A Hackwith - The Library of the Unwritten

She stared at her palm, long after the small body had dusted away, long after it was safe, as the dying raged in her ears.

And then it quieted, which was worse.

She fled back through shadow, twisting through the stacks. Some of the great shelves had been brought down by the wyrm’s thick body. Others lost their books and rocked worrisomely, but the Library was vast, and there were many places for a coward, a failed muse, a failed librarian, to hide. Brevity was about to move again when she heard a strangled cry. Deeper than the damsels’, and angry.

Hero.

Brevity flew across the stacks, stepping out from the shadows as much as she dared. She peered over the edge just in time to see Andras withdraw a short dagger from Hero’s arm. Hero was flat on the ground near the wide double doors, a hand crushed under the clawed foot of one of Andras’s largest Horrors.

The wyrm had stopped seeking the remaining damsels and coiled in a circle around its master and his victim. More Horrors drew closer, appearing from deeper in the stacks. Sensing blood in the air, a decisive end.

What that implied about the fates of the remaining damsels made Brevity’s chest ache.

Andras twirled the dagger in an idle grip before flipping it in his palm and plunging the blade into the meaty part of Hero’s thigh, pulling another scream from the unwritten man. Ink pooled from a handful of other similar wounds, and the whole right side of Hero’s face was swollen underneath the black ink and ash.

Hero tried to twist to his feet, kicking out hard with the injured leg, but the wyrm’s coiled body left no room to maneuver. The Horror standing over him shoved him down and redoubled his weight on his wrist. Andras, evidently tiring of the show, waved him off and dragged Hero to his knees. He waited while the Horrors bound him, tapping his fingers impatiently.

“I’ve been fighting books, books, nothing but books, since I got here. But not a librarian in sight. Someone’s shirking their duties.” Andras’s voice echoed, silky and dangerous. The flat of the dagger tapped on Andras’s chin as he studied Hero’s wounds like a painter would a canvas. His features, which Brevity had previously considered stern but fatherly, were now sharp, hungry. “Why don’t you be a good book and tell me where your masters are? Where’s Claire?”

Hero’s eyes were glazed with pain. He said nothing.

“Come, now, Hero. We drank together in Valhalla! I know the way you strain at your leash. I sympathize, even.” He petted Hero’s bloodied cheek, dragging claw marks through the soot. Hero flinched. “So I know you wouldn’t come back to this place on your own—if you’re here, then she is too. Why suffer for those who keep you prisoner?”

Andras’s second-in-command held up a square, ragged book. Brevity squinted until she recognized the too-white pages. Hero’s book. The Horror shook it open and raked its claws over the front page, shredding it delicately.

Hero’s shoulders shuddered, but then an odd sound came. It was like a wet squelch—a broken cough—until it resolved into a laugh. Claws hesitated on the page.

“You’d be doing me a favor,” Hero croaked. His head lolled on his shoulders, eyes sliding around the ceiling until Brevity realized he was searching. They lit on the shadow where she hid, and a ragged smile forced its way onto his blackened lips. “The librarians are weak, perfidious beasts. If you need them, then I wish you good hunting. They abandoned us.”

“I think not. Claire is my creation. I groomed her for many things, but I could always rely on her stubbornness.” Andras tilted the point of the blade under Hero’s chin. “Ah. Or should I be looking for the muse? She’ll be easier to break.”

Hero closed his eyes. His head drooped. “Go to hell.”

Andras made a disappointed cluck of his tongue. “That’s not much of a profanity here, you know. If you’re not going to make yourself useful, I have no need for a broken book in a place full of them.” Andras flicked the blade carelessly, opening another bloom of black ink on Hero’s chest.

Brevity was in shadow before she realized it; then she was at the base of the stacks. The wyrm blocked her view. Damsels were dead and it was in her way . She opened her mouth. “Stop!”

Slowly, the wyrm’s body shuddered into motion and pulled away to reveal Andras. Brevity stepped forward. Her skin crawled as the monster shifted behind her, closing her path. Books lay torn everywhere, crushed under the wyrm’s weight. Pages slipped beneath her heels. Wet clung to her cheeks. She crouched down to inspect Hero when she reached him.

Up close, the ash-gouged wounds and pooling ink were even worse. Hero’s lip was split and black with ink as he managed to open his good eye. His words stumbled through a broken mouth. “We had a plan.”

“I improvised.” Brevity had to whisper to keep her voice from cracking. “I’m not strong enough to be a hero.”

Hero’s laugh was small, brittle. “Me neither.”

“I am prepared to accept the Library’s surrender,” Andras’s cool voice intruded.

Brevity drew her eyes from Hero. Andras was smiling. “I’ll surrender, but the books stay. You have to promise no more books are destroyed.”

Andras’s smile grew. Not pleased, amused. “Is that all? The Library is no good to me burned. I’ll spare your pets, for now.”

A little of the sour tension leaked out of Brevity’s shoulders. But then Andras glanced again toward Hero.

“It would be unwise to leave insurrectionists at my back, however.” Andras made a motion. The Horror holding Hero’s book moved before Brevity could react. Claws grasped a handful of pages and tore.

Hero’s whole body stiffened, and his eyes rolled back. He didn’t scream, which worried Brevity even more. As if someone had cut his strings, he fell forward.

Hero’s colors had always been subdued, held close to his book. Simmering navy, the occasional gilded shadow of pewter and green. Hero, the character, had been colorful and bright enough for both. But Brevity felt it, like a shriveling under her hand, when his colors began to fade. Brevity gripped him by the shoulders and could only watch as Andras’s Horror grasped for another handful of pages as the scraps floated to the floor.

The blizzard of pages drifted through the air. The last scrap of paper landed on the carpet. As if marking finality, it was accompanied by a deep, earth-shuddering boom .

Then another, more out of place: boom .

The entrance to the wing flew open. The heavy oak doors rocked back on their hinges. As Andras’s temporary ward dropped, electrified air swept through the space, carrying in with it the smoky residue of powerful magic and a crackle of lightning. A monstrous figure blocked the doorway, wings splayed, and the gargoyle let out a howl that came from every direction and multiple dimensions at once.

The echo died a moment later, and smoke settled in tiny eddies around the feet of three figures.

A gawky and thin teenage boy.

A soldier holding a sword kissed with lightning.

And a woman.

Claire flicked a gaze of cold fury around the room before landing on Andras and his men.

“Get your hands off my book .”