The Devil's Library: The Windhaven Chronicles

by Watson Davis

“No axe,” Dyuh Mon said. “Put axe on ground. No fight. Let me talk.”

  Gartan set his axe down and raised his hands. Other soldiers rushed forward, securing Dyuh Mon’s wrists, stuffing a rag in his mouth, and binding Gartan’s wrists behind his back.

  Heroes

  The guard lifted the torch out of the sconce on the wall and slammed the wooden door shut, plunging the dank cell into darkness, barring it from the outside.

  Gartan hung from the wall with his eyes squeezed shut, stripped naked. The shackles dug into his wrists. His ribs throbbed from where the guard had pounded on him, aching more from old wounds than the viciousness of the guard.

  The guard’s steps retreated, reverberating off the stone floors, the stone walls, as the guard’s boots stomped up the stairs and out a door. Rats chittered, their tiny feet scraping against stone. From another cell, Dyuh Mon moaned, his breath shivering and rough.

  Gartan concentrated on his right hand first, forcing his fingers and thumb together and pulling down, yanking down as hard as he could, struggling and straining, ignoring the iron of the shackle cutting gouges into his skin, little by little, until his hand popped free.

  The door opened. Not the door to his cell, but the door to the stairs from which the guard had departed. Gartan stopped, listening, holding his breath. Boots came thundering down the steps at a quick pace.

  “Dyuh Mon!” someone said, followed by Nayen words Gartan couldn’t understand.

  Gartan put his hand partially back into the shackle, listening. A bright light shone in not only from the crack between the door and the floor, but also from the narrow gaps between the planks that made up the door, the light illuminating one end of the bare square cell, moving across the stone floor to the other side as they passed.

  That voice said more things in Nayen. A bar lifted; a door opened. That voice said something and laughed a humorless laugh.

  Gartan yanked his right hand back out. He reached across, working on his left hand, compressing the hand, pulling down with his arm, wriggling the shackle with his right hand, working it up, over his knuckles, and off his hand, all the while scraping more gouges into his skin.

  He crept to the door, touching the rough, old wood with his fingertips. The boards ran from top to bottom, bound together with iron staples. He pressed against the middle, at the top, at the bottom, testing the strength of the planks.

  The Nayen voice continued to question, to say things, but now Dyuh Mon responded, his voice begging and pleading, grunting as he was struck.

  Reaching up, Gartan dug his fingertips in between the gap between the top of the wall, an arch, and the wood of the door, pushing them forward until the tips of his fingers looped over the boards. Settling his foot against the middle of the door, he pulled back, straining, muscles grinding, until the two boards snapped, first the one on the left, then the one on the right.

  He flew backward, falling, tumbling to the stone floor, but he threw himself to his feet, ran back to the door, and scrabbled one foot at a time through the gap he’d created, squeezing himself through.

  A guard stood before the door at the end of the corridor, his head turned toward Gartan, his face hidden by the mask connected to his helmet. He said something in Nayen, his voice rising in pitch and urgency. His halberd slipped from his fingers and fell to the ground.

  Gartan charged toward the guard, and the man took a step back, raising his hands, crossing his forearms over his mask. Gartan slammed into him, wrapping his arms around that prickly armor, raising the guard into the air, sweeping his feet out from beneath him and slamming him to the ground.

  Dyuh Mon dangled from the shackles in his cell, face bloody, eye swollen shut, his left cheek twice its normal size. Two guards stood just inside the door, only now beginning to turn toward Gartan. One guard stood beside a brazier flaring with fire, with metal rods inside it. The leader of the guards held one of the metal rods in his right hand, the tip burning yellow.

  Gartan launched himself into the room, sprinting through it to grab the leather handle on one of the rods and pull it from the flames. He knocked the brazier aside, sending charcoal scattering across the room and embers flying up into the air. He set his feet, and sliced the rod across the helmet of the guard by the brazier, reversing himself toward the leader. The leader dropped the burning rod in his hand, sending it falling harmlessly to the floor as his hand went instead to the sword at his belt, clawing at the pommel.

  Gartan lunged toward him, stabbing with the burning rod through the eyehole of the leader’s mask. The man shrieked inside the mask, bending over backward, convulsing as he toppled to the floor.

  The two guards at the door whipped their swords out. Gartan reached down, ripping the sword from the leader’s belt. The two guards rushed toward him. Gartan leapt to his right, stabbing down with his sword into the neck of the guard on the floor, the guard on his hands and knees struggling to rise. Gartan drove the blade into the man’s spine, killing him, then withdrew the sword, raised it to his shoulder level, and pointed it at the guards.

  The other guards shifted course, coming at him single file now, waving their swords over their heads.

  Gartan darted forward, ducking down, his sword shooting up into the gap between the mask and the helmet, into the soft part of the man’s throat, up into the base of the skull, shattering it. The guard fell, his weight tearing the sword from Gartan’s hand.

  The other guard, a huge orc, swung his sword at Gartan, but too slow. Gartan caught its wrist, using the creature’s momentum to sling it over his shoulder, into the air, then slamming it into the floor. Gartan took the creature’s sword from its now senseless fingers and drove it into the base of its neck, finding a weakness between the plates.

  He yanked the sword free and stalked out into the hallway. The first guard he’d beaten was crawling on his hands and knees toward the exit. But Gartan grabbed his foot and dragged him back into the cell.

  # # #

  A few townspeople remained at the end of the pier, their eyes darting down the pier toward Tethan and the Onei there, staring at them as though they were monstrous beasts. Beyond the people, beyond the collection of tarp-covered fishmongers’ stalls, several shops and warehouses lined the crescent-shaped docks, several dark, narrow alleys and shop-lined streets curling up into the hills. Tethan paced on the dock, staring up at the town.

  The other ships now bobbed in their berths, with Leedy and Silmon conversing with Mitta, laughing on the deck of Leedy’s ship.

  Tethan grabbed Mian-on’s arm and pulled him close, almost dragging him off his feet, the man’s eyes growing wide. Pointing with his axe toward various streets that opened up onto the docks and the wharf, Tethan asked, “Which street will this garrison force attack from?”

  “I don’t know.” Mian-on shook his head. “How am I supposed to know?”

  Tethan dragged him forward, down the pier toward the townspeople still gathered there. He pushed Mian-on toward them, saying, “Ask them. And ask how they will attack.”

  Tethan stomped down the pier, searching the waterfront for defensible positions. He turned back toward the ship, calling out, “Makal! Get everyone up here to the wharf. Be quick and spread them out.”

  “Yes, sir,” Makal said, turning and calling out to Onei of various clans lounging on crates and boxes, talking and laughing. “You heard the man.”

  Mitta leapt up onto the railing of the ship, glaring at Tethan. She held her hands out as she jogged down the gangplank, favoring her bad foot, the gangplank rising and falling with her steps. Onei followed her down the gangplank, others leaping from the railing to the pier. Mitta yelled back at Tethan, “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m just…”—Tethan pointed toward an area along the dock—“It’s just that we need to be careful not to stay bunched up here in case they come at us with mages. We need to get everyone formed up in skirmish lines along the dock. Maybe move up and ambush them if we can find out which road they’ll come down
.”

  “You?” Mitta stomped up before Tethan, her strong face twisted in anger. She punched him in the chest, driving him back a few steps.

  “What is your damned problem, woman?” Tethan asked, spreading his arms out, stepping back close to her.

  Several of the Brightfox and Icefang Onei chuckled.

  Mitta scowled. “You were going to order this? Who are you to order anything? Are you a clan leader with your father’s death? No. You are not.”

  Tethan lurched forward, his fingers tightening on his axes, his lips pulling back from his teeth.

  Makal darted forward from the pack of Onei surrounding them to grab Tethan’s arms, holding him back, whispering, “Calm.”

  “You”—Mitta poked her finger into Tethan’s chest—“are not a clan leader until your clan votes you in, and most of your clan has gone to the Great House, and the rest is back home.”

  “Tethan!” Mian-on’s voice called out. The man hopped just beyond the Onei now filling the pier, waving his hand over his head.

  Makal lowered his arm, looking back toward Mian-on.

  Tethan tore his eyes from Mitta’s and glared toward Mian-on. “What?”

  Mian-on said, “They’ll probably come from that street there, and—”

  A fireball whooshed out of the sky, dropping down toward the middle of the Onei on the pier.

  Tethan jumped forward, wrapping Mitta in his arms, pushing her toward a gap between the ships, toward the water, diving in. The fireball struck where they’d been standing, blasting the boards apart, sending Onei bodies flipping through the air to crash against the hulls of ships, sliding down into the murky harbor water.

  Tethan burst up from the waves, Mitta still in his arms, both of them gasping for breath.

  “Too bad we were all bunched up and not in a skirmish line,” Mitta said, laughing. She winked at him. “Let’s go kill the fuckers.”

  # # #

  Dyuh Mon shifted in his armor, trying to find some way to make it comfortable, feeling awkward and stupid.

  Gartan waited three steps below him wearing a slave’s thong they’d patched together using the undergarments of the orc they’d stripped, leaving the one guard alive and shackled in a cell. Gartan appeared to be bound but the shackles around his wrists were unlocked and easily removed.

  Dyuh Mon grabbed his mask, resetting the helmet on his head, trying to align the mask’s eyeholes with his eyes, to find a position that fit, but the helmet shifted out of position when he moved his hand away, mainly because of his swollen nose and cheeks. “This damned helmet.”

  In Shrian, Gartan whispered, “Wait for night?”

  “No,” Dyuh Mon said. He placed his left thumb under the chin of the mask, pushing it into a place where he could see. In Nayen, he said, “Wish us good luck, you stupid beast.”

  He peered down, opening the door inward. He stepped down a step to allow it to swing all the way open, revealing the main hall of the abbey, the floor a glossy green stone with inset white marble forming geometric designs of harmony and sanctity. Hexagonal pillars every three body-lengths held up arches which supported barrel-vaulted ceilings, one large one running the length of the hall to the entrance to the tower, with smaller side arcades. Stone faces peered out from the top of each arch from the keystone, the faces of the Eternal Council, with an extra blank keystone for the Source, before the five faces of the Eternal Council appeared once more, repeating.

  Wooden benches sat at intervals along the sides of the main hall, facing the steps rising to a chancel before the entry to the tower.

  Soldiers in armor stood idly talking, clerics sat on the benches, and other soldiers and clerics walked past and went about their business, none pausing to stare at Dyuh Mon standing in the door to the dungeon below. Dyuh Mon licked his lips, his mouth dry.

  “Well?” Gartan nudged his leg. “Problem?”

  “Come on, then.” Dyuh Mon slid his sword out of his scabbard with his right hand, the sword uncomfortable, heavy, and awkward. He stepped out into the hall, motioning for Gartan to follow with his left hand, his helmet shifting so he couldn’t see without tilting his head back and to the right. He balanced the edge of the helmet on the armor on his shoulder.

  Gartan held the chains on his wrists in a way Dyuh Mon hoped no one would notice. Dyuh Mon placed his left hand in the middle of Gartan’s upper back, touching his sword to Gartan’s lower back, pushing with his hand, trying not to puncture Gartan with the sword, afraid the beastly man would be enraged and give their ruse away.

  Dyuh Mon said, “Forward. Last door on left.”

  “Huh?” Gartan half-turned toward Dyuh Mon, his arm hitting the flat of the blade, coming close to dislodging it from Dyuh Mon’s hand.

  “Quiet.” Dyuh Mon guided Gartan forward, peering around him.

  Two guards stood by a statue of Lady Gal-nya, the beauty of the statue failing miserably to capture the beauty of the woman. The guards turned their heads to follow Dyuh Mon and Gartan as they passed. Dyuh Mon held his breath.

  A cleric with a big frown marched past them, wrinkling his nose at Gartan’s stench. Seeing the golden blaze of an amulet on the man’s chest, Dyuh Mon stopped, bowed, and said, “Excuse me, Master of the Planes. Where is the healer?”

  Gartan tensed against his left hand.

  The cleric stopped and raised his eyebrows, his eyes flitting to Gartan, his lip curling. “Dith-nar is in his office in the tower, but you can find Hanno out at the stables working on the horses. A veterinarian would be more appropriate for his kind, would it not?”

  “Just so.” Dyuh Mon nodded, his view of the cleric coming and going. He motioned to the door through which he’d planned on exiting, saying, “The stables over there? That way?”

  “No, no,” the cleric said, motioning one way or another that Dyuh Mon couldn’t quite make out. “Over there, on the other side of the cloisters.”

  Dyuh Mon bowed and said, “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  When he straightened, the helmet shifted into place for him to see the cleric’s surprised expression.

  “Thank you, sir,” the cleric said. “So rare to see you followers of Sissola being civil and polite.”

  The cleric bowed and stalked off.

  Dyuh Mon leaned toward Gartan, shifting to Shrian, saying, “Which way he point?”

  “That way, I think,” Gartan said, motioning, but Dyuh Mon was unable to see his hands.

  Dyuh Mon sighed, tilting his head to try to find an angle that would let him see. “Fine. Listen. You go. I follow.”

  Gartan nodded and began to amble, a cocky self-assuredness in his long stride. Dyuh Mon scurried behind him, trying to keep up, across the main hall to an arched opening Dyuh Mon didn’t see until they were walking through it, out onto a walkway beside an arcade opening up onto a garden of red roses; a light breeze pushed their sweet scent into the walkway. Clerics worked with the flowers, their hands glowing green, tiny motes of magic coalescing around the plants, with a few motes escaping, whisked away by the wind.

  Dyuh Mon whispered some words, invoking a magesight spell in order to get a better look at the magic being woven. Gartan stopped. Dyuh Mon stumbled into his back, the point of the sword slicing into his flesh. Gartan grunted, arching his back and falling to his knees.

  Before him stood a soldier, his blue armor edged with the twined gold strands of a lieutenant. Dyuh Mon bowed, pressing his left fist to his chest, keeping the sword wavering around Gartan’s back. He said, “Lieutenant.”

  “What in the name of Dispatro are you doing with this prisoner?” the man said, mailed fists on his hips.

  Dyuh Mon raised his left hand to the bottom of his mask, touching it with his thumb as he inclined his head. “Major Kov Branek ordered me to take him to the veterinarian. He believes—”

  “What is wrong with you?” The lieutenant lunged forward, his hands grabbing Dyuh Mon’s helmet. Dyuh Mon jerked back but not fast enough to evade the man’s grip. The lieutenant’s thumbs
pressed down on the sides of the mask to snap it into place, squishing Dyuh Mon’s nose and sending a wave of pain radiating into his eyes.

  Tears welled up in Dyuh Mon’s eyes, blurring his vision, and he blinked until he could see clearly again.

  “Why doesn’t your helmet fit you properly, swordsman?” the lieutenant asked, stepping back.

  “Uh.” Dyuh Mon bowed, raising his hand to touch the nose on his mask. “A fight. I broke my nose. So it’s swollen. The mask hurts.”

  The lieutenant moved toward Dyuh Mon until the nose of his mask banged against Dyuh Mon’s nose. Dyuh Mon jerked back, but the lieutenant yanked him forward again.

  In a low-pitched, threatening voice, the lieutenant said, “You will not break uniform in public again, or I will break more than your nose. Do you understand my words, Tesoran whore scum?”

  “I’m not Tes—” Dyuh Mon gulped, then nodded. “Sir. Yes, sir.”

  The lieutenant turned, waving his hand. “Then take the beast wherever you will, I’m going to have a long talk with Major Branek about your misconduct.”

  Dyuh Mon bowed once more to the lieutenant’s back as it passed through the doorway into the main hall. He lowered his sword, moving alongside Gartan and pushing the larger man’s back. Switching to Shrian, he said, “Come on. Hurry.”

  Gartan surged to his feet. “What said? Problem?”

  “No,” Dyuh Mon said. “No problem, but fast fast.”

  # # #

  The dank harbor water dripped off of Tethan, his feet squishing in his elk skin boots, the stones of the street slippery beneath his feet. He threw himself aside, out of the path of a halberd, the warrior on the other end extending the weapon in a lunge at Tethan. Mitta’s axe swung over the halberd’s haft, her blade knocking his helmet askew. Tethan slashed around with the axe in his right hand, cutting deep into the man’s neck.

  “The commander,” Mitta yelled, ducking beneath a column of flame, throwing herself to the ground and rolling toward the mage who’d cast the spell at her.

  A man in blue armor, each plate edged in gold and the plates on his shoulder decorated with intricate patterns, shouted orders from behind a curtain of mages and archers that filled the street from side to side, from a flower shop to a luthier’s workshop. The mages chanted in their flowing robes, some preparing their spells, some begging their gods for assistance, for luck, for strength for the soldiers. The archers in their leather armor were on their knees, loosing their arrows from strange contraptions that seemed to take forever to reload but shot thick bolts with furious power.