulled him into a hug. “I know, Lucius. I know.”

He felt Lucius’s distraction, and looked up to see Aristodeus lurking at the edge of the plaza. The philosopher had a bulging canvas bag over one shoulder. At first, Carnifex thought there was a boulder inside it, but then he recalled Aristodeus taking the scarolite helm.

“I’m sorry, Carn,” Lucius said, breaking away from him. “I agreed to meet him after the pyre.”

“He can’t leave you alone for one minute? Even for Pa’s funeral?”

Lucius was already walking toward Aristodeus, but he threw back over his shoulder, “He just wanted to tell me what he’s been up to… with Ma’s helm. I won’t be long. I’ll see you at the wake.”

As the rest of the attendees dispersed, Carnifex saw Cordy leaving along with them. Maybe she’d lost sight of him in the crowd, but she didn’t even wave. Thumil, though, made his way over. He was resplendent in his golden helm and red cloak, his broad sword hanging at his hip.

When he saw Carnifex watching Cordy’s departure, he explained, “She’s got to set up the booze for tonight. Her entire family’s helping out. Your pa was greatly loved. Now, tell me, son, what have you got planned between now and then? Don’t know about you, but I could use a pre-wake wake. It’s been awhile since the two of us had any alone time.”

“You mean without Cordy?”

“Don’t get me wrong, Carn, I love Cordy to bits, but when all’s said and done, she’s not a bloke.”

“You might want to tell her that. She seems to forget sometimes.” Save for when she got all dressed up the night of her beer launch. She was definitely a woman then, and a fine looking one at that.

“What do you say to lunch at Grimark’s, and maybe a mead or two at Bucknard’s after?”

Carnifex sighed. “I don’t know, Thumil. I’m not good company right now.”

“You mean you were before? Come on, son, there’s things I need to talk with you about. Don’t worry, I’m buying. No point me stashing all those tokens under the bed if I don’t get to use them.” He slung an arm over Carnifex’s shoulder and led him toward the walkway. “Goat and mushroom pie, and one of those new-fangled vegetable thingies, washed down with a bottle of red.”

“Wine?” Carnifex said. “You lost your beard, laddie?”

“It’s all the rage,” Thumil said.

“On the seventh level, maybe. Among the shogging councilors.”

As it turned out, Grimark wouldn’t take the tokens from Thumil. Droom used to pick up pies there on a regular basis, and, as a customer, he was going to be greatly missed.
 

Seeing as it was on the house, Thumil ordered himself two pies and a pile of shredded greens. Carnifex had just the one, but besides picking off the crust, he hardly touched it. He had no appetite. The wine was insipid, as far as he was concerned, but Thumil seemed to like it, swilling it under his nose and making all the right appreciative noises.

“How’s it feel now, being just you and Lucius?” he asked when he set his glass down.

“Don’t know,” Carnifex said. “It’s—”

“Too early to say? Too raw? I know son. I know all about that. I ever tell you about how I lost my folks? Oh, it was a long time ago, but you never get used to it. You see, Arx Gravis hasn’t always been as safe as it is now. Back before you were born—before your ma and pa were married, even—we had our share of incursions. The worst of them came from the region around Mount Sartis. Don’t look so surprised. Hardly anyone knows the details, outside the Council, the Black Cloaks, and whoever happens to be marshal. I think they’d rather keep it an even tighter secret, but if the marshal of the Ravine Guard is in the dark, he can’t very well be prepared for every potential threat, can he?

“The Voice back then was, shall we say, on the progressive side. He argued persuasively that it was time to cast off the shackles Maldark’s betrayal had forced us to wear. Plans were afoot for more settlements, and then came an even more audacious proposal: Some scholar or other, not dissimilar to your Lucius, drew the Voice’s attention to the passages in the
Annals
about the Dwarf Lords harnessing energy from volcanoes for their crafting, their work with scarolite, and shog knows what else. Without going to the people, the Council set the project in motion, and all the sappers and soldiers they sent were sworn to secrecy. Well, it was the first and probably the last time the Council thought they could steer a course out of the ravine and back into the world above.”

Carnifex found he couldn’t meet Thumil’s eyes, no matter how hard he tried. Instead, he was fixated on the ruby wine in his glass. He swilled it around, and as he studied the ripples, his heart began to thud in his chest. For an instant, he looked once more upon the reflection he’d seen in the Scriptorium window the day of the break-in: his own blood-soaked face staring back at him with anguished eyes. No, not anguished: frenzied, like a baresark’s, only worse. Eyes consumed with madness and rage.

“… must have disturbed them when we started to engineer the lava vents,” Thumil was saying.

“Hmm?”

“Goblins. Thousands of the shoggers. Slaughtered our people on site at Mount Sartis, then made their way here and started pouring down the lip of the ravine. If it hadn’t been for your ma, Carn, and how she rallied the Red Cloaks…” He raised his glass to his lips, went to take a sip, but paused. “My pa was in the fore of the battle. So was my ma. Back then, more of the womenfolk were in the Guard, but after the attack, the Council realized we couldn’t afford to lose any more, if we were to survive as a race. You knew that, right? Course you did: your ma was marshal.”

Carnifex met his eyes then. “She was?”

“You didn’t know? Droom didn’t tell you?”

“He told us she trained the Ravine Guard. He never said she was in charge.”

Thumil took a sip, then another, and then he drained the glass. “Guess he had his reasons. Knowing your ma, she told him not to speak about it. Folk wanted a ceremony to honor her for what she did that day, but she wouldn’t have it. She blamed herself, see. Blamed herself for the people we lost. Instead of accepting a medal, she resigned her commission.
 

“I was only starting out in the Guard at the time, but I still remember. I wanted to blame her too, because it wasn’t just my pa the goblins killed. When my ma saw him fall, she lost it, they say.” He poured himself another wine, spilling drops over the side of his glass from where his hand shook so much.
 

“She fought her way to him, but it was already too late. And then she went down, too. They found her body lying over Pa’s, still trying to protect him.
 

“I wasn’t even out of basic training, so I was posted on the seventh level, in case the goblins reached the Dodecagon. When they told me, the only thing I felt was anger. I blamed everyone I could, and no one as much as your ma. But when she came to me—when the marshal of the Ravine Guard came to me, a lowly nobody—and wept for my ma and pa, and for everyone else she’d lost that day, I held her and hugged her and knew in my heart she was a great woman. More than that: she embodied all that’s best in us dwarves.”

Carnifex was spellbound. While he couldn’t takes his eyes off of Thumil, his imagination was running wild, conjuring images of battle, of valor, of blood, death, and triumph. He tried to picture the woman in Durgish Duffin’s painting, armored, bloodied, but ripping into the enemy like a goddess of war, doing everything she could to save her people.

“So,” Thumil said, “I know what it’s like to be orphaned. Cordy does, too.”

“Aye,” Carnifex said. “Aye, she does that.” Her pa had wasted away before her very eyes. Her ma had sacrificed everything in a vain effort to nurse him back to health, and when he’d finally given up the ghost, she’d followed soon after. It was said she’d died of exhaustion, but everyone knew it had been a broken heart.

“And, no matter how much time passes,” Thumil said, “I’m still an orphan. No family of my own. No brother, like you have. I used to wonder if I’d die alone, with no heir to leave behind.”

“Don’t be silly, Thumil. I’m sure some old trollop will have you. What about one of your whores?”

Thumil laughed, but it wasn’t his usual deep belly-laugh. “Son, I’ve never visited a whore in my life, and I never will. But seriously, you’re young, and well-liked, Carn. You’ll bounce back from this. The key is learning how to make your suffering count for something; how to offer it up for a higher cause.”

Carnifex wrinkled his nose, and when Thumil reached into his pocket for the
Liber Via
, he groaned and rolled his eyes.

“You want to read this, Carn. I tell you, it’s changed me… for the better, I hope.”

“Maybe one day, Thumil, but not today.”

Thumil returned the book to his pocket and gave a knowing smile. “Good enough for me, son.”

“But I should tell you,” Carnifex said, “nothing in that book of yours is going to convert me from beer to wine.”

Conversation turned to Maldark, and how the scriptures had shaped him; how he’d failed to live up to them in the end. But gradually, Thumil steered them onto discussing the golem incident, and the homunculus breaking into the Scriptorium. When they’d exhausted all avenues of speculation, and come up as confused by the events as ever, about all they could agree on was that the incidents were connected.
 

What was most baffling was Rugbeard’s insistence that the
Annals
had been altered. The
Annals
were so long, not a scholar alive could boast knowing everything they contained, and yet Lucius had a special interest in anything that related to myth and how it impacted upon history. If he was convinced the passages in question were genuine, then they almost certainly were. Yet Rugbeard disagreed, and he knew the
Annals
better than all the current crop of scholars put together—he’d taught them for decades, and Carnifex had just learned he’d copied them with his own hand.
 

“It seems to me,” Thumil said, “the real issue is what the contentious passages contain. I went to the Scriptorium to see for myself, but your brother has that particular volume out on loan.”

“All I know’s what he told me,” Carnifex said. “Repeated incursions by golems, that led to the Founders pursuing them into Gehenna. Apparently, the Founders had brought the Axe of the Dwarf Lords with them from Arnoch.”

“And they lost it in Gehenna,” Thumil said. “That much I got. But do the
Annals
really say the Founders were from Arnoch? I don’t remember the stories saying there were survivors.”

Carnifex shrugged. “I thought that was the point. With the death of the Dwarf Lords, the age of myth came to an end, paving the way for the age of history.”

“There’s something I’m not seeing,” Thumil said. “I’ve a nagging feeling these passages are the key to what’s going on, a portent, a warning.”

“Or a deception,” Carnifex said. “If Rugbeard is to be believed.”

“Then they’re better off left alone, ignored. Or does that make me sound like a councilor? I don’t know, Carn, it’s beyond me. I must be getting old. I certainly feel it after these past few days. And with what I’m learning from the scriptures,”—he slapped the book in his pocket—“with how I’m beginning to change, I’m starting to think I’m not cut out for the Guard anymore.”

“Well,” Carnifex said, pouring what was left of his wine into Thumil’s glass. “With the way you guzzle this hemorrhoid juice, you do have to wonder.”

“Want me to buy you a beer instead?” Thumil said, already waving Grimark over.

“It’d make my day if you ordered one for yourself, too.”

“Two beers, Grimark,” Thumil said. “You have Arnochian?”

“Shog’s that?” Grimark said, wiping his hands on his apron, as if he’d just delivered a calf with them.

“Ballbreakers all right, Carn?”

“Have to be.”

When Grimark shuffled away to fix the beers, Thumil said, “Don’t tell anyone I said this, least not till I’ve made up my mind, but I’m thinking of stepping down as marshal. I’m considering leaving the Ravine Guard.”

“Hurry up with that beer, Grimark,” Carnifex called out. “You’re what? I tell you, Thumil, the sooner you use that book of yours for crapper paper, the better.”

Thumil held up his hand. “No, Carn, it’s not the book. Well, maybe partly it is, but there’s more to it than that. I’ve been meaning to tell you for some time, but I’ve been taking an interest in other things, you know, how the city runs. Not only what needs to be done, but what could be done. And then there’s the other matter I was wanting to talk to you about.” He met Carnifex’s eyes and steepled his fingers on the tabletop. “There’s no easy way to say this. Believe me, I’ve been trying to come up with one for weeks. The thing is, Carn—”