A Hackwith - The Library of the Unwritten

She cleared her throat and turned her attention to the nearest available target. “And what do fictional heroes see in the dark?”

“Nothing. Just… nothing.” It took Hero a moment longer than usual to marshal his usual haughty expression, and his sneer was slightly off-kilter. “Your company is nightmare enough, of course. What else could I fear?”

“Should have let go of the feather, then,” Claire said, “stayed in the void. Lovely place. The gibbering voices could have taught you some manners.”

“As opposed to the gibbering of the present?”

“Mind your tongue, book.”

“Mind my tongue? Why, that’s my most charming attribute.”

“Maybe humility went with his lost pages,” Leto muttered, and Hero rewarded him with a sliver of a grin.

“And the shadow gets a sense of humor! I didn’t know he had it in him. Your bad influence, to be sure, warden.”

THE HALL ROSE INTO view as they reached the top of the hill. A grand longhouse squatted in the middle of a wide training yard. It was constructed of dark timbers, each as big around as Hero was tall. All the wood was trimmed in gold, and dark carvings resolved into sinuous animals that curled into one another as Claire drew near. Lining the roof, gutter to gable, were wooden shields of every color. Their painted heraldry was bright in the late-afternoon sun.

It was the set of double doors at the top of a flight of steps that brought the group up short. A beaten-bronze sun decorated the tops of the doors, caught in the teeth of a giant wolf. Through the carvings that emanated from the sun ran ribbons of gold, dribbling between the wolf’s teeth. Every recognizable creature, real or mythical, was represented, and though the carvings were rough, they pulsed with a chained energy. Ravens roosted among the uppermost gables. The roiling cloud of black feathers croaked and chattered down at the group as they hesitated at the base of the stairs.

“So many birds. How unclean,” Andras commented as he squinted at them. “What is the term for a group of them? A nest, a colony… A murder is for crows….”

“An unkindness of ravens,” Claire muttered.

“Apt.”

“They seem kinda pretty to me,” Brevity offered as Claire placed her foot on the first step.

That was a mistake.

One of the largest ravens erupted from the flock and launched into a bulleting arc. At the apex, it dove, angling directly at the group. Brevity shouted a warning, but it was drowned out by a screech. First sounding avian, then… it changed.

A dark blur folded into Claire, and she slammed to the ground. She shook her head to clear it but was arrested when a long, curved blade came to rest lightly under her jaw, tip prodding her skull behind her ear.

“Squishy thing. Weak thing,” said a woman’s snarling voice. “You’re no warrior.”

Claire squinted in the sun to make out the figure straddling her. She was tall and broad shouldered, with dark leathers covering her and smelling vaguely of fire and sweat. Lean, hard muscle covered what leather did not, and she had a sharp, beaklike face with dark, kohled eyes. The sides of her head were shaved, and a frill of jet-black hair and feathers on the top of her head twitched as she leaned forward.

“Warriors go to Valhalla. Cowards to Hell. Intruders go to the flock.” The woman’s lips curved into a smile to match her knife.

“Hero—” Claire croaked out, but the blade tightened against her skin.

The chuckle was so smug she could hear the smirk in it. “Sorry—didn’t catch that command, warden. Need something, did you? I am ever ready to assist a lady in need. Would you like a cup of tea?” She heard Brevity hiss something, which seemed to make Hero only laugh louder.

She really would kill that damned man.

The raven woman’s companions joined her in human form, surrounding their party. Claire grimaced and crept her hands up, open at her sides. She might not die in Valhalla, but being skewered and sent back to Hell was not in her plans. “We mean no harm.”

“You could do no harm even if you meant it, squishy woman.”

“Excuse me, bird lady?” Brevity’s voice brought Claire’s attacker’s attention around. “I’m afraid I need you to let go of my boss. Or I’ll need to hit you. With very large books.”

“Is that so, little worm?” Claire felt a warm trickle as the knife pressed harder. She began to wonder if her assistant was after a quick promotion.

“Who comes, Arlid?” A new voice sounded from somewhere beyond the steps. “They might have difficulty announcing themselves with a cut throat.”

The raven woman, Arlid, made a disgusted noise, but the knife came away from Claire’s throat. “Intruders, Ragna. My flock brought word. These are the ones holding our fledges in another realm, wicked things. Now they try to enter the halls, slinking in like cowards.”

“We’re not cowards. We’re librarians!” Brevity protested, but the flat silence said the guards did not see the distinction.

Claire pressed her hand to the nick at her throat, wiping the dribble of blood as she sat up. A thickset woman, layered in furs and old scars, stood at the top of the stairs. She had a warrior’s ease, but her arms were crossed, and she held less hostility in her gaze than Arlid.

“We are members of Hell’s Unwritten Wing and we’re here to see Bjorn the Bard.” Claire got to her feet, knocked the dust off her skirts for what seemed to be the tenth time today, and assessed the situation.

Arlid loomed over her, knife angled so Claire didn’t think about moving too fast. Brevity stood with the others, and still had her bag hoisted over her head, trembling arms waggling it threateningly at the nearest guard. Hero was content to stand to one side with a complete lack of concern. Useless book.

The powerful woman at the top of the stairs made no move to help or hinder. “And what would bring Lucifer’s folk to see our storyteller?”

Storyteller. Claire had never thought of librarians like that, but then, Bjorn was before her time. “Library business.” When the warrior raised her brow, she clarified, “ Confidential library business.”

“We respect the work of your storytellers. They may pass, Arlid,” Ragna said, and the raven woman stepped to one side with a grunt. The party began up the stairs, now warier of the ravens overhead. “I’m sure Bjorn will speak to you after you pass the trial.”

“Trial?” Brevity echoed.

“Valhalla is the field of heroes. You didn’t die in worthy battle, so you’ll have to prove your worth if you want our hospitality.”

Claire shook her head. “But we’re just here for a visit—just a moment is all—”

“You still must prove yourselves warriors to enter Valhalla,” Ragna said.

“And if you don’t…” Arlid skipped up the stairs after them. A feral smile crossed her hooked face, and she motioned to the ravens above. For the first time, Claire noticed bits of bone and unidentifiable lumps strung up amid the eaves. They clattered along with Arlid’s singsong croak. “Intruders are consigned to the flock.”

“WHEN YOU SAID YOU knew the way to Valhalla…” Claire’s eyes were quickly adjusting to the light inside the hall. It appeared even bigger inside. The long hall of Valhalla comprised a disconcerting mix of ancient myth and the exaggerated flux of modern influence. The roof rested on rafters made of thick spears, and shields and carvings decorated the walls that seemed to run on forever. The inhabitants were every age, shape, and size, not the uncouth giants that the decor indicated, but the interior of the hall bristled with an aggressive mix of song, wine, and a jovial sort of violence. Sweet smoke and mead were heavy in the warm air. “I assumed you had a plan for this part.”