by Mel Odom
At the back of the wine room was a wall with another door.
Wick stood in front of the door. The sturdy wooden edifice held no markings. He took another drink of wine, then realized there was a label on the bottle. Incredulous, the little librarian raised the bottle and peered at the label. However, try as he might even as conversant as he was in so many different languages, this was one that he wasn’t immediately intimate with. Still, he was excited to know that the wizard or wine-maker was able to write, which meant reading.
“Wick! Wick!” Lago called behind him. “You might not have found the treasure Brant was looking for, but you struck the mother lode according to this old dwarf! I don’t know how many different kinds of wines are on these shelves, but I intend to sample them all!”
Wick felt a little glow already and decided the wine was more potent than he’d thought. Of course, it probably helped that he was nervous and scared. Wine always proved more intoxicating when he was exhausted in some fashion. He glanced down at the door and spotted the knob. There were no locks.
Cautiously, knowing that the wine cellar itself might be some kind of magical creation that could evaporate at any second, Wick reached for the doorknob. The lever twisted easily in his grip. A hollow click echoed through the room but was quickly lost in the dwarves’ verbal celebration of their good fortune.
The door swung easily inward and Wick followed it in, heart hammering in his chest. He couldn’t name what it was that drew him on, but he knew that it couldn’t be denied. His torch invaded the next room.
A dead man lay on a small four-poster bed in the middle of the room.
18
Embattled!
Wick stopped and looked at the gauzy curtains blunting the view of the figure lying on the bed. The skeleton wore ornate robes decorated with sigils and symbols the little librarian wasn’t immediately familiar with. He watched the skeleton for a time, till he was convinced that it wouldn’t be getting up.
Filled with dread, wishing the compulsion that filled him would quickly evaporate so he could follow what he thought was his true nature and go screaming back up the spiral stairway, Wick turned slowly to survey the room. A great, freestanding chest of drawers filled one corner of the room. And, incredibly, a writing desk occupied another.
Wick’s eyes were immediately drawn to the desk—and to the books piled neatly on one corner!
The little librarian crossed the room in disbelief. According to all the teachings of the grandmagisters, all the books that hadn’t been shipped to Greydawn Moors had been destroyed by Lord Kharrion’s goblin troops. Under the Goblin Lord’s savage and unswerving instruction, all libraries and books had been sought out with brutal dedication and destroyed.
Yet Wick’s eyes assured him that four existed here. He stopped at the desk and took up the first book in his trembling hand. The book was thick and fat. Expensive red vellum covered the edges of the pages. Cautiously, afraid that the book might disintegrate, he brushed at the thick dust covering the gilt letters.
The raucous excitement of the dwarves plundering the wine stores served as a strange counterpoint to the discovery Wick had made.
As quickly as his excitement had escalated, a frenetic stupefaction filled the little librarian. Although the gilt letters were now brushed free of dust, he couldn’t read them. Dismayed, hoping that it was only the title that escaped him, he quickly turned the cover and flipped page after page till he reached the first page of script.
I can’t read any of it! Wick stared incomprehensibly at the writing that tracked across the page. It was written in a clean, unblemished hand that denoted authority and an organized mind. It was enough of a disappointment to make the little librarian want to cry. I’ve discovered something new, an impossibility that shouldn’t exist, in a place carefully hidden and protected by magic, and it is still beyond me. Now more than ever, he felt like a Third Level Librarian. Any First Level Librarians and probably most Second Level Librarians could read this book with ease.
Despite his frustration, Wick gently closed the book. There’s more than one book! Surely there’s one among them that I can read! Instead of returning the book to the desk, he slipped it into his backpack. Then he turned his attention to the other three books. One, two, three; they went that easily. The books were comfortable weights in his hands, a sturdy, solid feel that he’d missed for weeks. And yet, because of the language barrier, they were still denied to him.
Wick held the last book he’d inspected and sat heavily in the finely crafted wooden chair in front of the writing desk. In the back of his mind, he heard his father’s voice again, telling him that he had wasted his time becoming a Librarian, that he would have been better off taking up the family trade and becoming a lamplighter.
Here is irrefutable proof, Wick told himself. He stared at the pages of the final book. As with all the others, this one had elaborate illustrations. But they were illustrations of people and places and things that he couldn’t know about. He was banned from knowing by his own lack of skill and talent.
Then a word caught his eye. He knew that word, he realized with a sudden exhilaration that lifted the despondency from his shoulders. He quickly scanned the page. And perhaps he knew a few others as well, now that he studied them more closely. The books were definitely written in the elven tongue. But I’ve translated those before! There’s not been an elven tongue that I couldn’t decipher, given enough time and the proper resources. His heart leapt at his discovery. Why, when I get back to the Vault of All Known Knowledge, I can—
Suddenly, Lago and the other dwarves stumbled into the room. Wick started in momentary confusion, having almost forgotten about the others while considering his own dim prospects.
“Lad,” Lago yelled explosively, waving a wine bottle happily, “you’ve got to try this vintage! Why, I’ve never had the like before!”
The other dwarves crowded in behind Lago. Their eyes were immediately drawn to the skeleton on the bed.
“A ring!” Baldarn growled. He pointed at the figure on the bed. “That skeleton’s got a ring on its finger, and I claim it as my own!”
“No!” Wick interrupted, thrusting the last book into his backpack. “That man was a wizard! You shouldn’t—”
“One thing I learned,” Charnir cried gleefully, “you don’t have to worry about dead wizards nearly as much as you have to worry about live ones!”
Like a flock of hungry crows, the dwarves descended on the room. They rifled the chest of drawers, crying out in delight as they found bits and pieces of jewelry and a hefty stash of gold and silver coins. Cheers went up as each dwarf showed off his purloined loot.
“No!” Wick argued. “You shouldn’t disturb anything! There could be a curse on those things!”
“The only cursing to be done,” overweight Rithilin declared, “will be done by Brant if he finds that we didn’t properly loot this place as he would have had us do!”
“Yes,” Tyrnen said, looking under the bed with his twin brother, Zalnar. They tore at the gauze surrounding the bed. “And it would be in your best interests, halfer, if you were able to give him something … impressively valued. Before you tell him you lost our gems.”
“But I didn’t lose them,” Wick defended himself. “They were obviously part of the spell that led to this place.”
“If we’d stayed away from here,” Volsk grumbled, “the gems wouldn’t be lost. We’d still have the first fortune we found and wouldn’t be looking for a second.”
“It wasn’t my idea to come here,” Wick protested.
Volsk brushed the little librarian aside and began searching the writing desk. “You’re the one who put the puzzle together. If it had remained in pieces, we’d have been well on our way out of Hanged Elf’s Point by now.
Disbelief flooded Wick. How has everything now become my fault? He peered anxiously around Volsk’s massive shoulders as the dwarf quickly went through the drawers of the writing desk. While the dwarven thief avoided t
he writing utensils, although he did take one quill that looked like it was plumed with a solid gold feather, the little librarian snatched wax-sealed inkwells and quills. He also managed to take at least half a ream of the most exquisite writing paper he’d ever seen in his life.
“Don’t blame him for everything bad that’s gone on,” Lago said, emerging from the chest of drawers with an armload of brocaded robes much too long for his stocky body. “If it hadn’t been for Wick, we’d have never found the wizard’s wine cellar.”
“We’re just lucky,” Charnir said, “that the wizard wasn’t around to complain.”
“Oh, I’m going to complain,” a crotchety sounding voice warned. “I’m going to turn you all into warty toads is what I’m going to do!” Bones rattled threateningly.
Startled, knowing for sure that the dead wizard had somehow returned to life long enough to wreak vengeance on those foolish enough to disturb his eternal rest—and dare to take his books!—Wick quickly ducked down to provide as small a target as possible. He glanced at the bed and watched the skeleton rise from the blankets.
“Warty toads!” the maniacal voice warned. “Each and everyone of you will be warty toads come morning! A breakfast of flies, that’s what you’ll be craving!” The skeleton appeared to dance a jig, one arm waving, obviously preparing to cast a spell.
“No!” Wick cried out. Can toads read? He couldn’t remember reading anything on the subject. Here he was—with those four mysterious books in his backpack, books that he should be concerned with getting back to the Vault of All Known Knowledge—and he was going to be turned into a warty toad by a vengeful wizard before he even had the chance to see if he could decipher the books. It isn’t fair! He groaned out loud.
All of the dwarves looked at him, then doubled over in laughter. “Tyrnen,” Volsk commanded, “leave that skeleton be before you scare the little halfer to death.”
Peering up between his fingers, Wick saw Tyrnen standing behind the skeleton, one big hand wrapped around the back of its skull to lift it from the bed. The young dwarf nonchalantly dropped the skeleton back onto the bed amid the roaring gales of laughter from the dwarves.
Face red with embarrassment, Wick stood again and straightened his clothing with as much dignity as he could muster.
“What about you, halfer?” Volsk demanded. “You entered this room first. Was there something you absconded with before we followed you in here? Something pretty and precious that you’re hiding from us now?”
“Wick wouldn’t do that,” Lago said. “Why, he’s hardly a thief at all. He’s an artist.”
“Mayhap,” Volsk argued, obviously not convinced. “But there’s many a starving artist out there, and I’ve known some of them who learned well how to look out for their own welfare. Most of them could cut a man’s coin purse and be gone long before he knew what hit him.”
Wick shook his head. He felt sorry for interrupting the dead man’s slumber, and thought of the disrespect the dwarven thieves were showing the man by stealing from him after he was dead—although, Wick had to admit, that was probably much safer than being robbed by them while still alive. Then he thought of the four books in his backpack, knowing he was no better than the dwarven thieves. All in the interest of my work as a Librarian, he told himself. It isn’t theft; I’m rescuing knowledge that otherwise might be lost or used wrongly. Especially if these books turn out to be spellbooks. These books belong in the Vault of All Known Knowledge and it’s my duty to take them there—if I can.
“Wick figured out the secret of the mosaic,” Baldarn pointed out. “And here the secret of those gems was stumping Brant for nearly two months. Why he’s as great a thief as ever lived is what he is. A regular prince of thieves. And I’ve got just the crown for him.” He lifted his hand and showed the blue metal skullcap he’d obviously found in the chest of drawers that the others had ignored.
Since the skullcap wasn’t gold or silver the thieves evidently considered it worthless.
Baldarn crossed the room and clapped the skullcap over the little librarian’s head. “I crown thee,” he declared in a sanctimonious voice that filled the room, “Wick the Quick, Prince of Thieves.”
The other dwarves burst out laughing. Evidently the strength of the wine stores were more than any of them had expected.
Leading seven drunken dwarves on a stealing spree into what could be a dead wizard’s magic hideout, Wick told himself, is definitely not something I should repeat. Yet even as he told himself that, he couldn’t believe he’d done it in the first place. No dweller he’d known had ever done anything so outrageous, and only a few of those in legends told—to scare young dwellers—had ever been so foolhardy. He put a hand to his head, surprised at the fit the skullcap had. Why, the wizard must have had the same size head, although from looking at the skeleton on the bed, the little librarian would never have guessed—
Without warning, a tall man strode into the room. He carried a naked sword in his fist. His height and bulk instantly identified him as a human. He was too tall to be anything other than elven or human, and too heavy to be the former. He wore his thick black hair and beard cut short. A black chainmail shirt glinted in the torchlight, and old battle scars in the links shone more brightly. He was dressed all in black—except for the long purple cloak that hung from his broad shoulders.
“A Purple Cloak!” Lago screamed in warning.
Galvanized into action, Volsk stepped forward immediately, roaring out a battle cry as he swung his battle-axe. The human wearing the purple cloak lifted his hand and gestured. Something wavered in the air between the human’s hand and the charging dwarf. Then Volsk was thrown backward, sailing across the room to smash into the wizard’s four-poster bed amid the gaunt skeleton Tyrnen had discarded there. Wood splintered and shrieked.
“You don’t know what you’ve done!” the Purple Cloak roared as he stepped into the room. “Put down those things that you’ve taken and we’ll let you live!”
We’ll? Wick didn’t miss the pronoun use. He had no doubt that others accompanied Fohmyn Mhout’s henchman. The wizard’s Purple Cloaks never traveled alone. The little librarian grew very afraid. He also knew from scuttlebutt in the dweller slave pens that Purple Cloaks seldom left any they had physical confrontations with live as a message to any others who might think of fighting them. Volsk’s attack had signed their death warrants.
One of the twins—Wick was never sure later which one it was, and in the telling of the story later both claimed to be the one—threw a dagger that pierced the Purple Cloak’s throat. The little librarian couldn’t tell if the throw was a killing one or not, although the idea of getting knifed in the throat wasn’t pleasant by any stretch of the imagination.
Charnir rushed forward then and caught the Purple Cloak in the midriff with the long haft of his battle-axe. Maybe the keen blade wouldn’t have sliced through the chain mail, but it certainly took the wind from the wounded human and knocked him back out of the room. Charnir gave a lusty cry of triumph and sped through the door on his short legs.
“Come on, Wick,” Lago cried, catching the little librarian’s arm and yanking him toward the door.
Stunned and almost paralyzed with fear, realizing that somehow Fohmyn Mhout’s fearsome Purple Cloaks had discovered the magical gateway in the crypt, Wick followed the old dwarf. He shifted his backpack across his shoulders, making sure both straps were secure. The four books had added considerable weight and he didn’t want to chance losing them.
Two other Purple Cloaks waited in the outside room, both of them armed with swords and spellcraft as well. One of them gestured and shoved his open palm forward. Something disturbed the air like a roiling cloud, then slammed into the twin dwarven pickpockets. Tyrnen and Zalnar were bowled over as Charnir went flying back. All three dwarves tumbled head over heels into a wine rack, knocking the big shelves down in a thundering, clattering crash.
Still, Baldarn and Rithilin bravely charged forward, their weapons flashing as
they took the battle to their opponent. The dwarves scored hits, knocking the lead Purple Cloak down. The second Purple Cloak leaped forward, engaging the two enraged dwarves with his sword before they could kill the man stretched before them. Metal rasped against metal and sparks leaped into the shadows.
Wick and Lago had the only two torches still held in the wine cellar. The six younger dwarves had abandoned theirs to the floor as soon as they rushed to combat the Purple Cloaks.
Baldarn and Rithilin separated quickly, showing long practice of handling themselves in battle. They circled the taller, heavier human like two wolves, nipping away constantly at the Purple Cloak’s defenses, making the man fight attacks in front and back. Outflanked as he was, the Purple Cloak had no choice but to defend himself. The clangor of steel filled the wine cellar.
The Purple Cloak with the knife in his neck rose unsteadily from the doorway leading to the dead wizard’s final resting place. He tried to speak, but his voice was a hoarse, unintelligible croak. He gestured with one hand, but before he could complete whatever spell he planned, Volsk rammed into him from behind, knocking his foe down.
Things happened very fast then, and Wick was looking out for his own skin, aided by Lago, who obviously had the same agenda. They crept around the room, staying behind the stacks of wine shelves. Still, when one of the Purple Cloaks was forced back by the axes of Tyrnen and Zalnar, Lago didn’t hesitate about acting.
The old dwarf pulled Wick into the wine shelf near the Purple Cloak. “There!” Lago cried, pushing against the tall shelves. “Put your shoulder into it!”
Understanding what the old dwarf meant, although he was afraid such action would only draw the attention of the Purple Cloak—which Wick had been terribly thankful for not receiving so far—the little librarian threw himself against the wine shelf with Lago. At first, the wine shelves seemed disinclined to tip over. They creaked and shuddered, their shadows wavering across the room from the torches Lago and Wick held. Too late, the little librarian realized that holding the torch marked him easily for the Purple Cloaks.