The Ant-Man of Malfen Read online

  THE CHRONICLES OF THE NAMELESS DWARF

  FIRST CHRONICLE

  THE ANT-MAN OF MALFEN

  D.P. Prior

  THE CHRONICLES OF THE NAMELESS DWARF

  FIRST CHRONICLE

  THE ANT-MAN OF MALFEN

  D.P. Prior

  First Edition, 2010

  Copyright © D.P. Prior 2010

  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 fictitious 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.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Theo Prior for the map of Central Malkuth, and for listening to my interminable ramblings on those long walks to the comic shop in Naperville;

  Jessica Gallegos for the space in which to write;

  Melanie Knill for the use of the dining room table;

  David Dalglish for reading the initial short story;

  Harry Dewulf for help with the Aeternam.

  I am also vastly indebted to C.S. Marks for her support and encouragement, the incredible gift of the cover art, and for braving the blizzard to get it to me on time.

  Praise for the SHADER series by D.P. Prior:

  “Rich and varied, touching, maddening, and addicting. Elegant, polished, and believable characters in an amazing world.”

  Archelle Baker (eBook Alchemy)

  “Ever-widening in its scope - fearless in its telling.

  I cannot help but be reminded of Stephen King's The Dark Tower series, not just in the interweaving of time epochs and worlds but also in the author's sheer fearlessness.

  From earth to heaven to alternate worlds, the story is unrelenting in its incredible vision.”

  David Dalglish (author of The Half-Orcs series)

  “Complex and intriguing; intelligent and engaging; descriptive enough to invoke all senses. The style is a nice mix—fast-paced and contemporary, yet with classical prose and imagery to satisfy those of us who love the old masters.”

  C.S. Marks (author of Elfhunter)

  Foreword

  It’s perhaps unusual to offer a foreword for a novella, particularly in its first edition. I thought it might be helpful, however, as The Ant-Man of Malfen isn’t simply an island.

  Whilst the story stands alone—whatever background is necessary has been provided along the way—it does have a definite place in my fantasy works.

  The Nameless Dwarf first saw the light of day more than thirty years ago. Back then I was an avid role-player. My brother, Peter, and I were members of a war-gaming society that met in a shabby hut at the back of the public toilets at the Archery recreation grounds in Eastbourne.

  Peter had penned a great hack and slash dungeon that no one had ever survived. Finally, after countless dismal efforts, a mighty party of adventurers was assembled. We’d stopped caring about subtleties of characterisation, secondary skills, and attempts at realism. Instead, some of the finest gamers I’d ever played with put together a team designed specifically to take on The Octon’s Lair. It was with such a mission in mind that the original Nameless Dwarf was born, a veritable tank, plate-armoured from head to toe and wielding a vicious battle axe.

  Nameless survived. The Octon and his goons, alas, did not.

  Nameless was a long-lived character who went on to survive campaign after campaign, finally growing so powerful that I decided to retire him. He wasn’t just powerful, mind, he was also a lucky bastard.

  About ten years ago a friend decided to relight the old D&D spark and so I brought Nameless out of retirement—in a sense. I recreated him from scratch and nearly lost him on that first adventure when he drew the Death card from a Deck of Many Things. Luck prevailed again: Nameless hadn’t lost his knack for getting just the right roll of the die.

  That would have been an end to the character as I lost interest in role playing games (the endless tomes of rules seemed to completely miss the point of the earlier editions).

  When I first conceived the SHADER series of books, I thought it would be fun to give Nameless a cameo. As the plans began to grow, however, and I fleshed out the world, it became clear that there was a much bigger role for him. By the time I’d started drafting the third book in the series, The Archon’s Assassin, Nameless had moved firmly to centre stage, along with his old D&D buddy, Shadrak the Unseen.

  Nameless leaves the SHADER story at the end of The Archon’s Assassin, and this is where The Chronicles of the Nameless Dwarf begin. They recount the aftermath of his tragic rise to power and chart the course of his journey towards either death or redemption.

  CENTRAL MALKUTH

  From the Nils Fargin Collection, Scriptorium of the Academy, New Jerusalem

  (Year of the Reckoning: 916)

  THE CHRONICLES OF THE NAMELESS DWARF

  First Chronicle

  THE ANT-MAN OF MALFEN

  D.P. Prior

  Nils ducked into the tavern’s porch and pushed his rain-slicked hair out of his face. He shivered and hugged himself, wondering how clear violet sky in every direction could suddenly give way to a sagging sheet of blackness.

  Where the Abyss had the cold come from? Only minutes ago he’d been sweltering. If Nils had known it was going to be like this he’d have packed some warmer clothes. He fancied he could hear his mum’s nagging voice all the way from New Jerusalem: “What did I tell you? You’re just like your father, Nils Fargin—you never listen, the pair of you.”

  Nils threw a quick look at his companion who waited in the meagre shelter of a barren yew. The dwarf’s face was swamped by a mass of sodden hair and beard. He too was hugging himself for warmth but other than that he stood stock-still; so still in fact that he appeared as rooted as the tree. His sombre clothes, all blacks and browns, merged with the charcoal skies. If Nils hadn’t known the dwarf was there he would have looked straight through him.

  Sticking up above the dwarf’s shoulder was the cloth-wrapped head of an axe, which he’d bundled up to protect it from the rain. He carried a bulging pack on his back; whatever was inside had scraped and clanged as they walked.

  Shifty bastards, dwarves, thought Nils. Canny, his dad called them, and tough as mountains. Least they had been till they’d up and left the land of Malkuth, abandoning their ravine city of Arx Gravis following the defeat of their tyrannical ruler. As far as Nils knew, his nameless companion could be the last of his kind, for if the rumours were true—if the survivors of Arx Gravis had gone into the nightmare realm of Qlippoth—there was slim to no chance of seeing them again.

  The thrumming of the rain on the tin porch gave way to the fierce pelting of hail and sleet. The racket was deafening, making it hard for Nils to think.

  The dwarf didn’t seem to notice—he was like a stony statue set beneath the yew tree to glare perpetually at the entrance to the tavern. It was as if he served as a warning to the ne’er-do-wells and rogues within. Either that or he was cursed, barred for all eternity, and desiring nothing more than to enter into the warm, smoky interior so that he could taste some ale.

  At least that’s what Nils thought taverns were like. They seemed that way in the stories, the sort of place a weary traveller could hang up his hat, cross his feet atop a broad oak table and grow mightily drunk. Heck, there m
ight even be a serving of hot broth and a buxom wench to ease away his travel sores.

  Nils knew next to nothing about any of that. What he did know was that he was shogging cold and wanted nothing more than to finish this job, warm himself by the fire, and then get as far away from the borders as he could. For all his griping, his home back in New Jerusalem suddenly seemed like one of the Seven Halls of Araboth.

  He lifted one leg at a time to brush off the dried mud he’d picked up on the trail. Five days of hard going across some of the wildest land in Malkuth.

  They’d left New Jerusalem by the Old Straight Road that had been built by the dwarves centuries ago as a sort of penance following the Technocrat, Sektis Gandaw’s first attempt at unweaving all of creation. After fording the Origo River and cutting west through Clarus Wood, they’d crossed the inland Chalice Sea to Lowright. There had followed an arduous trek beneath the Gramble Range and then over the great plains of the Outlands until they’d spotted the scattered settlements of what were effectively tribes of brigands.

  No one came out here unless they were desperate. Either that, or they had dealings with the proprietor of the only tavern for miles around. The dwarf, Nils figured, was the former, whereas Nils himself, being a professional, was most definitely the latter. He might never have been in a tavern before, might never have snogged a woman, and might have only had his first shave a week ago, but at this moment, Nils Fargin was someone important.

  Since Shadrak the Unseen had fled New Jerusalem following the assassination of the newly elected mayor, Mal Vatés, Nils’s dad had been the top dog in the underworld. Anyone who wanted a job doing came to Buck Fargin and his Night Hawks. It was a guild to be feared, and Nils was rightly proud of that. Mind you, back home, Nils was a little fish in a big pond; out here in the borderlands it was a different story. Big fish, little pond, Nils nodded to himself. No—more than that—he was a bloody shark.

  And so, with a final look at the stoic dwarf and a last minute straightening of his collar, Nils puffed out his chest, sucked in a deep breath, and pushed open the door of The Grinning Skull.

  The pelting on the tin roof gave way to the hum of voices, the clatter of spoons in bowls, the jingle of change and peals of barking laughter. The place was heaving and thick with smoke. Hops were strong in the air, blending with the scent of ripe apples. Nils took a step into the throng and found his face pressed against something soft and warm. Sweet musk inflamed his nostrils, sending a delicate thrill along his spine.

  “Steady there,” said a husky voice.

  Nils drew his head out of a mountain of cleavage, barely able to take his eyes off the milky flesh pressed up high above a black leather bodice.

  The woman was looking at him with her head cocked and one eyebrow slightly raised. Nils pretended to peer over her shoulder as if he were searching for someone in the crowd, but he still managed to notice her cat-like eyes and the scar running down one tanned, high-boned cheek. Her hair was glossy and black, tumbling loosely over her shoulders.

  Nils squeezed past, mumbling apologetically. He glanced at her arse as he went, noting its lift and the way it pressed against her leather breeches. He also registered the length of steel strapped to her hip, and the bone hilt of a dagger sheathed on the opposite side.

  Nils had never set foot in a tavern before and wasn’t quite sure what to do next; but he was a quick learner, so his dad always said. Back in New Jerusalem he’d picked a few pockets as the drunks spilled out of the bars, and they’d been good pickings. Those were city-folk, though, all dolled up and dandified; nothing like this crowd. These were hard folk—bandits, thieves and assassins. These were his kind of people.

  Nils took another big breath and fingered the pommel of his sword, peering through the milling bodies. He knew Jankson Brau was a mage of some sort but it seemed unlikely he’d be decked out in a pointy hat and silken robes. Best place to ask was at the bar, he supposed, and so he squirmed through the drinkers and leaned over the counter, first crossing his arms one way and then the other.

  He caught the barmaid’s eye and opened his mouth to order. He wasn’t sure what to ask for but everyone else seemed to be downing frothing flagons of beer.

  “Ale—”

  The word was swept away in the hubbub and the barmaid turned to a swarthy no-neck with a head like a leathery egg. Nils was about to protest but thought better of it when the bloke shot him a smile that resembled a gaping wound. His forehead was deeply lined and protruding like tiers of trellises; close-set hard eyes studied Nils coldly. The man’s great bulk was at least as much muscle as fat. Nils winked his approval that the bloke was welcome to be served first.

  Someone roughly pushed past him to get to the bar and Nils found himself straining on tiptoe in an attempt to attract the barmaid’s attention.

  “Buy you a drink?”

  It was the black-clad woman again, her mouth pressed close to his ear. Nils hadn’t seen her approach; he’d heard nothing either above the din. He was starting to feel exposed and vulnerable, but nevertheless, he couldn’t resist breathing in her scent.

  “Nah, I’m okay, love.” Nils raised his purse and jingled it at the bar.

  Silence fell around him in a small circle that swiftly spread like ripples across the surface of a lake. The only sound that remained was the striking of flint on steel as a grimy young girl tried to light the fire.

  “Put it away,” the dark-haired woman took hold of his hand between hers and pressed it down.

  She gave Nils a motherly smile, but he couldn’t help noticing how her lips glistened; how the tip of her tongue peeked through and wetted them. Nils dropped his gaze to her swollen breasts and then lowered it again until he was staring at her boots. He felt his cheeks burning and knew he’d gone bright red.

  “Mina,” she broke the silence without raising her voice. “Ale for my young friend here.”

  “Right you are, Ilesa,” the barmaid said with the sort of deference you’d expect from a courtier to a queen.

  The moment she pulled on the pump and the amber liquid splashed into the tankard, the hubbub resumed and Nils no longer felt the entire tavern was looking daggers at him.

  “All that money you’re carrying,” said Ilesa passing him the tankard. “You looking to hire someone?”

  “Hardly,” said Nils, sipping the ale and doing his best not to wince at the bitter taste. “I’m up from New Jerusalem on a job.”

  He watched her closely to gauge the reaction. Her pupils widened slightly but she remained stony-faced.

  “What kind of job?”

  Nils tapped the side of his nose with his finger.

  “Oh, you know the sort of thing. Guild business.”

  “Really?” said Ilesa, her eyebrows lifting. “Well I guess you must be someone. Not like this rabble, eh?”

  Nils glanced around the room whilst pretending to drink the ale.

  “Yeah,” he chuckled. “Could say that. Mind you, you don’t exactly look like one of the local—” He leaned in close so that he could whisper. “—riff-raff. Reckon you must be someone too.”

  Ilesa’s eyes flicked to Nils’s money pouch. When they returned to his gaze she looked bored and disinterested, as if he’d somehow failed a test.

  “Listen, I’ve got things to do,” she said. “Enjoy your drink, and don’t go waving that money about anymore.”

  “Sure,” said Nils, raising his tankard. “Oh,” he called to her back. “Do you know where I can find Jankson Brau?”

  A corridor immediately opened up between the drinkers, leading to a long table beside the fire.

  Three men sat one side of the table, all wearing studded leather and armed to the teeth. Opposite them sat a robed and turbaned man whom Nils took to be a merchant, judging by swell of his belly beneath his velvet robes, and the jewels dripping like sweat from gold chains beneath the rolls of his chin. He was flanked by a hunched over scribe and a lean bespectacled man whose hands clutched a bulging pouch as if it were a chic
ken’s neck. Between the two groups, at the head of the table, sat a man in robes the colour of blood, and sporting a crooked pointy hat.

  “I think he’s making it easy for you,” said Ilesa, indicating the wizardly looking man with a flick of her wrist. “Good luck,” she cast over her shoulder as she strutted away with a mesmerising roll of her hips.

  Jankson Brau was studying Nils with the intensity of a rattle-snake about to strike. His eyes were unnaturally blue, like polished sapphire, and ringed with a disturbing corona of yellow. The tip of his sickle-shaped nose almost met the rising curve of his chin, and sandwiched between the two was a narrow slit of a mouth. It was an ancient face, bloodless and mask-like.

  Nils’s heart seemed to flutter down to his stomach like a trapped bird. His mouth was dry so he took a swig of ale, coughed, and then tried to meet Brau’s gaze.

  “Buy you a drink?” said Nils, doing his best to imitate the confidence Ilesa had exuded when making the same offer to him.

  Roars of laughter went up around the tavern and the corridor began to close. Nils slipped through and stood at the edge of the table.

  “Why would I need you to buy for me what is already mine?” Jankson Brau’s voice was thin and lisping.

  “Point taken,” said Nils, wondering how to proceed. He wracked his brains thinking about what his dad would say next.

  “Don’t bother,” said Brau without changing the expression on his face. “Your father’s an idiot who’d struggle to articulate a request for somewhere to shit.”