Carnifex (Legends of the Nameless Dwarf Book 1) (19 page)

The door flew open, and a Black Cloak burst in. He clapped eyes on Thumil, panting heavily, as if he’d run at great speed and for quite some distance.

“Marshal Thumil Stonemage.” He dropped to one knee and bowed.

“You don’t need to bow to me, son,” Thumil said. “I’m not Councilor Grago. We don’t go in for that kind of kowtowing in the Ravine Guard.”

“Sorry, sir, it’s what I was told to do. It was Councilor Grago that sent me. Dythin Rala passed in the night, sir. The Voice is dead.”

Grimark set the tankards down on the table with successive thuds. “What you say?”

The Black Cloak stood. “What I have to say is for the marshal’s ears only.”

“Then sod off outside and talk,” Grimark said. “It’s my pie shop. I’ll shogging well listen to whatever I like.”

“Grimark, please,” Thumil said.

“I’ll sod off for you, Marshal, but not for his kind.” He shot the Black Cloak a glare as he made his way back behind the counter.

“You, too,” the Black Cloak said to Carnifex.

“No,” Thumil said. “Anything you say to me can be said in front of Lieutenant Carnifex.”

“If you say so, sir. Your presence is required at the Dodecagon.”

“Once I’ve finished my lunch,” Thumil said.

“Now, sir. Without delay.”

Suddenly, it seemed Droom’s wake was a matter of insignificance, whereas moments before, it had been the talk of the ravine. Carnifex felt the smoldering coal of resentment burning in his chest. He took a slurp of beer to dowse it, then said, “And that’s so important, you didn’t want me or Grimark to hear it? Or am I missing something, laddie?”

“Marshal,” the Black Cloak said, ignoring him, “I implore you—”

“You hear that, Thumil? He implores you.”

Thumil pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Kryptès…”

“Varn, sir. Kryptès Surl Varn.”

“Kryptès Varn, it’s usual for the incoming Voice to meet with the marshal of the Ravine Guard after his inauguration, not before. Or are you telling me the new Voice has changed tradition already? Who did Dythin Rala nominate? Please tell me it wasn’t Grago.”

 
“You, sir,” the Black Cloak said.

Thumil’s jaw hung slack, and Carnifex spluttered out a mouthful of beer.

“Him?” Carnifex said. “You’re shogging with us, right?”

Thumil apparently didn’t think so. He stood like he was going to his own execution and nodded grimly to Varn. “I’m sorry, Carn. You know I wouldn’t miss Droom’s wake for anything, but in this, I have no choice.”

“Mind if I have your beer?” Carnifex said, reaching across the table for it.

“No, no, not at all,” Thumil said. He sounded lost, vague, as if he didn’t know whether he was coming or going. “I’ll… I’ll do my best to join you later, if I can. Give my apologies to Lucius. Oh, and tell Cordy… Just tell her.”

Varn held the door open for him, and Thumil left without a backward glance.

“What was that all about?” Grimark said, wandering over to the door and peering out after them.

Carnifex shook his head. “Shogged if I know.” But he did know. Not just that Thumil had been made Voice, but that Droom’s wasn’t the only loss he’d have to grieve. It was one thing being mates with the marshal, but quite another fraternizing with the leader of the Council. Right then, the only person he wanted to be around, the only person who could possibly understand how he felt, was Cordy, but she was busy preparing for the wake.

He downed his beer in one, did the same with Thumil’s, then held the empties up to Grimark and ordered himself two more.

THE INAUGURATION

The day of Thumil’s inauguration as Voice, Carnifex was on duty with Kaldwyn Gray. The seventh level plaza garden had been chosen for the ceremony, and rows of bleachers had been erected in the circular glade at the heart of a winding maze of shrubs and trees. The evening air was redolent with honeysuckle and roses, all tended and pruned to perfection by the council’s retinue of gardeners. Through the foliage, the looming walls of the Aorta that housed the Dodecagon provided an austere backdrop to the proceedings. The chatter of insects and the chirping lullabies of the garden’s multitude of birds underlaid the hubbub of expectant voices, not only from the dignitaries filling the bleachers, but from the Ravine Guard dotted throughout the maze in pairs, and the thousands of citizens of Arx Gravis gathered upon every tier of the city for the walkway parties that were shortly to commence. About the only people not talking were the Black Cloaks, a dozen of them in full view behind the thrones lined up facing the bleachers, and no doubt dozens more dotted about all over the place, out of sight.

Carnifex and Kal made a slow tour of the perimeter and took up their allotted positions either side of the colonnaded pathway that led from the Dodecagon. The suns had all but gone from the darkening sky, leaving a thin trail of red edging the walkways above.
 

Carnifex upended his axe and rested his hands atop the haft as he surveyed the seated crowd: the ministers of every tier, along with their families, senior officials, representatives from the major guilds, and the entourage of each of the councilors themselves.
 

In the front row, as Thumil’s sole guest, was Cordy, as close to family as he had. She caught Carnifex’s eye and surreptitiously raised her fingers in a wave. She was even more radiant tonight than she’d been at the beer launch. Her dress was the cobalt of a cloudless sky, and her golden hair was braided with silver bands. Her beard hung in tidy ringlets. The other women in the bleachers looked drab in comparison, and they knew it, judging by the furtive looks they kept sending her way.

Kal gave a low whistle and winked at Carnifex. “You sly old dog. I saw you looking.”

Heat flooded Carnifex’s face, and he shifted his gaze above the seating. The light coming down from the top of the ravine altered as Raphoe took to the sky. Gloaming gave way to shimmering silver that spangled the ravine walls and limned the overhead walkways.
 

Perfectly on cue, the scarolite door of the Dodecagon ground slowly open, and two Black Cloaks marched out onto the colonnaded pathway, with the eleven current members of the Council of Twelve processing behind. At their rear, garbed in the red cloak and golden helm of the marshal of the Ravine Guard, came Thumil, and behind him was the Chamberlain of Arx Gravis, a pristine white robe draped over his arm.

Something dark flittered through the silver light bathing the bleachers. Gasps went up, and Red Cloaks advanced from the fringes of the maze. It was only a bat, though, seeking out an evening meal, and after a few moments of relieved sighs, the onlookers focused their attention once more on the councilors as they took their positions behind the thrones, leaving the one in the middle for Thumil.
 

Carnifex couldn’t see his friend’s face from where he stood behind, but he still felt a swell of pride at Thumil’s bearing as he removed his golden helm and handed it to the chamberlain. Next, Thumil unclasped his red cloak and exchanged it for the white robe the chamberlain was carrying. He put the robe on over his mail hauberk, britches, and boots. He’d explained, symbolically, he needed to retain at least some of his marshal’s uniform until he’d chosen his successor. For now, he would be both Voice and marshal, but only for a day or two. Holding both positions at once was considered too much power. If he didn’t give up one or the other, the rest of the council would make the decision for him, which was one reason, Carnifex supposed, for Councilor Grago having control of the Black Cloaks: it was a balance to the Voice’s hegemony.

Once Thumil had donned and straightened his white robe, he signaled the other councilors to be seated. Immediately, the Black Cloaks behind the thrones drifted closer.
 

Thumil remained standing as the chamberlain gave a short speech introducing him, and then the newly appointed Voice of the Council of Twelve stepped toward the bleachers and recited the oath of office: to put aside personal interests and to serve the greater good of the city; to guard tradition; to ensure fair distribution of tokens; to encourage debate among the Twelve, but to have the final say where a decision could not be reached; to conduct himself with dignity, fairness, and impartiality at all times; and to always act collegially with his fellow councilors, and never unilaterally, so as to avoid the errors of the past, when Maldark the Fallen had betrayed the whole of Aethir to the Technocrat and his plan for the Unweaving of all Creation.

Carnifex thought the oath was unfair to the Fallen. According to the tales Droom had read him as a child, Maldark regretted his betrayal, and helped avert the catastrophe he had set in motion. Afterward, he vanished from the world. Some say he sailed the Sea of Insanity until he reached the Abyss; others that he slipped through a portal into the dreamworld of Urddynoor, forever to work out his penance.

Storytellers loved their embellishments, but one thing was always made clear by the morality tale of Maldark: despite all he’d done to make amends, his people had never forgiven him. Never forgotten. Indeed, the whole structure of Arx Gravis society was a safeguard against repeating Maldark’s errors, against falling for the deceptions of the Demiurgos.

A polite round of applause followed the oath, and Thumil stood patiently until it ended.

“Thank you. And thank you all for the support and respect you showed me during my time as marshal. I will make an announcement about who is to succeed me tomorrow, but this evening, if I could crave your indulgence for just a short while longer, there is something else I would like to share with you. I can think of no better time than my inauguration as Voice of the Council of Twelve to announce my intention to marry.”

Kal flashed Carnifex a look and mouthed, “Marry? Thumil?”

Carnifex’s galloping heart made the connections before his brain. He was numb from the neck up as Thumil extended a hand toward the bleachers, and Cordy rose from her seat and came toward him. Even when Thumil embraced her, it hadn’t truly sunk in, but then Cordy glanced at Carnifex over Thumil’s shoulder, and her eyes glistened with tears of joy mingled with tears of sadness, of regret, of shame.

Carnifex threw down his axe—the axe Thumil had bought him for his birthday—and strode from the glade.

“Carn!” Kal called after him.

Gasps went up from the bleachers. The thud of feet came from behind.

“Carn, we’re on duty,” Kal said, taking his arm.

Carnifex shrugged him off and kept walking.

Kal didn’t follow, but he said, “Oh, shog, Carn, I’m sorry.”

Had it been so obvious? So obvious what he felt for Cordy? How could it have been? He’d not even suspected it himself until his birthday, and he’d assumed that was on account of the drink and her dress. But tonight, with how she looked in the crepuscular light, shining like gold in a coal bunker, he’d realized it had always been there, disguised with thumps and kicks and ribbing. And with the realization had come the hope that she felt the same, that finally the veils that obscured what they really were to each other were falling away.

Idiot.

Shogwit.

Had he been completely blind? Completely stupid?

But Thumil was twice her age, maybe more. How could she even—?

He didn’t want to go there. Couldn’t. He just kept on walking until he reached the steps winding about the Aorta and started to make his way down.

What the shog was Thumil thinking, humiliating him in public like this? Why hadn’t he said something before? Or was that what he’d been trying to talk about at Grimark’s when the Black Cloak’s arrival had interrupted him? Even so, it was a betrayal, a deception. How long had it been going on? How long had the three of them been going out places together, and all the while there was some hidden agenda between Cordy and Thumil? It hurt to the core. Acid tears welled in the corners of his eyes. Every muscle in his body clenched so much, he shook, and he almost lost his footing. When he reached the eighth level, he paused to gather himself, sucked in deep, long breaths, then started for the steps to the ninth.

A rustle of movement behind. An arm about his neck. Cold steel pressed to his throat.

“What’s up, shogger?” Baldar Kloon hissed. “You think I wouldn’t come for you, after what you did? Well, I got news for you, scut-face. There’s no marshal protecting you anymore, and you’re gonna pay for—”

Carnifex slammed him back against the Aorta wall. Kloon grunted and dropped his dagger. It clattered from the steps and fell below. Kloon went for a chokehold, but Carnifex elbowed him in the ribs, then crashed his head back into Kloon’s nose. He spun and swung his fist, but Kloon swayed aside and swept Carnifex’s legs from under him. He landed heavily on his back, head hanging out over the drop. Kloon leapt on him, hammering blow after blow into his face. Briefly, Carnifex didn’t care. He soaked up the punches, almost reveling in the ensuing dizziness. What did it matter? What did he have to lose? But then he caught sight of Kloon’s animal eyes, the spray of spittle that accompanied the whuff he put into every blow. Kloon was an evil runt, and like the rest of the Black Cloaks, he thought he could act with impunity. Worse than that, he was a cocky little scut, just begging to have someone put him in his place.

Carnifex set one foot against a step and heaved Kloon onto his back. He got a hand round Kloon’s throat, choking him, and with the other pounded him in the face again and again. When Kloon went limp, Carnifex climbed off and stood. Kloon’s eyes were swollen to slits, and his mouth was a bloody mess. His breaths came in ragged gasps, and he moaned as he drifted in and out of consciousness. Finally, his head lolled to one side, and he stilled.

Carnifex knew he should call the Ravine Guard, get Kloon to a surgeon. He stepped over the body and looked down the steps in case a patrol was passing. When he saw nothing, he cupped his hands around his mouth and prepared to shout for help, but something struck him in the back of the knee, and he stumbled down a step and twisted his ankle.
 

Before he could recover, Kloon leapt to his back and started clawing at his eyes. With a roar, Carnifex grabbed him at the groin and neck and hoisted him overhead. Metal glinted as Kloon produced a second knife and slashed wildly at Carnifex’s face. Carnifex turned his head aside, and the blade grated against the collar of his chainmail. A fraction higher, and it would have sliced his jugular. Kloon twisted, and stabbed again, this time aiming for the neck. Carnifex shook him, yelled at him to stop, but that only made Kloon more vicious. Stab after stab he rained down, most of them hitting armor, one or two gashing Carnifex’s forearms.