Carnifex (Legends of the Nameless Dwarf Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page B

patter of feet from scurrying messengers gave way to the muted revelry of the clerks and merchants who frequented the next tier down. The smell of sizzling meat, slaughtered and salted in the baresarks’ abattoirs, mingled with the earthy aroma of roasted kaffa beans, which were harvested from their ledge plantations.  
    Lower still, the plucking of a harp underpinned the languid yowl of a fiddle. It was enough to make Carnifex linger for a moment, lost in the dark spell it weaved. It was only the bitter warning of experience that enabled him to wrench himself away and continue down to the next level. The music was only a catalyst, but it was something he could do without. Already, the excitement was leeching from his veins, and as it always did in the wake of a good fight, or a raucous evening in the taverns, his black-dog mood was creeping in from the shadowed edges of his mind. It feasted on scraps of vitality, hunted for glimmers of hope and happiness.
    Almost the instant he reached the sixteenth level, the homey sounds of table-thumping and bawdy singing from Bucknard’s Beer Hall sent the darkness scampering back to the corners. Orange hearth-light bled through the latticed windows, and the pungent scent of hops permeated the air outside in a blessed miasma.  
    He pushed open the door and stepped across the threshold, and a dozen flagons were raised in salute: Red Cloaks, finished for the night, all of them clearly way ahead of him in their drinking.  
    The place was heaving, like it always was. Besides the off-duty Ravine Guard, there were smiths and masons, canal workers, and quarrymen. There was a scattering of miners—those lucky enough not to be on the morning shift. Most of them he knew, and they acknowledged him with nods, winks, and waves.  
    “No Thumil tonight?” Bucknard Snaff hollered from behind the bar. His gray beard was plaited into two braids that were slung back over his shoulders to keep them out of the beer.
    It was hard to hear him above the din, much of it coming from the women hammering out a beat on the top of a long table, froth spraying from their whiskers as they bellowed some vigorous shanty comprised of “shogs” and “scuts” and what sounded like “hairy roots.”
    “He had too much the other night,” Carnifex said as he leaned his axe against the wall and hung his helm from a peg by the door. “His guts aren’t what they used to be. Age will do that to you.”
    “Oh ho!” Bucknard wagged a finger. “I’ll tell him you said that. What’ll it be? The usual?”
    Ballbreakers Black Ale, he meant, but it was time for a change. Cordy was bringing out her new beer later in the week. Since her ma and pa had passed away, she’d partnered with her aunts and uncles in the family trade. The Kilderkins were Bucknard’s greatest rivals, but Carnifex’s loyalties were never in question. Bucknard was a decent enough brewer, and a nice bloke to boot, but Cordy was his mate from the Ephebe , and she’d break his shogging fruits if she caught him drinking Ballbreakers instead of her new brew. Now, there was an irony to bring tears to a dwarf’s eyes.
    “Stand me a mead, laddie. No, stand me two.” He knew the first one would barely touch the sides.
    “Mead it is,” Bucknard said, already pouring from an earthenware cask. “Hard day?”
    “You heard?”
    Bucknard arched an eyebrow. “Aye, Carn, I heard. The lads told me coming in. Everyone all right?”
    “Save for Jarfy.”
    “Aye, well, I’m sorry to hear about that. Sorry for his folks, too. Terrible business. Terrible. Here, matey, on the house.” He handed over two flagons.  
    Carnifex nodded his thanks, and did his best to hide his relief. After the other night, he was running low on tokens, and would be hard-pressed to eat if he exchanged any more for booze.
      He carried his drink to the Red Cloaks’ table, and Kal budged up to make room for him on the bench.
    “So, what’s happening?” Kal said. The others