The Destruction of the Books

by Mel Odom

  But other than the few stones, nothing more came down the stairway.

  He stayed crouched and expectant. The Grandmagister and the wizard did the same, all of them fearing the worst.

  Gradually, the grinding noise of the stones came to an end. The vibrations that moved the mountains halted. Only the thick stone dust remained, hanging stubbornly in the air.

  “Here,” the Grandmagister said. He handed Juhg a section of cloth torn from the hem of his robe. “Tie this around your face. Over your nose and mouth.”

  Juhg did, watching as the Grandmagister offered another section to the wizard, then tore one for himself. Craugh’s green light fought back the darkness but had trouble penetrating the shifting dust clouds.

  “That,” Craugh said in a painful voice, “was a very near thing.”

  Grimly, the Grandmagister turned his attention to the wizard’s injured leg. He pulled Craugh’s robes to one side, revealing the bloodstained breeches.

  “I think,” Craugh said, “it’s broken.”

  “Of course it’s broken,” the Grandmagister snapped. He looked at Juhg and the younger dweller saw the uncertainty in his mentor’s eyes. “You’re lucky you didn’t lose your leg.” He hesitated. “You still might—infection sets in and you don’t care for this properly.”

  “Nonsense,” Craugh snorted. “What use is a one-legged wizard? Why, I’d not even be able to sit a horse properly, never mind being able to go the places I’ve needed to over the years to find the things I’ve quested for.”

  “Juhg,” the Grandmagister asked, “do you still carry that knife?”

  When they were on the mainland, tracking down myths and legends about books and other objects, the Grandmagister seldom carried weapons. But during those times he did carry a magical knife he’d found in the Broken Forge Mountains. While he was in the Library, though, he went unarmed.

  The Grandmagister also preferred that Juhg go without weapons as well, but Juhg almost always carried a knife. Becoming a slave again—for goblinkin or anyone else—wasn’t something he was going to allow to happen. He was no fighter, but having a knife meant possibly having some way out of a bad situation.

  He slid free the boot knife that Raisho had given him to seal their partnership aboard Windchaser.

  The Grandmagister gave the knife a quick examination out of habit. “Ah, a Hostyn blade by the Burning Anvil dwarves.”

  “Yes.”

  “But not the handle,” the Grandmagister said, turning his attention to the wizard. “That’s a recent addition.”

  “Yes. Raisho had the blade refitted when the original broke.”

  “In the South.” The Grandmagister slit the wizard’s breeches leg, running the keen blade up the seam. “Sharp.”

  Juhg knelt beside Craugh. His stomach tightened at the sight of all the blood, but he had seen worse in his years as a slave in the goblinkin mines. And some much worse, he thought, remembering the attack among the upper rooms, only moments ago.

  White bone poked through the side of Craugh’s leg. The jagged break had left an edge that had punctured the flesh either at the time the leg had broken or during Craugh’s attempts to stand and flee.

  “A greenstick break,” the Grandmagister said.

  Juhg recognized the wound as well. Books on medicine remained high on the Grandmagister’s reading list for all Librarians. Usually, unless the patient was extremely fortunate, a limb that suffered a greenstick break was lost. Too much infection was allowed into the wound through the torn flesh. Even when the bone was set properly and the flesh healed without infection, the limb seldom recovered full strength.

  “I know what it is,” Craugh said irritably. “Help me get the bone back where it belongs.”

  “I don’t know if we can—” the Grandmagister began.

  “Do it,” Craugh growled. “We’ve wasted enough time as it is. Don’t you want to see what other damage has been done to your Library?”

  “It’s not my Library,” the Grandmagister said.

  “It would do you good to remember that.” Craugh shifted, hauling himself along the step he sat on so that his back rested against the wall behind him. “Are you going to help me with my leg or not?”

  The Grandmagister nodded. “Juhg, you’ve read up on these kinds of wounds.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then let’s get started.”

  Taking his knife back from the Grandmagister, Juhg quickly cut lengths of cloth from his robe, then fashioned two harnesses out of them. He tied one harness to the wizard’s leg above the knee and the other at the ankle. Together, he and the Grandmagister helped the wizard to the next landing and took a moment to clear the rubble from the area they would need to work.

  They made Craugh as comfortable on his back as they could. The wizard turned even paler during the movements and his breath came in short gasps. Still, his magical staff stayed lit and filled the landing with greenish light.

  “Grandmagister.” Juhg held up the two ends of the harnesses.

  “I’ll take this end.” The Grandmagister gripped the harness attached to Craugh’s upper leg, then knelt down at the wizard’s shoulder. He touched Craugh’s shoulder gently. “We’ll be as quick as we can.”

  “Just get it done.” Craugh held his staff and folded his free arm over his chest. He gazed upward, fixating on the lit end of the staff.

  As carefully as he could, Juhg sat at the wizard’s feet, his legs splayed on either side of the broken limb. He pulled the slack from the harness.

  “When you’re ready,” Juhg told Craugh.

  “Do it.” Craugh’s voice sounded hoarse and far away.

  With steadily increasing pressure, Juhg leaned back. The harness tightened around Craugh’s ankle, then started pulling the leg toward him.

  Unbelievably, Craugh spoke not a word, nor made a sound.

  Knowing the pain Craugh handled was incredible, Juhg heard his own heart beating in his ears, certain at any moment that the wizard would give in to the pain and turn him into a toad simply to end it. He kept building the pressure, watching as the Grandmagister shifted to keep his weight behind Craugh’s shoulder, holding the top of the leg and the wizard steady.

  Caught between the two opposing forces and no longer connected, the wizard’s leg stretched longer than normal. The white bone, burning with a greenish cast from the magical staff, retreated into the awful wound, eased back into line with the other section of bone.

  “Almost,” Craugh gasped hoarsely. “Keep pulling. Don’t you dare stop now.” Beads of perspiration gleamed on his face.

  Juhg pulled, ignoring the queasy feeling in his stomach. He remembered the times he’d had to cut a dead dweller free of the slave chains, then carry the amputated leg back to the goblinkin guards as proof that the dweller had died. Retreating from those memories, he focused on the task ahead of him. Craugh wasn’t going to die.

  But is having a live wizard who blames you for his crippled walk a good thing?

  Without a word, the Grandmagister leaned forward, keeping his end of the harness locked under his knees. Gently, he probed the wounded leg with his fingers. Finding something that interested him, he pressed.

  Bone rasped in the deathly quiet that had descended over the stairwell.

  “There,” the Grandmagister said, drawing back. “I think it’s back in place, Craugh.” He paused and took a deep breath. “Juhg, take the pressure off your end. Slowly.”

  Juhg leaned forward, easing the pull he’d maintained on the harness. In a moment, the harness fell slack. He gazed worriedly at Craugh.

  Craugh fought to sit up, using his staff and striving to lean forward from the waist. Both attempts failed. “I am getting far too old for this nonsense.” He blew an angry breath between his clenched teeth. “Wick.”

  “I’m here,” the Grandmagister replied.

  “I’ll have need of your assistance, please.”

  Still on his knees, the Grandmagister got behind Craugh and helped push t
he wizard to a sitting position.

  “Thank you, my friend. I’ll need you to hold me for only a short time.”

  “Of course.”

  In the distance, clanking echoed in the halls. Juhg wondered if the noise signaled the impending collapse of still more debris.

  Craugh stretched his free hand over his bloody leg. Cool blue light emanated from his palm, bathing his wound.

  Interested despite his trepidation at looking too closely at the damage or risking invading Craugh’s privacy, Juhg leaned forward. As he watched, the broken ends of the shinbone shifted and rotated.

  “Wouldn’t do to have a crooked foot after this, now, would it?” Craugh asked in a thin voice. His control was tenuous and frayed. “I’ll not suffer a limp.”

  In the space of a drawn breath, the broken ends of the bone fitted themselves together. The blue glow bathed the ends till the break became a line finer than frog hair. When that was complete, the flesh began pulling together, healing.

  During his time at the Library, Juhg had read about healing spells, but he had never seen one in action before. Magic was a thing seldom seen outside of destruction and mayhem. Wizards didn’t learn spells to do good; they learned spells to acquire power.

  “Apprentice.” Craugh’s voice came as a harsh rasp squeezed out through pain.

  Juhg looked at him.

  “After this day, after this moment,” Craugh said hoarsely, “there’s not to be one word about what you’ve seen here.”

  “No,” Juhg agreed. “Not one word.”

  The fact that Craugh could handle such a spell, more aligned with the good forces than the evil forces, spoke volumes about the wizard’s true nature and contradicted what most people believed of him. Juhg thought of the wizard with newfound respect.

  Abruptly, Craugh fell backward without a sound, crumpling against the Grandmagister, who was almost bowled over by the wizard’s collapse. The blue light faded and the green light at the end of the staff exploded in a lizardlike hiss.

  Darkness filled the stairwell landing.

  “Grandmagister,” Juhg called, afraid that the wizard had died from his own magical exertions complicating the massive wound he’d received.

  Healing spells, from all accounts, drew mightily on the resources of the healer and did not allow magic places or things often to fuel them. Healing, according to Endelsohn’s The Art of the Magical Healer, was the most jealous magic ever crafted, the most demanding of its caster.

  That was one of the primary reasons why those who wielded magic didn’t learn those arts. Magic, by its nature, was disruptive. Even a healing spell played havoc with the wounded person who received treatment. Medicines and rest were far easier to give. Craugh, who was already exhausted, couldn’t have had much left.

  Is he dead? Juhg wondered, holding his own breath while he listened for Craugh to draw a breath.

  “It’s all right, Juhg.” In the darkness, the Grandmagister’s voice was calm and comforting. Even dweller vision was useless in complete darkness. Here there were no stars to light the way. “He’s still with us. Craugh is too arrogant and too stubborn to leave us like this.”

  As if to underscore the Grandmagister’s words, Craugh drew a deep, shaky breath.

  “When he falls,” the Grandmagister said in a soft voice, “Craugh will fall in battle. Against someone or something much more devious and dangerous than he is. For now, he only sleeps.”

  The clanking Juhg had heard earlier came closer. Then pale golden light came down the stairs above. As the sound filled the stairwell, Juhg recognized the noise as armor clanking just before a dozen dwarves followed a Librarian into the area. Half of the dwarves carried lanterns.

  “Grandmagister!” the Librarian squealed in delight. “The Old Ones be praised! I felt certain that … that…”

  “That I might not be here, First Librarian Whimplo?” The Grandmagister stood.

  Whimplo frowned and licked his lips nervously, obviously at a loss as to how to answer the question. He was plump and out of breath, and Juhg was certain the dwarves had pushed him hard in their efforts to locate the Grandmagister.

  One of the dwarves jostled Whimplo to one side. “Aye, Gran’magister. Varrowyn, why, he’s worried that ye might not still be with us after this last bit of carnage.”

  The lantern the dwarf held played the golden light over his face. The illumination revealed the blood spatters and scratches that adorned his features under his helm. He held his battle-axe in his other hand. Notches showed in the keen-edged blade.

  The Grandmagister remained with Craugh, holding the wizard’s head in his lap. “What of the Dread Riders and the Grymmlings?”

  “Gone.” The dwarf shrugged and his battered armor clanked. “Most of ’em anyway.”

  “And the Librarians?”

  The dwarf bowed his head. “We got what we could of ’em out, Gran’magister. But fer some of ’em…” He shook his head.

  “I’m sure,” the Grandmagister said in a forced voice, “that you did all you could.”

  “Aye. That we did. Only wish it could have been more.” The dwarf looked at Craugh. “We can fix a litter, carry him on up if ye want.”

  “No. When Craugh is ready, he’ll walk out of this place on his own. He would not suffer getting carried out in any degree of weakness.” The Grandmagister smiled a little, though the effort was strained. “He’s very vain about his appearance.”

  The look on the dwarven warrior’s face showed plainly that he didn’t believe it. “If ye says so, Gran’magister, but I was thinkin’ a bed an’ a warm hearth might be more…”

  “I do say so.”

  “Of course, Gran’magister.”

  The Grandmagister looked at Juhg. “First Level Librarian, I want you to stay with Craugh. Until he’s able to walk. I’ll not have him wake with no friend around him. He’s done that often enough while trying to help this place and his friends.”

  Juhg wanted to say no. He wasn’t part of the Library any more. Nor did he feel particularly close to Craugh. Also, Juhg didn’t want to remain down in the depths of the Library. Some of the Dread Riders and Grymmlings yet remained.

  And the darkness, with the Knucklebones Mountains piled so high and deep around him, reminded Juhg entirely too much of the goblinkin mines. It reminded him of how powerless and weak he had been during those times.

  But he said, “Of course, Grandmagister,” because there was no other answer he could give.

  The Grandmagister took his robe off, carefully using it to make a pillow beneath Craugh’s head. He took a moment to pick up the wizard’s staff and hat and laid those items close at hand.

  “I’ll ask you to assign two of your warriors to stay down here,” the Grandmagister said to the dwarven leader. “To stand guard.”

  The dwarf pointed at two warriors. The dwarves stepped away from the group and took up positions.

  The Grandmagister looked at Juhg. “When Craugh is ready, accompany him up. I only hope he will understand why I am not here.”

  “He’ll understand, Grandmagister,” Juhg said. Overcome by everything he’d been through, he sat with his back against the wall, which allowed him to look in both directions. He sat quietly, listening to the falling stones shifting throughout the Library, and watched as the Grandmagister walked away.

  Craugh slept, his chest rising and falling in the dim glow of the lanterns.

  Juhg looked at the dwarven warrior closest to him. “How bad is it?” he asked.

  The dwarf gave Juhg a haunted look. “Plenty bad. Bad as I’ve ever seen. Got dead strung all through the halls. A lot of ’em’s Grymmlings an’ Dread Riders, but we left plenty of ours among ’em.” He shook his shaggy head. “This here place, why, after today it’s filled with blood that’ll never come out of this stone.”

  The imagery made Juhg shiver. “I’m sorry for your losses.”

  The dwarf nodded. “We all lost today.”

  17

  The Account
/>   The sound of footsteps woke Juhg.

  Panic flared to life within him as the two dwarven warriors shifted. As one, they stepped into the shadows of the stairwell. Only then did Juhg notice that the lanterns they had placed on the floor had gotten positioned with deliberate care to illuminate the stairs in both directions and allow them hiding places in the shadows.

  The dwarves lifted their weapons. Juhg knew that only from the sounds, and only then because he knew the dwarves would only move for that reason.

  The footsteps halted. The distinct sound of metal scraping leather echoed into the empty silence of the stairwell.

  “Juhg,” a voice whispered.

  Recognizing the familiar voice, Juhg smiled and said, “Raisho?”

  “Aye. Tell them dwarves what’s down there that ye know me afore they get too anxious. Tell ’em Varrowyn passed me on down.”

  Forcing himself to a standing position, feeling the pain and agony that accompanied that effort, Juhg said, “He’s a friend.”

  “Tell him to come on ahead,” one of the dwarves said.

  Juhg still didn’t know the names of either dwarven warrior who guarded him. “You heard him, Raisho.”

  “Aye. That I did. Just ye keep in mind that I ain’t comin’ empty-handed. I’m bringin’ a basket of victuals. Weren’t so much dust a-hangin’ in the air down here, why, ye’d probably have smelt it long before ye heard me.”

  Despite all he’d been through and everything he had seen, Juhg was surprised to find he was hungry. Thirst he’d acknowledged some time ago, before he’d somehow dropped off to sleep. Even in the mines, he’d maintained something of an appetite. He supposed after all those years the feeling was more survival instinct than anything else.

  Raisho stepped into the soft golden glow of the lanterns. He carried his sword in one hand and a small lantern in the other.

  The dwarves revealed themselves, stepping from the darkness.

  “Varrowyn yet lives?” one of the dwarves asked.

  Nodding, Raisho said, “Aye. From the looks of him, he’s a right enough hard one to kill. An’ looks like plenty tried him tonight. He’s shed some blood, probably more of someone else’s than his own, but he’s upright an’ in charge of the Library’s defenses.”