Lord of the Libraries

by Mel Odom

  “Was these two,” a voice in the back stated.

  A slender elven warder in a hooded cloak pushed two small figures forward.

  “Please,” one of them whispered. “We meant no harm. We only wanted to see.”

  Surprise drew a curse from Varrowyn, who seldom cursed except during the heat of battle, as he studied the two the elven warder had rousted from the forest. They were barely three feet tall, dressed in gray robes, and cowered with their heads tucked down into their shoulders like they were second cousins to turtles or baby chicks trying to hide their heads under their own wings.

  “Dwellers,” one of the humans snarled in derision.

  Varrowyn knew that many among the elves, dwarves, and humans didn’t have respect for the dwellers. Slight of stature and prodigious of appetite, egotistical and stingy (all of this through a combination of birth and upbringing), dwellers were cowards at heart.

  The Old Ones’ magic had brought the dwellers into the world and given them the responsibility of caring for the Vault of All Known Knowledge. As the books had been destroyed under Lord Kharrion’s orders, the world had fallen into dim and cold ignorance. Reading and writing vanished, along with histories and scientific knowledge. Nothing was spared. Oral traditions could only keep so many things alive. On the island, the dwellers of Greydawn Moors taught their children to read so they could serve in the Great Library.

  Unfortunately, over the years and the generations, the dwellers in Greydawn Moors had come to resent the human Grandmagisters who had orchestrated the cataloguing and restoration of the books that the Unity had successfully transported to the island. The dwellers had chosen to step away from their duties and concentrate instead on mealtimes and finding ways to fill their coin purses through secret trade with the mainland. They sent fewer children to the Library, and those children spent less time there as well.

  As a result, the dwellers earned only derision and scorn from the dwarves, elves, and humans who lived on the island. All of them still gave everything they had to offer.

  Some of the dwarves had sworn their lives and the lives of their children for generations to the protection of the Great Library. The elves had sworn on as warders to care for the island and the creatures that roamed it. Because they were so drawn to the sea, humans had agreed to operate the navy and pirate fleets that protected the island.

  Other warriors made derisive comments as well.

  The two dwellers stood tight against each other, fidgeting and nervous. The small hands of each caught at the robe of the other. One of them carried a book and a Librarian’s bag containing writing utensils and inks.

  Children, Varrowyn realized. He quieted the warriors with a terse command.

  The silence fell immediately, broken only by the sweep of the oars out over the water.

  “What are ye two doin’ here?” Varrowyn made his voice gruff. “An’ ye’ll not be talkin’ loud, ye won’t.”

  The tallest one, though only by two inches, struggled to answer and finally got it out. “We-we-we had to c-c-come.”

  “Ye had to.” Varrowyn pulled irritably at his beard. “If’n I asked yer ma, would she say ye had to come here tonight?”

  “No, Varrowyn,” the dweller replied. He was dark haired and fair, with the leanness of youth on him that a life of largesse hadn’t yet blunted. “My ma would have my da to thrash me good.”

  “Well, out here in the dark, what with goblins in them waters, ye deserve a thrashin’, ye do. If yer ma was to find yer beds empty, she’d be worried sick, she would.” Varrowyn had such a mother still yet to this day.

  “I know,” the dweller lad said. “But we knew the goblinkin were coming and that you were going to fight them.”

  “How did ye come to know that?”

  “Our d-d-da owns the Sea Breeze T-t-tavern. Rutak and I d-d-do kitchen chores there sometimes. My n-n-name is Dockett Butterblender. We w-w-were there when you came c-c-calling for warriors tonight.” The young dweller looked glum. “When we get b-b-back, I expect our d-d-da to w-w-whip us anyway.”

  “An’ still ye came.” Varrowyn shook his head. That wasn’t ordinary behavior for dwellers. They never risked unless there was something to be gained and they felt certain about the outcome.

  “Hopin’ to see some blood spilt,” one of the dwarves said. His white grin split the night. “That’s not such a bad thing, Varrowyn.”

  “W-w-wasn’t to come s-s-see blood spilled,” Dockett Butterblender said. “I c-c-came to do the t-t-task Grandmagister Lamplighter wanted us to do. We h-h-heard about the t-t-talk he gave at the town m-m-meeting before the goblinkin attacked.” He shook his head. “Until t-t-the attack, I’d never seen b-b-battle.”

  Most of you hadn’t, Varrowyn thought. He felt bad that children had been forced to bear witness to such atrocities. Not only that, but many of them had been victims of the flaming catapult loads of pitchblende and rock that goblinkin ships had hurled into the city from the harbor. None of the dwellers living on the island had ever been exposed to war.

  For hundreds of years, Greydawn Moors had gone long forgotten and never again found. Sailors plied the sea for trade with the mainland, and all the crews were sworn to secrecy about the existence of the Vault of All Known Knowledge and the Librarians that kept all the books in the world. All of them kept that secret because they had family on the island who would be exposed to the untender mercies of the vengeful goblinkin.

  The oars creaked out on the sea, sounding closer now.

  “Ye lads shouldn’t be here,” Varrowyn said. “Hurry on now an’ get back to bed. A beatin’ from yer pap, why it’d be safer than stayin’ here.”

  “I can’t,” Dockett said. He held up the book he carried. “I learned to read and write from Grandmagister Lamplighter and First Librarian Juhg. They are the only two dwellers I know that have been off this island. I read accounts they wrote of their travels and adventures.”

  “Lad,” Varrowyn said, “I ain’t got the time nor the patience to be dealin’ with ye. Now ye just get on—”

  “No.” The young dweller’s answer was bold and strong. (Except for when his voice cracked in the middle.) But he folded his arms stubbornly like he hadn’t noticed. “My place is here. I’m staying.”

  “It ain’t yer pap ye’d best be afraid of,” Varrowyn promised. “I bet my hand’s a lot more callused than yer pap’s, an’ I’ll last longer at whelpin’ ye than he will, I wager.”

  “My place is here,” the young dweller pleaded. He held forth the book again. “Grandmagister Lamplighter said one of a Librarian’s greatest responsibilities is to write about things he learns and sees. First Level Librarian Juhg always maintained that any writing you do should be important, otherwise you were simply practicing words you’d learned.”

  Varrowyn’s attention was split between the young dwellers and the approaching goblinkin longboats. “I’m sure the Gran’magister, he meant well, but this is not the time nor the place to—”

  “We have lost so much,” Dockett interrupted. “All those books. The Librarians. All that knowledge is gone. We have to start getting some of it back. And future generations need to know what happened here during this time.”

  High up on the Knucklebones, where the Great Library had once stood, flames flickered in the earth. Some of the caverns in the underground section of the Vault of All Known Knowledge still burned. On dark nights like tonight, the flames could be seen as orange flickers against the underbelly of the perpetual fog.

  Varrowyn kept his tone deliberately harsh. “Ye should go.”

  The young dweller shook his head sorrowfully. “I have to do my duty here.”

  “What duty?” Varrowyn asked, exasperated.

  “I have to record this battle.” Dockett opened the book he carried.

  A brief bit of moonslight skated across the pages, but it was strong enough and long enough to show the sketches. Varrowyn recognized Farady and two of the dwarves featured in the drawing. They were seated at a
table in the Sea Breeze Tavern.

  “I started recording this at the Library,” Dockett said. “Where it all began. I’m trying to do what the Grandmagister charged us all with. I—”

  “Varrowyn!”

  Farady’s call galvanized Varrowyn into action. He pointed at the forest. “Ye two get over there. Now! I’ll not have fightin’ men trippin’ over ye whilst they’re battlin’ for their lives.” There was no time and no way he could see them safely home, and the forest was going to quickly fill up with goblinkin that wouldn’t think anything of slitting the throats of a couple of dweller children.

  The young dwellers turned and scampered for the tree line.

  Taking up his battle-axe in both hands again, Varrowyn joined the elven warder at the shoreline. Farady pointed into the boiling fog.

  Squinting his eyes against the stinging salt spray that whipped up over the small cliff, Varrowyn wiped his face and stared into the darkness. In the distance, he made out the first of the three longboats less than a bow shot away. Goblinkin shadows sat hunkered in the boat, pulling oars.

  “Do we take them in the water?” Farady asked. He lifted his bow meaningfully.

  “No,” Varrowyn answered, shaking his shaggy head. “On the land. Here. These ones will be a warnin’ to the others. I don’t want to kill some of ’em or maybe even most of ‘em. I want ’em all dead. When none of these come back, them goblinkin commanders of them ships out in the harbor will have to think about that. It’ll be harder for ’em to assemble another group of raiders.”

  “Very well.” Farady pulled back, staying low so he wouldn’t be detected against the skyline by the ships from below. He nocked a dark-fletched arrow to his bowstring and never turned from the approach of their enemies.

  Varrowyn pulled his troops to the tree line, allowing the arriving goblinkin room to climb on shore.

  Minutes later, the longboats smacked hollowly against the jagged rocks below. Goblins cursed in their harsh tongues and the sound of flesh striking flesh carried to Varrowyn’s ears. Commanders ordered the goblins to keep silent.

  The beasties are tense, the dwarven captain thought, smiling to himself. Even as much as he anticipated the battle, part of him dreaded it. The chances of all the warriors he’d gathered emerging from the engagement unscathed was near nonexistent. But a message needed to be sent to the goblinkin waiting out in the monster-infested sea.

  The first of the goblins came into view slowly. He shoved his head over the edge of land cautiously, ducked down so his ill-fitting helm slid down his face. If Varrowyn hadn’t known blood was in the offing, he might have laughed at the sight. There were a few blacksmiths who made armor among the goblinkin, but they were seldom seen. Most of the armor the goblins wore came from the spoils of war, dragged from the bodies of humans and dwarves.

  Come on now. Don’t back away none. Just us trees in the forest a-waitin’ on ye. Ye’re safe enough here. Varrowyn took a fresh grip on his battle-axe.

  Almost as tall as humans and loutish looking, the goblins possessed triangular, wedge-shaped heads filled with wide mouths and big, crooked teeth. Spiky black hair sprouted from their heads, chins, and out their flaring ears. Most of them were broad-shouldered, but either tended to be overweight or undernourished looking. A goblin’s diet and metabolism either made for feast or famine, with few left between, so they either ran fat or they ran skinny. Ugly, gray-green, splotchy skin covered them and marked them instantly.

  All of them wore armor tonight, but few had taken care to work in a layer of lampblack so the metal wouldn’t shine. At least, if the armor were clean it would have shined. As it was now, the metal surfaces only reflected a dulled sheen, but it was still visible. They carried axes, swords, and cudgels.

  Finally, the goblins were all ashore. They clustered together along the shoreline.

  Stupid beasties, Varrowyn thought. If he’d been in charge, he’d have ordered four separate landings at minimum that were properly spaced apart so they couldn’t all be taken at once but would still be able to help each other.

  He rose with a yell. “Archers!”

  Instantly, the eight elven warders among the group loosed shafts. Arrows hissed through the air and sank into the goblinkin, piercing their chests, throats, and eyes. At least twenty of the enemy died in that onslaught, their bodies falling at the feet of their comrades and over the side of the drop-off to the foaming water below.

  “Again!” Varrowyn yelled.

  Arrows took flight again. This time the goblinkin lifted their shields and most of the shafts broke against them. Crying out in fear and rage, the goblinkin rushed the tree line.

  “Set anvils!” Varrowyn roared. He stepped out of the darkness and into step with his shield mates.

  Dividing into four-man groups, the dwarves set anvils, their chosen defensive posture. Two by two, with the front two men carrying large shields and hand axes, maces, or morning stars, the dwarves met the goblinkin attack and held them. The thunder of metal-on-metal filled the forest. The two dwarves in the back carried battle-axes and waited for the cry to go out for—

  “Axes!” Varrowyn commanded.

  As the goblinkin reeled back from the dwarven shields, the dwarves rotated into axes, forming the offensive groups in a diamond shape, or a two-by-two square turned on edge. One of the warriors carrying a battle-axe stepped to the forefront and was flanked by two others so no one could intercept them without braving a deadly net of flashing steel. They became wedges that drove into the midst of their opponents.

  The humans moved in to confront their enemies one-on-one without the concerted effort of the dwarves. The elven warders, accompanied by their animal companions consisting of birds, badgers, and bears, fought as well, staying on the outside of the battle and picking off their opponents. But it was the dwarves who ripped the heart out of the massed goblinkin, driving deeply into them again and again and leaving a twisted trail of bodies behind.

  Varrowyn sang a dwarven fighting song, timed perfectly so that the cadence matched a warrior’s natural weapon swing. His fellow dwarves joined in, and their voices reverberated throughout the forest and across the crashing surf.

  He blocked a spear thrust to the side with his axe, then swung the iron-bound haft up into the goblin’s face, breaking teeth and sending the foul creature stumbling back to take down yet another. Sidestepping a blow, the dwarven captain brought the battle-axe down and cleaved through an iron helm and the goblin head that wore it. The death screams of goblins mixed in with the dwarven war song.

  The battle lasted only minutes. The execution, for that was what the action truly was, only stopped when the defenders of Greydawn Moors ran out of goblinkin to kill.

  Breathing hard and bloodied, fire skating along his ribs from a spear wound, Varrowyn shook the blood from his battle-axe. Amid the carnage left of the goblinkin, bodies of a handful of dwarves, humans, and also elves lay.

  “Varrowyn,” broad-faced Kummel called. The warrior sat on his knees holding the hand of young Anell.

  Heart heavy with dread, Varrowyn joined them. The young dwarf’s parents had already lost one son to the goblinkin. Anell lay bleeding from a wound to the throat. Kummel was attempting to stanch the flow with a compress made of his own tunic, but experience told Varrowyn the effort was in vain.

  The young dwarven warrior was dying and there was naught any of them could do.

  Varrowyn took the young dwarf’s hand. “Ye fought well, Anell. Ye did. I saw ye, glimpsed ye from the corner of me eye, I did. Ye are ever’ inch a brawler.”

  A faint smile tugged at Anell’s bloody lips. His beard was scarce thick enough to mask his chin. “The dweller,” he gasped. “I would speak … with the dweller lad.”

  Varrowyn sent the order and Dockett was brought forward. Despite the horrors of the attack on Greydawn Moors last month, the dweller hadn’t hardened to the ways of war. His eyes rounded in fear and filled with tears, and he stood on shaking legs.

  “Me,” Anel
l said to the dweller as he took hold of the other’s shirt. “I am Anell, son of Morag Thur, of the … the Unrelenting Hammer Clan. I died here tonight fightin’ … against the goblinkin to save the Library. As I swore to the Old Ones an’ my father … that I would. Make them … remember … me.” He swallowed. “Please. Do not let … them forget.”

  “I-I-I will,” Dockett promised. Tears leaked from his eyes and ran down his dirty cheeks. “The world will know you forever, Anell. I swear by the Old Ones that they will.”

  With a final exhalation, Anell passed. His sightless eyes rolled up and his lifeless body relaxed on the bloodied earth.

  Kummel cursed. Pain and rage cracked his broad face and tightened his voice. “He was just a young ’un, Varrowyn. It ain’t right. Wasn’t his time to die. I don’t want to tell his ma. Her heart’s already broken.”

  Varrowyn sat quietly. Kummel and Anell had been shield mates for years.

  “I am sorry for your loss,” the young dweller whispered.

  Uncoiling, Kummel put a big hand on the young dweller’s chest and shoved him away. Dockett rolled a half dozen times and sprawled. Hesitantly, obviously expecting further attack, he pushed himself up.

  The other survivors of the attack gathered around. All of them had lost someone they knew.

  “Don’t ye be apologizin’ to me!” Kummel roared. “An’ that promise ye made to Anell? That was worthless, was what it was!” He took a step toward the dweller.

  Fearing that Kummel was out of control in his grief, Varrowyn stepped forward and intercepted the dwarven warrior. “Stand down,” the dwarven captain ordered.

  Kummel stopped, but the thought flashed through his eyes that maybe he wouldn’t. “We’re dyin’ here, Varrowyn. Dyin’ one by one for these dwellers that don’t know how to fight for themselves an’ wouldn’t even if they did because they’re all cowards.”

  “This one left the safety of his da’s tavern,” Varrowyn said, “an’ is sure to get a thumpin’ when he gets back for sneakin’ along with us as he did.” He spoke loud enough so that all could hear. “An’ he made his way through the dark forest at night.” He paused. “Do ye know why he did that?”