Chapter 5
Varello steps calmly onto the porch of Desa’s hut with his palms out to the armed women. They keep their weapons trained on him, waiting for him to give them an excuse to reduce him to a bloody pile.
He tallies their number in his head, calculates his odds of success should he try any of the tactics flashing through his mind. Music could put them all to sleep, but I wouldn’t have time to whistle more than two eyeblinks before they pounce. I could fight them, but there are too many. I have only one option, then, and I’m not sure it will work on those who have been bewitched. Well...might as well give it a shot.
“Ladies, I stand before you unarmed. I realize that those of you who have already met me feel that I am a threat because of my lullabies, but I did not harm you then, nor do I intend to do so now.”
The women hold their ground, waiting for him to continue.
“Here is the situation: if you kill me or hinder my activities here in any way, soldiers will come. I don’t mean a few men with spears, I mean a full-blown army of trained killers with no concept of remorse. You may think that Desa will be able to protect you simply by smiling at these men, and you would be wrong. When the soldiers come, they will not march in to attack, they will surround the Willowood and burn it from the outside in. You will all spend your final moments in horrible pain--including Desa.”
Varello watches their expressions as they contemplate their beloved idoless bursting into flame. One of the women takes a step onto the porch.
“Leave here. Leave here now and do not come back. We wish only to be left alone.”
He nods. “That is what I wish to do. However, I have one condition.”
The woman on the porch taps her foot, waiting for him to speak. “Yes?”
“Desa leaves with me.”
In an instant, the circle of women closes in around Varello.
The combination of green sky and chalky white trees and grass turns the mood of the Deathstretch from merely ominous to downright alien. Deep within the silent stillness of the dead forest, there is movement as a black figure flickers into existence a few man-lengths away from a cabin. He clutches something round and gold in one hand and something silver and slender in the other. He closes the door behind him as he enters the cabin.
Risma sits rocking a chair, barely looking up from her book to acknowledge him as he enters the room. “How’d it go?”
As soon as the man pulls his hood back, the material changes from pitch black to a normal gray. “I told them I was a Black Robe and if they didn’t find me the book within one day, the other Black Robes and I would leave them to their fate when the clockspring soldiers swarm the city.”
Risma tries to hold back a laugh. “A Black Robe? And they believed you?”
The man clears his throat. “I mean, it took a little convincing in the form of a demonstration, but in the end they had no choice but to believe me.”
Risma closes the book she is reading and holds out the little black doll, turning it over in her hand. “Oh, Thanos, why must you make everything so bonking complicated?”
The man laughs. “Don’t blame Thanos. Life is a series of inconveniences. The point of life is to endure them.”
She focuses her divine eyes on him. “Any idea how they’re going to find this needle-in-a-haystack in less than a day?”
He laughs again. “The commander of their forces intimated that he was going to ask the Libros Majorum for help.”
Risma holds up her book, an edition bound in an odd kind of leather, titled The Lastt Darrinian King: The Compleat Monolog. “That’s funny, I was just reading one of his books when you walked in.”
The man nods. “Oh? How is it?”
She shrugs. “Mostly it’s rubbish, but I like the ending.”
Rahvik, the commander of the Arcanian Defense Corps, walks purposefully down the hallway, his purple cape billowing behind him and kicking up swirls of dust. He doesn’t get ten man-lengths from the Council’s meeting room before another soldier-wizard, his second-in-command, appears from the shadow of a doorway and matches his pace. Rahvik addresses him without looking at him, choosing instead to keep his gaze focused straight ahead.
“How close are the clockspring soldiers?”
“About a day at the most, assuming they don’t need to stop for rest, or to be wound up or something.”
The commander does not slow his stride. “I doubt the Mortesians would build a hundred thousand of those things and send them here if they needed to be wound up. They’d need almost as many human soldiers as mechanickal ones just to maintain a force that size. No, we must assume those things will head straight here from the ruins of Krassen. Were any of the scout units able to capture one and bring it back?”
The second-in-commander frowns. “All the circles on that particular mission were lost.”
Rahvik gives a somber nod as the second-in-commander darts a few steps in front of him to open the door, a small service entrance leading to an alley.
Rahvik takes a look around, then starts walking leftward, directly away from the barracks. The second-in-commander gives him an odd look. “Sir, permission to ask where you’re going?”
“Why ask permission if you’re going to ask me anyway?”
The second-in-commander pauses, scratching his head, then rushes to keep up with Rahvik, who finally turns to him. “There’s a book I’m interested in. Anybody see any Librarians running around today?”
“A book, sir? You mean like a book of strategy?”
“Kneebahn, I’m pretty sure it’s a book of tragedy.”
Varello flinches as the women surround him, waiting for the fatal blows to rain down upon him. He opens his eyes after a moment to find himself still in one piece, with Desa using her naked body as a shield to protect him. The women back off for a moment, confused at the actions of their idoless.
“He must die. It’s the only way,” one of the women says.
Desa unclenches her fist to reveal a note, which she hands to the closest woman.
I’m going with him. It’s the only way for the rest of you to be able to remain here and remain safe.
The woman shakes her head, raising her knife once again to swing it at Varello. Desa swiftly plucks it from her hand and holds it steady over her own wrist, throwing a violent glare toward each of the women in turn. They drop their weapons and slowly back away.
“You want to do what?” the somber Librarian asks.
Rahvik scowls. “I want to meet with the Libros Majorum. Unless you can tell me where within the Knot there is a book describing how to activate the Idol of Thanos?”
“Well, with enough time, I’m sure we could find--”
The Librarian is cut short when he finds the tip of a longknife touching his windpipe.
“There is no time,” Rahvik explains.
The Librarian sighs and brushes the blade away from his neck, meeting Rahvik’s gaze with his own maniacal stare. “You are certain?”
Rahvik shrugs. “What must be done must be done.”
“The thing is,” the Librarian says as he turns away from Rahvik and Kneebahn, “is that you can’t unmeet the Libros Majorum.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Kneebahn asks.
“Oh, you’ll see,” the Librarian says with a savage laugh.
Zanther and Novanostrum make camp beneath a small stone bridge. The dry, brittle ground beneath their feet suggests that the bridge was constructed to allow horses to pass over a narrow creek which has long since dried up.
“I just don’t see how the sky can keep that green tint even after nightfall,” Novanostrum says.
“Me, I just don’t see why you care so much about it.”
“It’s an ill omen.”
Zanther, stretched out on his sleeping roll with his hands beside his head, looks over across the dried-out riverbed to Novanostrum. “Every omen is an ill omen. You wouldn’t
need a warning if something good were about to occur.”
“That’s downright philosophical. You really missed your true calling.”
“You’ve faced off against the most powerful wizard in Arcania, slayed a daemon lord, and romanced a goddess, and now you’re telling me that a peapod sky is making you loose your bowels? It’s just weather. If it upsets you that much, do some magick and fix it.”
“I never said anything about my bowels.”
The staircase descends in a spiral, deep under the heart of Arcania. In one hand, the Librarian holds a wrapped bundle, in the other hand he holds a torch. Cautiously, Rahvik follows behind, trying to see in front of his feet in the flickering, fickle light provided by the torch.
“The Libros Majorum lives underneath Arcania?” Rahvik asks.
“The Libros Majorum lives underneath every major city in Upper Kleighton,” the Librarian answers.
“You mean he has hidden places like this all across the continent and travels between them?”
“I said what I meant to say in order to communicate the truth. If I would have meant that he ‘lives in hidden places like this all across the continent,’ then those are the words I would have chosen to form my sentence.”
“Are all Librarians as irritable and crazy as you, or are you an exception?”
“Librarians tend to be an irritable and crazy bunch. You ever want to find out just how irritable and crazy we really are, just make a lot of noise in a library sometime.”
After what seems like a few bellchimes, the spiral staircase culminates in a thick, red door. The Librarian digs around in his bundle and produces a key, which he uses to unlock the aforementioned door. It swings open with an agitated groan and the two of them walk into a large, round chamber containing dozens of similar red doors.
“Is this underneath the Knot?” Rahvik asks.
“This room is, in itself, a kind of knot. To be honest, I don’t know exactly where we are, but I’m pretty sure we’re not underneath Arcania anymore.”
“How...how can that be?”
“There are many things in this world that exist without our knowing the ‘how’ or the ‘why’ behind their existence,” the Librarian says, “for instance, one might question how or why you have the audacity to demand a personal audience with the Libros Majorum.”
“I already explained why, earlier.”
“Which is why I brought you here. However, I am but a servant, and it is not for me to determine the ultimate whims of our master. Should the Libros Majorum choose not to reveal wisdom to you, I would advise you not to press the issue.”
Rahvik looks around the circular chamber, seeing nothing but red doors and stone walls in the dancing, precarious torchlight.
“Well?” he asks.
“Wait a moment while I summon our master.”
Ringed around the center of the room are twelve stone pedestals, each with a round indentation in their center. The Librarian steps to each of these in turn, pulling out a lead ball of a slightly different weight and setting it on the appropriate pedestal.
For a moment, nothing happens.
Gradually, a clamor begins to arise beneath the chamber. The clanking and whirring of the metal-on-metal grinding of gear teeth on gear teeth gets louder and more boisterous as the round section of stone floor in the center of the room, maybe three man-lengths in diameter, starts to rise. After grinding to a stop just half an arm length from the rest of the floor, a gap the size of a well forms in the center of the platform. After a few moments, a wooden podium rises from this gap. Sitting atop the wooden podium is a book.
“I guess he’s not here,” Rahvik says.
The Librarian smiles as he points to the book. “He? I guess a book could have a gender. In that case, ‘he’ is right there.”
Rahvik smiles back. “This is the book containing information about the Idol of Thanos?”
The Librarian shakes his head. “No. This book IS the Libros Majorum.”
Rahvik’s smile turns to a frown. “I don’t get it.”
The Librarian nods. “Walk over and open the book to a random page.”
Rahvik steps onto the platform and approaches the book, stealing a glance over his shoulder at the Librarian just before flipping it open to a page somewhere near what he guesses is the middle of the book. Though the text is handwritten and highly stylized, Rahvik is able to discern the words on the page.
Rahvik Manislov. You braved a trip all the way down here with the best of intentions. You came down here despite this book’s reputation in order to save your pregnant girlfriend from dying when the clockspring soldiers invade Arcania. And yet, you cloak this desire by presenting it in terms of wanting to save the city itself and everyone in it.
But let’s be honest, you’d trade all of their--
Shocked at seeing his inner thoughts revealed in print, he slams the leather-bound volume shut.
The Librarian sighs at the rough treatment of his master. “Open it again, and try to be more gentle this time, lest you end up leaving this room through a different door.”
So as to not end up on the same page, he opens the book to a random page near the front, only to find the same text as before. Frustrated, he picks up where he left off.
But let’s be honest, you’d trade all of their lives for hers. And this plan of yours, to come down here and force me to help you, hinges on your assumption that I would not tolerate the destruction of the books in the Knot.
However, you are also forgetting that Librarians are allowed safe travel throughout Upper Kleighton precisely because they do not get involved in these types of matters. For me to help you would be to choose a side against Mortesia, to lose access to their hundreds of thousands of books, and to potentially forfeit the lives of half a dozen Librarians currently within the borders of Mortesia, not to mention putting the diplomatic status of all Librarians across the whole of Upper Kleighton in danger.
All of that being said, I’m going to help you anyway.
On the third floor of the Magickal Antiquity Building in the northwest quadrant of the Knot, there is a small study with a moldy green chair and a yafbeest head mounted on the wall. This room is full of bookcases--the book you’re looking for will be neither in this room nor outside of it, but you’ll never find it if the door is closed.
Rahvik rereads the final paragraph, picturing the room in his mind and trying to make sense of the Libros Majorum’s meaning. With a sigh, he closes the book.
He turns to the Librarian, standing six or seven man-lengths away with his arms crossed.
“I hope you memorized what was written.”
“I suppose another glance wouldn’t hurt,” Rahvik says, opening the book again. This time, the pages he opens the book to are both blank. He starts turning the pages, trying to find the one containing his message.
The pages are all blank.
Flipping frantically from page to page, Rahvik feels a hand on his shoulder.
“It’s time to leave this place.”
Varello walks with Desa side-by-side through the edge of the Willowood, the melancholy trees thinning out at the base of the granite slabs forming the foundation of the mountains. She dances as she walks, pausing to scrutinize every new pebble she spots on the road. Varello, wearing a heavy backsack full of supplies, carries his lute in hand. Desa wears nothing and carries nothing.
“Aren’t you cold?” Varello asks, staring at her exposed skin.
She shakes her head.
They continue for awhile in silence, the half-full moons above turning the night sky above a hazy green. They walk through the shadows of trees until there are no more trees. Maybe thirty man-lengths in front of them, Varello spots a gap in the stone, a cave. He approaches it cautiously, with Desa following behind at a safe distance.
He peeks his head inside, the moonlight reflecting dimly off crystalline walls to reveal a huge slumbering a form; a dragon.
After
spending a long ten eyeblinks staring at the beast, a flicker of recognition ignites in Varello’s head.
“Kragnar?”
The creature’s eyes flutter, and his forked tongue tastes the air before he fully awakens. He sizes up the human in front of him, and his dragon sense picks up on something even more interesting.
“Varello! You brought me a present!”
Confused for a moment, Varello realizes what Kragnar is referring to.
“She’s not for eating. She’s a friend of mine.”
“That’s a shame; I haven’t had anything spicy in a while,” Kragnar says, noting her red hair.
Desa stands almost completely behind Varello, her arm wrapped around his waist. Between the dim, reflected light and the dragon’s lack of proper lips, she squints, trying to understand the exchange between the two of them.
“What are you doing out here in the mountains?” Varello asks.
“I’m hiding. The Darrinians have been hunting my kind recently. I guess they lost most of their skyships, and now they are trying to rebuild their fleet, which, as you may or not know, involves capturing dragons and feeding them retired prostitutes. This upsets our dragon stomachs and leads to a lot of flatulence, which they collect and use to fill the air bladders of their skyships.”
Varello nods. “We are also hiding. This young woman can enrapture a man to death just by batting her eyelashes.”
The dragon snorts. “You wish you could be so lucky, don’t you?”
“Your dragon eyes don’t miss much. But, er, yes, so I am wondering if we might stay here tonight in your cave.”
“Of course.”
“You realize,” Varello says, “that it’s implied that you won’t eat the girl while I’m sleeping.”
“Oh, well, right. Anyway, if she’s as deadly as you say, it would be nice to have her around as protection.”
Varello smiles as he unrolls a pair of sleeping bags. “Fancy that, a young beauty protecting a dragon.”
Desa shrugs in confusion before giving up and lying down on her makeshift bed. Before long, she is fast asleep, her bone-crunching snores echoing through the crystal chamber.
The bard and the dragon toss and turn for awhile on their respective sides of the cave, trying not to focus on the skin-peeling noise.
Varello rolls onto his side, facing Kragnar. “I’ve changed my mind. You can eat her if you want--it might be the only way either of us will get any sleep.”
“I can’t eat her,” Kragnar says, “her snoring reminds me too much of a lady dragon I used to know.”