by Mel Odom
Varrowyn still maintained a merciless grip on Juhg’s left arm as he followed the Librarian’s directions back to the research room. Not much direction had been needed, though, for the dwarf had a keen eye and the lummin juice burned brightly in his lantern. Blood splatters led back a long way.
Juhg had evidently torn a long scratch along his right leg when he’d slid across the table in the research room to avoid the Grymmlings that had pursued him. Blood still ran freely from that wound as well.
After years in the mines, Juhg had learned to ignore his wounds, even though they scared him. One of the first things having a goblinkin overseer did was make a slave realize what was only a wound and what would kill him.
“The books were used to open this gate?” Varrowyn asked.
“Yes,” Juhg said. “But it wasn’t the Grandmagister’s fault.”
Varrowyn shook his head. “I reckon not. But there’s gonna be them what blame the Grandmagister fer them deaths that we can’t stop in these halls all the same.”
Glumly, Juhg realized that what the dwarven guard said was true. Despite how tightly their origins tied with those of the Library, the people of Greydawn Moors considered themselves a separate entity. Families, like Grandmagister Lamplighter’s own, considered it a hardship to let one of their own don the robes of a Novice Librarian to serve the Library.
Another few feet and the party of dwarven guards came upon the Grymmlings that had given up chasing Juhg after finding easier prey among slower-moving Librarians. The lanterns glinted against the evil yellow eyes of the monsters. Blood smeared their lipless, razor-edged mouths.
“All right,” Varrowyn growled, pushing Juhg back, “let’s see how much fight these here beasties gots in ’em to give.” He took up his two-handed battle-axe and set the lantern on the ground. The light played over the horrible scene ahead, and Varrowyn’s shadow loomed tall and long as he strode in front of the lantern.
Other dwarves kept shoving Juhg to the rear of the pack, then placed their lanterns down as well and joined their leader.
Mindless and greedy, the Grymmlings attacked, even though they were outnumbered.
Numb with horror but with a part of his mind screaming that they needed to hurry, that they needed to find out what had happened to the Grandmagister, Juhg watched as the dwarves divided into four-man groups called anvils, setting up two by two.
Under the strict leadership of a tight-fisted military leader, the dwarven anvil was a deadly thing. Stacked two by two, the anvil worked defensively, double-teaming any enemies that came within reach of their weapons, taking care not to break formation.
Once the anvil had broken the brunt of an enemy’s attack, the dwarves formed into the axe, a formation that had one dwarf in the lead with two following and then one more to guard their backs so that the axe could move forcibly through a hesitant or stagnant enemy line at either end.
If the dwarven advance was broken and the axe blunted, they fell back into the anvil, forming up two by two again, with the forward dwarf dropping into the right front slot so that when the axe formed again a new warrior who had not been taking the brunt of the attack was at the forefront. For thousands of years, opponents on battlefields everywhere had learned to fear the anvil and axe of the trained dwarven military fighter.
Juhg had sometimes watched Varrowyn and his dwarves do field exercises. At the time he had been amazed by how fluidly the dwarves moved, each change in placement like a dance almost. Even on defense, dwarves never hesitated to attack. But he had felt certain that Varrowyn and his dwarves trained only for pride, that they would never truly see battle until they left the island, which would never happen because they and their families had sworn to give their lives for the Vault of All Known Knowledge. Seldom had a dwarf given his life for the Library, other than in longevity of service.
One of the Grymmlings launched itself at the dwarves. However, they stood prepared. Varrowyn had questioned Juhg relentlessly on how the creatures fought during the few minutes it had taken to return down the hallway from the bell tower. Juhg had been hard-pressed to keep enough air in his lungs for the rapid movement and the questions. The only thing that had saved him was that the dwarves moved in full plate mail, clanking and thundering down the hallway. Every time he told Varrowyn something a lieutenant on Juhg’s other side turned, called, and relayed his words back to the rest of the dwarves.
Varrowyn’s great battle-axe flashed through the air, intercepting the leaping Grymmling as lazily as a toad took a fly. Halves of the evil creature fell to either side of the dwarves as first blood spilled over their shiny armor and shields.
The dwarves had two sets of armor. One set was dull and combat-scarred, mail that wouldn’t reflect light easily and allowed them to walk unnoticed in the dark of night or in the shadows of the forest. But the set they wore now proclaimed whom they were and what they were there to do.
With hoarse battle cries, the dwarves ran at the Grymmlings full-tilt. The dwarves were merciless in their killing. In seconds, dead Grymmlings fell to the ground, sharing space with the half-eaten corpses of the Librarians.
“Juhg.” Varrowyn lifted his visor and wiped blood from his eyes. His shield and his breastplate showed deep scars where the Grymmling’s crystal knives had scored the metal.
Stumbling a little, his eyes drawn to the horribly mutilated bodies of dwellers he had known only a short time before, Juhg stumbled forward. He breathed shallowly because of all the blood stink, but that worked against his need for air and made him lightheaded.
“Steady him,” Varrowyn commanded.
One of the dwarves grabbed Juhg, clamping down in very nearly the same place as Varrowyn had.
“How much farther?” Varrowyn asked.
Juhg grew aware that he stood in the blood of the Librarians, as well as that of the Grymmlings. He thought for a moment he was going to be sick.
“Juhg.” Varrowyn’s voice was sterner.
In the distance, Juhg heard the pealing alarm bell. Surely, more of the dwarven guards would be on their way up the mountain to reinforce those in the Vault of All Known Knowledge. The pirates who sailed the Blood-Soaked Sea would surely follow because part of their sworn oath was to protect the Library at all costs from all enemies. In addition, the elven warders would come, bringing their wolves and bears and other creatures they had bonded with.
A small army occupied Greydawn Moors, in addition to the navy that stayed in the harbor or out to sea.
“Yes,” Juhg responded.
“How much farther?”
“Only a short distance. The first research room ahead on the right.”
Varrowyn started off in that direction again. He wiped blood from his axe blade with a Librarian’s robe, which Juhg found at once distasteful but also realized the need for the weapon’s cleaning.
He also understood why Varrowyn had to ask directions. The dwarves didn’t spend much time in the Library and they didn’t know their way around. Their defensive plans hinged on the terrain outside the walls of the Vault of All Known Knowledge. No one was supposed to be able to penetrate the walls. If an enemy did, that meant all the dwarves outside the Library’s main buildings had perished in the attack
They hadn’t trained for an enemy that struck from within the walls of the Library itself. Noisily as before, the dwarves took up a rapid pace in spite of the plate mail. Juhg was swept along in their center, deathly afraid of falling and getting trampled beneath their iron boots.
* * *
The dwarven war party didn’t reach the research room because four Dread Riders and Blazebulls blocked the hallway. Dozens of Grymmlings and other noxious creatures spread out around the four Blazebulls, careful of the animals’ stomping hooves.
Standing on tiptoe, Juhg peered anxiously over the shoulders of the dwarven warriors. He looked for Grandmagister Lamplighter and Craugh’s bodies, then he looked for pieces of their bodies, thinking they had fallen and been ripped to pieces by their hideous foes.
“How many of ’em did ye say there were?” Varrowyn growled as he took up his battle-axe once more in his hands.
“I didn’t,” Juhg replied. “There weren’t this many when I was ordered to ring the alarm bell by the Grandmagister.”
“Mayhap that thrice-blasted door still remains yet open,” Varrowyn said, “an’ maybe more of those creatures are even now pourin’ into the Library.”
The idea made Juhg sick to his stomach. He felt cold and shaky, fully aware that this sensation came from the wounds he had suffered and the fact that he had not recovered from either mad dash through the Library.
The jerking yellow lights that filled the hallway beyond the creatures aligned against the dwarves told Juhg that fires still burned inside the research room in spite of the magical safeguards. Perhaps the fiery liquid the Blazebulls hurled was mystical in nature as well. Juhg didn’t know. No one had done a treatise or even a monograph on the ecology of Blazebulls.
Scraps of paper and burning embers floated out into the hallway, dying before they reached the stone floor. Water gushed by the bucketful from the room, proof that the defensive spells still worked. The water sluiced across the floor, already spreading out into the hallway.
Had the Builders thought of that? Juhg asked himself. Had they ever considered that a magical fire might take place in the Library and lock the spell on till the Blood-Soaked Sea itself sat drained and the Library was filled to the tiptop with water?
Lantern light and the fiery breath of the Blazebulls reflected in the water already pooled on the floor.
How much damage has been caused? Juhg wondered. How many books have been destroyed already? You can’t read ash. Not if it’s not kept nice and tidy.
Several of the books brought into the Vault of All Known Knowledge all those years ago had suffered all kinds of damage. Water had soaked pages. Oil had stained pages. Many had been burned to one degree or another. Using painstaking methods, the Librarians had recovered or gleaned most of the knowledge that was almost lost. Burned pages could be recovered through delicate acids, even if it meant a Librarian had to soak the burned page and immerse it in vinegar to lift the ink to the page’s surface once again, then transcribe the page by hand.
But if the ash were broken, as so many of the embers floating through the air offered mute testimony to, then a part of a page or a page or several pages or a book was lost. It was almost as disheartening as walking back through the goblinkin mines at lock-up time and having to carry the leg of a dweller who had succumbed to the harsh life of a slave.
The Dread Riders commanded their fearsome mounts in a clacking tongue that sounded like sticks rattling together. Instantly, the Blazebulls snorted flame.
“Set anvils!” Varrowyn commanded.
In response, the dwarves in the lead hunkered down behind their shield mates in the front row. Only a third of the dwarves carried shields; the rest used two-handed battle-axes, like Varrowyn, or pikes.
Juhg remained standing, dazed as to what they were doing, until one of the dwarves dropped a heavy mailed fist on his shoulder and yanked him down to the flat of his back. Instinctively, he tried to struggle back to his feet.
The dwarf cursed at him.
“Stay down or die, Librarian,” the dwarven warrior shouted above the roar of the Blazebulls.
Flames singed the air where Juhg had stood. He squinted his eyes against the brightness. The scent of hot metal filled his nostrils. Glancing forward through the tight ranks of the dwarves, he saw the fiery breath of the Blazebulls crashing against the dwarven shield.
As quickly as it had come, the fiery breath died away.
Juhg gasped, only then realizing he had ceased breathing.
“Axes!” Varrowyn roared.
The dwarves rose as one. The warrior closest to Juhg reached down to haul him up. “C’mon, Librarian. Don’t want to leave ye behind as we rout these unpleasant beasties.”
Juhg nodded and stood on quaking legs as the dwarves surged forward. Arrows spiked the air as the Dread Riders released their bowstrings. Grymmlings came on, screaming and gibbering like mad things, their evil crystal knives flashing in the lantern light that filled the hall.
At first, the crushing might of the dwarven axe formation drove the invaders back. Axes, short-hafted as well as the two-handed weapons, cleaved Grymmlings in twain and left body parts scattered in the wake of the dwarves. Even the Dread Riders and the Blazebulls were beaten back as the pikemen dragged one of the Riders from the saddle while others twisted their pikes between the legs of its mount. The axe formation followed to finish the kill.
Fearing for his life but unable to go without knowing the fates of Grandmagister Lamplighter and Craugh, Juhg followed behind when every dweller instinct in him cried out to take cover and save himself. But he couldn’t leave the dwarves. If the battle suddenly turned against them, they might not be able to find their way to another staging area to rally, or—if the tide of the battle truly turned against them—find their way out of the twisting maze that was the Library.
The battle raged, and the combatants fell. Juhg passed two dwarves, their faces frozen in expressions of disbelief, as if up until that very moment they had thought themselves invulnerable.
One of them Juhg knew. Artip was a young dwarf, only newly come to the Library Guardsmen.
Once, when Juhg had worked on copying a book in the outer courtyard—on a seldom day when there was no wind to blow dust or dirt into fresh ink and the Library had seemed uncomfortably remindful of the goblinkin mines he had grown up in—Artip had glanced at the pictures in the book. Juhg had reproduced the pictures flawlessly in the new copy of the book he worked on.
The book had been a work on close-quarter pikework, used for tripping great beasts of war used by enemy cavalry. The dwarves had used many of those tactics to bring down the great Blazebull in the Library. Drawn by the pictures, Artip had asked questions of how the fighting was done. Because he’d had to figure out the moves to properly render the instructional images on the page, Juhg had been able to show the young dwarven warrior, which had caused considerable consternation among other Librarians out in the courtyard as they saw one of their own working the pike to further elaborate the methods. Artip had learned quickly, knowing things of the movements that Juhg had stumbled with. Of course, Juhg’s rudimentary skills quickly paled when compared to the dwarf’s. Even Grandmagister Lamplighter had stuck his head out from one of the high windows to watch the training.
Afterward, whenever Juhg had watched the young dwarven warrior practicing the moves he’d learned that day—and especially when he was teaching those moves to another dwarven guardsman—he had felt proud of his part in teaching Artip a new skill. It had felt good to pass on part of the learning Juhg had discovered, and better still that someone had found a use for something he had read in a book and so laboriously worked to make a copy of. And Artip had praised Juhg for his knowledge for days afterward, something that most Librarians never heard outside of their own circle.
And now his brave friend Artip, with his dreams of being a mighty warrior about whom songs would be sung in dwarven taverns long after he was gone, was dead of a Grymmling knife to his throat and crimson staining his body under his armor.
Juhg’s eyes brimmed with tears. All of it was his fault. The seventeen sailors aboard Windchaser and the two dwarves who lay fallen in the hallway owed their deaths to him. The book had been his to find, and with it came all the foul luck that had been carefully woven into its pages.
Slowly, though the dwarves fought valiantly and held nothing back, they inched up the hallway to the door of the research room where the mystical gate had opened. The ring of steel on steel and the hollow thump of axe blades and pikes striking flesh filled the hallway.
Juhg peered anxiously at the door, wondering if the gate were still open and whether creatures still poured forth from it.
“Down!” Varrowyn roared.
Too late, Juhg looked forward
as three Blazebulls lumbered forward. Flames curled from their black noses. Then they expurgated, hurling fiery liquid toward the dwarven war party again.
The dwarf nearest Juhg swept his feet from under him just as the Librarian started to move. Juhg fell head over teakettle and just managed to keep his face from striking the stone floor.
“Up!” Varrowyn commanded.
The dwarves surged up again, following their brave leader.
“Pikemen to the axe!” Varrowyn yelled.
In response, the pikemen advanced to the front of the axe formation. The shieldmen and dwarves with battle-axes stood to either side and fought off the Grymmlings that tried to overwhelm them by sheer numbers.
A half-dozen Grymmlings overpowered one of the dwarves, tangling his feet and dragging him down. Their knives descended mercilessly, turning crimson and spreading blood all over the floor and walls. The dwarves in the fallen warrior’s axe fought to defend their friend, but Juhg knew from the blood and the grim looks of anguish and anger on the dwarven warriors’ faces that they were too late. None of the Grymmlings escaped alive, and the dwarves’ attentions were as merciless as the foes they fought.
When the dwarves drew even with the door to the research room, Juhg pushed through their ranks, avoiding the quick hands that tried to stop him. He had to know what fate had befallen Grandmagister Lamplighter and Craugh. Twenty dwarves, their numbers already lesser by three and their inability to hold up their attack against innumerable enemies, had barely made this distance.
Even with Craugh’s wizardry, Juhg held little hope that the two had survived. He rushed into the doorway, taking cover as long as he dared, then peered around the corner. A mournful cry escaped him as he saw what had happened.
There, in the center of the room amid the three hundred nineteen books—at least, where those books had been—a huge jumble of broken rock stood.
For a moment, Juhg did not know where the rock had come from. Without the lanterns to light the room, mostly shadows filled the great expanse. Then, as his eyes—keen dweller’s eyes that could see in the dark almost as well as elves and nearly as well underground as dwarves—adapted to the lack of light, he spotted the huge gaping hole in the ceiling.