Return of the Dwarf Lords (Legends of the Nameless Dwarf Book 4) Read online

  Contents

  Copyright Page

  Quote

  Blurb

  The End of Arnoch

  The Bout

  The Girl in the Carriage

  The Messenger

  The Fate of the Dwarves

  The Academy

  The Plane Ship

  The Dragon

  Arnoch beneath the sea

  Voice of the Council

  The Portal

  Death World

  Forest of Lost Souls

  Strongman

  The Press Gang

  Nightfall

  Warlord of Thanatos

  A Debt Repaid

  The Dark Citadel

  The Axe of the Dwarf Lords

  The Matriarch

  The Commoner Lord

  Last of the Immortals

  The Harvesters

  Kadee

  Destiny of the Dwarves

  Return of the Dwarf Lords

  How to Take Down a Dragon

  The Last Gambit

  King of Arnoch

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Also by D.P. Prior

  Feedback and Special Offers

  Copyright © 2016 D.P. Prior. All rights reserved.

  The right of D.P. Prior to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All the characters in this book are fictional and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not be, by way of trade or otherwise, lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form, binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed upon the subsequent purchaser.

  LEGENDS OF THE NAMELESS DWARF

  1. CARNIFEX

  2. GEAS OF THE BLACK AXE

  3. REVENGE OF THE LICH

  4. RETURN OF THE DWARF LORDS

  www.dpprior.com

  “No death, no doom, no anguish can arouse the surpassing despair which flows from a loss of identity.”

  (H.P. Lovecraft - Through the Gates of the Silver Key)

  The Nameless Dwarf: the name that is not a name, but is far better than the one he left behind. Freed from the curse that turned him into the butcher of his own kind, he once crossed half a world to protect those who had survived.

  Having worked out his penance and resettled his people in Arnoch, the ancient citadel of the Dwarf Lords, Nameless sets up home in the town of Brink.

  Now, with everything a dwarf could possibly wish for—a gym, a beer hall, and a bawdy house across the road—his new life is a welcome break from a decade of adventure.

  Then a blood-stained dwarf staggers into town with a message of doom: Arnoch has sunk beneath the waves, its last defense against the attack of a five-headed dragon.

  The one slender hope remaining to the dwarves lies in their distant past: the Dwarf Lords, who had been created for perils such as this. But for centuries, they have been in exile on Thanatos, a death-world likely to change even the greatest of heroes.

  With time running out for Arnoch, Nameless must find the Dwarf Lords and persuade them to come home.

  But before that, he first has to survive them.

  You can view a large scale MAP OF AETHIR on the web.

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  THE END OF ARNOCH

  Waves lapped the shoreline, spraying the air with brine and tainting it with the cabbage stench of algae. In the distance, the Vanishing Cliffs collapsed into the sea, amid the churn and froth of white horses. In a matter of hours, they would re-form and once more resume their perpetual disintegration.

  Dwarves lined the breakwater in front of the barbican: soldiers, artisans, wild-looking baresarks; men, women, and children. As they waited for the funeral to begin, they were spared the glare of the twin suns by the length and breadth of Arnoch’s shadow.

  The citadel might have felt like an overprotective parent to Cordana Kilderkin, newly appointed Voice of the Council of Twelve, had it not been for her overwhelming sense of inadequacy. Right then, the last bastion of the Dwarf Lords felt more like the critical kind, the parent for whom nothing was ever good enough; waiting for her to slip up; waiting to remind her just how far above her station she had risen.

  Cordana could never grow used to the immensity of Arnoch’s curtain walls, reaching to the sky and buttressed with enough granite and scarolite to keep out all the armies of the world. She’d never lingered outside long enough to take in the full panoply of its turrets and gatehouses, the homey glow coming through a thousand embrasures; the variegated spires of every height and thickness, dominated by the central tower sprouting from the keep, a petaled dome at its top. It was a sight to behold. Arnoch was the greatest sanctuary she had ever known, but right now, it felt like a mountainous weight upon her shoulders.

  Old Moary was dead.

  It seemed only yesterday he’d been nominated regent, when the Nameless Dwarf had refused the crown. That had thrown the dwarves into confusion, for Nameless was the only one left with the blood of the Dwarf Lords.

  But in reality, it had been seven years since the few hundred survivors of the Ravine Butcher had made their final stand against the Lich Lord, and found a new home in the ancient citadel of Arnoch.

  And here she was, leading them, standing at the head of the newly reassembled Council of Twelve, all robed in white, all looking so terribly serious. All looking at her.

  But Cordana had eyes only for the funeral pyre: a huge slab of granite, atop which were bundles of sticks and kindling, and the body of the deceased regent.

  As a red-cloaked soldier reached up to light the pyre with a flaming brand, Cordana’s innards opened onto an emptiness that threatened to swallow her.

  Death had never seemed so empty, so appalling; and she’d never before felt the absence of anyone to pray to, like her husband Thumil used to. Thumil had discovered the sacred scriptures followed by Maldark the Fallen in the olden days, but Cordana found them insipid. Like most dwarves, the only time she thought of gods was when she cursed in their name.

  After everything she’d been through these past years, everything she’d witnessed, she knew there were no gods. The hard reality of existence was laid out plainly before her eyes: Old Moary’s livid flesh, his bones, his cyanosed toes poking through the holes in his socks, and fire.

  The kindling took in an instant, and black smoke raced ahead of orange flames. With a sizzling rush, the pyre raged into a conflagration, and heat scorched her beard and face, forced her to take half a dozen steps back. She swatted soot from her white robe.

  “My Lady Voice,” Councilor Winso said. The title sounded wrong, like it was meant for someone else. He gestured toward the crowd. “A few words, if it pleases you.”

  It did not. The emptiness that had threatened her now seethed and roiled in her guts. She knew it for what it was: the anger that masked her vulnerabilities and enabled her to get through each day. It had been the same since Thumil had been killed by the Ravine Butcher. Since their baby Marla had been pulped against the ravine wall.

  A few words. She would have given Winso a few choice ones, only the flames roaring above Old Moary’s pyre brought back the blanket of sadness. She would miss the old codger, even if no one else did. His legendary prevarication had lessened somewhat as regent, but he’d still been painfully indecisive. But that hadn’t been the point of his electi
on. He’d been chosen as a safe pair of hands. No one had expected him to see out another year, but in typical Moary style, he’d dragged it out for seven.

  The truth was, Cordana didn’t have a clue what to say. She’d never been much of a speaker, save for speaking her mind.

  When she’d been announced as the new leader of the Council, the Voice, she’d been as shocked as everyone else. Then the grumblings had started: no woman had ever occupied the post before. She was hardly qualified, being from a long line of brewers—a noble enough profession, but not exactly governing material. She’d only been given the position because her husband had been the last Voice. And so it went on.

  What they really objected to was the nature of her ascension. In times past, leaders had been chosen by the Council; but on this occasion, the regent had simply nominated his successor. No one seemed to give Cordana credit, though, for her first edict as ruler: she’d put the Council back together, to help her share the burden of government. It was hardly her fault if the silly shoggers went on and elected her.

  Winso was still waiting for her to say something. She felt the eyes of the entire Council on her, and those of all the dwarves watching from the shadow of the curtain walls. Her people. The last of their kind.

  There seemed something tragic about the way this once brave and self-sufficient race was waiting upon her with bated breath. What could she say to them? That she felt a fraud? That she wished Old Moary would rise from the flames and resume his role as regent?

  Kaldwyn Gray nodded his encouragement from her left, red cloak snapping in the breeze. He’d been a loyal friend these past years, and she knew he’d do anything for her. Kal had even sought her blessing for his forthcoming marriage to Glariya Gravenstone, Cordana’s old sparring partner from the Ephebe.

  On her other side, Duck smiled and winked that she’d do all right. Not Duck anymore, she reminded herself. After all, she’d been the one to suggest he went back to using his given name, now he was with the Krypteia. It was hardly fitting for a member of the Council’s special cohort to go by a nickname, especially one as silly as “Duck”. Kryptès Grimwart, it was now, to give him his title. Kryptès Togal Grimwart. She’d raised him to the Black Cloaks, not because he’d wanted that dubious honor, but because she wanted him close by, ready to turn an assassin’s blade with that huge shield of his; ready with his mace to brain a contentious councilor who overstepped the mark.

  “I…” Cordana started in a croaky voice. She coughed and decided to begin again. It sounded so self-important, commencing a funeral speech with “I”. She was a brewer’s daughter, for shog’s sake. A nobody. Or at least, no better than anyone else.

  Kryptès Grimwart snatched a canteen of water from a Red Cloak and passed it to her. The soldier started to protest, but the billow of Grimwart’s black cloak silenced him. Not as stupid as he looked. He knew better than to mess with the Krypteia.

  She took a long pull and coughed again. It wasn’t water. It was beer. Piss poor beer, at that. Shog, the Red Cloak had filled his canteen with Ironbelly’s.

  She slung it back to the man. He cringed, no doubt waiting for the reprimand. Everyone knew it was a court-martial offense to drink on the job. It was about the only time a dwarf couldn’t drink.

  “Don’t worry, laddie,” she said, almost rolling her eyes as she caught herself using Nameless’s expression. “I’ll make an exception in your case. I mean, it’s not like Ironbelly’s is real ale.”

  The soldier laughed nervously, and Grimwart sent him away with a wave of his shield.

  Still, the Red Cloak had given her an idea.

  “Who’s organizing the booze for the wake?”

  “Bucknard Snaff,” Kal said, eyes scanning the crowd until he saw who he was looking for and beckoned.

  A fat old dwarf in a grimy apron shuffled forward on bandy legs. Cordana had seen him at a few brewery get-togethers, back when her ma and pa were still alive. He’d lost a lot of hair since then, both on top and beard. He wiped his hands on his apron and held one out to her. She took it and squeezed, and Bucknard winced. She couldn’t help herself. Always paid to take the measure of a man, that’s what Thumil used to say.

  “My Lady Voice,” Bucknard started, but Cordana held a palm up to stop him.

  “How many kegs did you bring?”

  “Twenty hogsheads and a couple of kilderkins.” He gave a bashful smile. “Like your family name. Your pa and I was rivals, but we was friends with it.”

  She smiled. “Thank you, Bucknard. Tap them and start pouring. Let’s make this a funeral to be remembered.”

  “Aye, my Lady—”

  “Cordana. Just Cordana.”

  His face split into a big grin, and he turned back to the crowd, barking orders. In response, a dozen dwarves in tan overalls, his family members, most likely, rushed away to do as bidden.

  To Councilor Winso’s annoyance, Cordana held up a hand for a little more time. She turned her gaze on the roaring flames of Old Moary’s pyre, wondering if he deserved more. Wondering if he’d have approved of her impromptu shindig. Course he would: he was a dwarf, a real dwarf, unlike most of the councilors, who seemed to have forgotten what that meant.

  In a matter of minutes, cheers started up around the crowd, and tankards were raised in the direction of the pyre. No, not the pyre, Cordana realized. They were saluting her.

  And she’d bought herself some time. Time in which to think. To prepare for what she was going to say. When Kal passed her a frothing flagon, she took a swig, and then she was ready.

  “Centuries ago,” she began.

  “What’s that?” someone yelled.

  In unison, the crowd stepped away from the walls of the citadel and edged closer, straining to hear.

  “Centuries ago, when King Arios made the decision to sink the city, he must have envisioned a time when there would once more be dwarves in Arnoch. The Destroyer was in their midst, killing without discriminating between man, woman, and child.”

  She faltered. It was too close to what had happened to her own people. Too close to the butchery at the ravine city of Arx Gravis, when Nameless had returned home with the black axe.

  Dwarves were watching her, wide-eyed and attentive. Occasionally, someone would take a sip of ale, but they remained enraptured.

  Maybe she’d misjudged them. Maybe they were ready for what she had to say, after all. It had been a long, hard path to recovery, but perhaps the wounds inflicted on the dwarven race were finally starting to heal.

  “Love you, Cordy!” someone at the back heckled. A hand clutching a tankard appeared above the crowd.

  She shook her head and laughed. Tears played at the sides of her eyes, but they weren’t the usual tears of grief. Nameless used to call her Cordy, though she’d noticed he’d started using her full name last time they met. Her husband Thumil called her Cordy, too, back when the three of them had been friends. But it wasn’t Nameless that had heckled. He was long gone. Moved to Brink south of the Farfall Mountains, so she’d heard. It may as well have been the other side of the world.

  Councilor Winso coughed and raised his eyebrows, prompting her to go on.

  Where was she? She looked to Kal for help.

  “The Destroyer…”

  A creature of nightmare, dreamed by the god of Aethir, the Cynocephalus, forever sleeping in his lair at the heart of the world. Nothing could stop it, not even the combined might of the Dwarf Lords. King Arios had been quick to realize their doom, and he had done the only thing he could to save his people: he’d activated Arnoch’s last line of defense: raised the hyaline shields, and sunk the city beneath the waves.

  “Well, you all know the story by now,” Cordana said, taking another swig, “so I won’t bore you with the details. My point is that, when all seemed lost, hope did not die. And it was the same for us, after Arx Gravis. It was the same for us as we fled the Lich Lord’s feeders across Qlippoth. And now, that hope is coming to fruition in us: not mythical Dwarf Lords with their
heroism and might, but real people. Ordinary folk who have endured despite…”

  No one was listening. They were all looking off into the distance and muttering.

  A storm head was rolling in from the north. The sight was arresting: an island of black cloud scudding across skies that were perfectly clear everywhere else. As she watched, streamers of darkness swayed away from the central mass, and then even that began to uncoil. Somebody shouted out in startlement, but Cordana had already seen it for herself: the undulating shape was moving against the wind.

  The glint of sunlight on metal drew her eye. In among the bystanders, the rogue, Weasel, was peering through a spyglass. Cordana winced as he lowered the tube from his eye and the color left his face. He was scared half to death, but the last thing she needed was for him to say something and start a panic.

  “Dragon!” Weasel cried. He started to run back toward the barbican.

  Gasps passed through the crowd, then Weasel’s cry found its echo.

  “My Lady?” Kal said. “What—”

  “Inside,” Cordana said. “Get everyone inside.”

  Already, the black-cloaked Kryptès were ushering the councilors toward the barbican gates. Grimwart took hold of Cordana’s elbow, but she shrugged him off.

  “We need to go,” he said.

  The flap of monstrous wings was stirring up a gale. The dragon was still some way off, but growing larger with every passing moment. Its sinuous body corkscrewed through the air, propelling it with powerful whiplash motions. It was big. Even at such a distance, she could she just how big. The trees it soared above were like shrubs in comparison, and the highest hills no more than blisters on the ground. But it wasn’t just the size that disturbed Cordana: it was the heads. For this was no ordinary dragon, if such a thing could be said to exist. There were five heads, each scaled a different color, and each emitting its own noxious spew of breath.