The Ant-Man of Malfen: The Chronicles of the Nameless Dwarf ... by D. Prior

Author:D. Prior [Prior, D.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Fantasy, General
ISBN: 9781456489694
Google: ZGlKnwEACAAJ
Amazon: B004H1T9NC
Barnesnoble: B004H1T9NC
Publisher: Createspace
Published: 2010-12-21T00:00:00+00:00

***

Each stroke of the razor sent a black tousle to the mound of hair on the floorboards, through which rodents as tame as house cats scampered and gambolled. Besides the scraping of the blade, the breathing of the barber, the only other sound was the squeaking of valves on the oil lamps as a boy killed their flame. A hooded lantern hung above the barber’s head throwing grotesque shadows across the shop—a twisted demon with a great sword that hacked the scalp of a squatting aberration.

“Beard as well, d’you say?”

“Aye,” mumbled Nameless through the mummifying strictures of his depression.

The shadow demon hesitated, its sword held aloft for the killing blow.

“Just want to be sure,” the barber said. “Don’t get many dwarves in here. In fact, you’re the first.”

The barber came round the front holding the razor beside his ear, the shadows fleeing before him.

“Sure you’re comfy? I can get Davy to fetch a box to rest your feet on.”

“No.” Nameless’ voice was little more than a rasp. He tried to focus on the barber but it was like squinting through a long, dark tunnel. With the effort it would have taken for him to climb out of a hot tub on a cold day, Nameless willed himself beyond his cloying memories and forced his attention back into the world.

The barber had a hard face: wrinkles like scars, red and angry; eyes narrow and darting—the sort always seeking an opportunity. The way he held the blade was at once effeminate and clinical. His stance was both sloppy and poised, conveying weakness with a rumour of violence. As he slipped back behind, Nameless imagined the razor nicking his throat and felt the plaster of his face crack into a smile.

“D’you get much call for barbers in Arx Gravis?” said the barber. The blade glided down one cheek and came to rest by the jugular.

“Not much call for anything in Arx Gravis these days.” Nameless watched a rat scamper across the floor. “Place is empty. It’s a city of ghosts.”

“Get away!” The blade scraped below Nameless’ chin, the barber flicking hair from it with a snap of the wrist.

“News must travel slowly in Malfen,” said Nameless.

“Don’t travel at all, if you ask me. Not much call for it. We got more than one foot in Qlippoth and that works well enough for most. Reckon Malkuthians can go shog themselves, no offence meant.”

Nameless’ face grew weary of smiling. He drew in his brows as a dark mass of memories bubbled up from his gut.

“I’m no longer Malkuthian.”

The barber stepped back in front wiping the blade on his apron. “Think I know what you mean.” His eyes glinted like fool’s gold, his face unnaturally long and pallid in the lantern-light. “Guess that’s how we all feel. Nobody comes to Malfen ’less they have to. What you do?” He leaned in conspiratorially. “Kill someone?”

Nameless shut his eyes, letting the wave of faces wash over him, hearing their cries, seeing the condemnation in their eyes. His muscles stiffened, his hands gripping the chair so tightly the wood began to creak.

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