The Devil's Library: The Windhaven Chronicles

by Watson Davis

  “The Council are coming, will be coming soon,” she whispered, her words seeming to bounce around from wall to wall. “They will do anything to protect their Source. You both should run and try to escape. I won’t think you cowards.”

  “I am no coward.” Gartan wrinkled his nose, a growl beginning at the back of his throat. “I am Onei.”

  “You are both most fearsome,” she said. “But if you want to live—” She looked away, shook her head, and hid her face behind her knees. “Nothing. I should have said nothing.”

  “I have no time for games.” Gartan sprinted to the bars, slamming his palm against them. “Tell me where this Source is. Tell me where the treasure is. Or I will come in there and make you tell me.”

  “Gartan,” Simthil said, putting his hand on Gartan’s arm, pulling him back from the bars. “She’s just a child.”

  “I should not have spoken,” the girl said, her face hidden. “I cannot say anything more. The Council will hurt me, even more than they already have.”

  “Tell me,” Gartan said, a wicked grin spreading over his face, “or I will do things to you that will make you wish the Council had gotten to you instead. I will make you wish you were dead a thousand times over.”

  Her shoulders shaking, she sobbed.

  Gartan knelt and whispered, “Tell me.”

  The girl squeezed herself tighter into a ball, her hair moving back and forth, whispering, “No.”

  “Tell me,” Gartan growled, his fists quivering with rage, “or I will hurt you in ways you never imagined. I will hurt you for the rest of your life and when you beg me for your death, I will refuse and torture you some more.”

  The girl remained silent, her face hidden.

  Gartan turned to Simthil, held out his hand, and said, “Give me your axe.”

  Simthil’s brow furrowed. He looked toward the girl, then back at Gartan. “If this Council is coming, maybe we should just grab some treasure that’s not tied down and go. Be done with this whole mess.”

  Gartan glared at Simthil, holding his hand out toward him once more. “Your axe.”

  Simthil pulled his axe from his belt and, sighing, handed it to Gartan.

  Gartan walked to the chain, raised the axe, and struck the links, over and over, hacking away, chunks of the blade chipping off, sparks flying, each strike sending a burning pain through his hand and up his arm. He ignored that pain. He flailed away, giving each blow everything he had, and more.

  Until a link broke beneath the axe’s blade.

  Magical force radiated from the chain, the concussion flinging Gartan through the air to smash into Simthil, the two tumbling back into the chair, the chair crashing into the writing table.

  The chain slid down the bars, coiling up on the floor like a snake.

  The girl stood up and stretched her arms, rising up onto her tiptoes. “Finally.”

  The door to the cell swung open, knocking the chain aside, and the thing slithered away, curling up beneath a skeleton.

  “Well?” Gartan, grunting, rose to unsteady feet, Simthil’s axe in his right hand, his left fist digging into his stomach, the pain keeping him alert and upright. “Take me to the Source.”

  Simthil rose beside Gartan, shaking his head clear, stumbling to the wall, holding his hands out to the girl. “We don’t want to hurt you.”

  “But I want to hurt you,” she said, staring at Simthil for a heartbeat that lasted forever. She flung herself toward him, her body curled, and landed on top of him with her knees on his chest, wrapping her arms around his head, driving her face into his neck.

  Simthil staggered backward, eyes wide with surprise, with terror, his arms reaching out for something to hold on to, legs stiff. He tripped over Dyuh Mon’s body and fell into the chair, the girl still on his chest, on his neck.

  Gartan ran to his friend’s aid, swinging Simthil’s axe but the girl leaping from Simthil’s chest, flipping in the air, landing back in front of the door to the cell. Gartan tried to stop but the momentum of the blow was too much. The axe struck Simthil square in the chest, cutting through his breastbone, his ribs.

  Gartan stood staring at his friend, not moving, studying Simthil’s surprised face, his motionless chest, the lack of blood from the wound.

  “That will be a dark blemish on your soul,” the girl said.

  Gartan whirled around, snarling, ripping the axe from Simthil’s body, and said, “Come on, then, wench. I’ve faced nastier monsters than you.”

  “Oh, I don’t think that’s right.” The girl stepped toward him, disappearing in a mist of black motes, appearing right before him, a hand’s breadth away, peering up at him. She tilted her head to the side, studying Gartan. “There are no monsters nastier than me.”

  Gartan danced back, making space for his attack; bringing his axe around, he aimed for her neck, but her neck was no longer there, only that cloud of black haze. He leapt straight up, twisting himself in the air, swinging the axe down behind him without looking, seeing her dart away as his axe missed her by a finger’s breadth.

  A lock of her hair floated to the ground. Gartan crashed into the wall of books, dislodging them, tumbling them to the ground.

  Her laughter mocked him, the mirthful, joyous laughter of a young girl playing with a puppy, coming from outside the door. “You are too slow. Too weak. If you want your riches, you’ll have to be better than that, better than you are.”

  Gartan sprinted across the room, launching himself out the door at an angle to catch her by surprise, but instead she was there before him, slamming her palm into his stomach. He landed, flipping himself over and rolling to his feet, but he collapsed to his knees and dropped Simthil’s axe, gasping for his breath.

  She stood before the altar, sniffing at the air, her hand moving, with silver sparkles flying from it. She peered over at Gartan, her nose wrinkling, lips pouting, and said, “You did this to my dearest Yut-hosa? You bad boy.” She picked up Yut-hosa’s head by the hair, the hair wrapping around her hand, and whispered, “I would have liked to have seen that.”

  Gartan forced himself to his feet, his left arm pressing against his belly, his fingers teasing his dagger from his belt, cupping it in his hand, hiding it from her view, and he lurched toward her. “You’re going to pay for this.”

  Her black eyes glittered, and she spread her arms, shrugging. “Of all my plans for escape, this was the last one I expected to succeed, and I never foresaw you or any of this. Life is surprising. But now…”

  She disappeared and reappeared right before him, bending over him, her black eyes staring into his, her icy fingers caressing his jaw, tilting his face up to hers.

  Gartan stabbed his dagger into her torso, into her flesh, the point of the blade glancing off a rib, slicing into her lung, the point entering her heart. He fell back, tumbling to the floor, staring up at her with a smile. “Who’s too weak now, bitch?”

  “I was wrong.” She stepped back and slid the blade out. The wound closed up as soon as she withdrew the blade, which was stained black with a fluid that could not be blood. She stared at the knife like she’d never seen a dagger before. She shook her head and whispered, “I will not let you die, my little Onei. No. I will hurt you in ways you never imagined for the rest of your eternal life, and when you beg me for your death, I will refuse and torture you some more.”

  # # #

  “Who is your leader?” the cleric asked once more. The orcs encircling the Onei closed in, setting the tips of their spears on random Onei chests, necks, and backs.

  The man in the armor and the scaled woman stepped up behind the cleric, closer to the Onei, their eyes scanning over them. The frown on the woman’s face did nothing to mar her beauty, perhaps even enhanced it.

  Tethan glared into the eyes of the orc pressing his spear against Tethan’s neck. The monster was not watching Tethan at all, his eyes scanning the rows of Onei warriors instead. Tethan glanced around behind him, his eyes finding Mitta, Silmon, and Leedy, all of them with thei
r heads bowed, all of them beaten and injured. The orc pressed his spear-tip deeper into Tethan’s neck, saying something, getting him to face forward once more. Tethan growled and trembled with fury.

  The man in the armor said something to the cleric. The cleric raised his voice, saying, “We asked—”

  “I am.” Tethan stood, holding his head high, breathing deep, the orc’s spear-tip rising with him.

  The man in the armor stepped forward, saying something, the woman and the cleric following him. The cleric asked, “Lord Sissola believes you are lying, that you are too young to be the King of the Onei.”

  Tethan stared at the man, this Lord Sissola, peering into the shadows of the man’s helmet, looking to find human eyes to stare into but finding only magical flame. He said, “We are Onei. We have no kings.”

  Mitta yelled, “I am the leader of the Onei!”

  “No,” Silmon shouted, “I am the leader of the Onei!”

  Leedy whispered, “Screw that.”

  The cleric spoke to Lord Sissola and the woman, and the woman responded. The cleric said, “Lady Gal-nya wonders why you have come so far from your home.”

  “You attacked us,” Tethan said, straightening himself, sneering. “You sent your dragon to try to frighten us, but you cannot. Kill us. More will come and avenge us.”

  Onei voices behind him mumbled their assent, and the Orcs growled for them to be quiet.

  “We are Onei,” Tethan said, and the warriors around him echoed him.

  Lady Gal-nya sidled up to Tethan, her movements graceful, sinuous. She touched the back of her hand to his cheek, but he pulled away from her touch. She said something, and the cleric put a hand to his mouth and smiled, while Lord Sissola chuckled.

  Tethan glared at them and said, “Even now, my father is plundering the source of your power in Arenghel.”

  The cleric stopped laughing and gasped, his eyes wide. The orc pressed the point of his spear into Tethan’s throat, a dangerous look in his eye.

  The cleric said something to Lord Sissola and Lady Gal-nya. Lord Sissola stomped forward, knocking the orc out of his path. He clamped his gigantic hand on Tethan’s shoulder, his thumb and forefinger tightening around Tethan’s neck. Lord Sissola bellowed something.

  Tethan smiled.

  The cleric asked, “What do you mean? What do you know of Arenghel?”

  Tethan spat into the face of Lord Sissola and, sneering, said, “Even now, my father and his men have stolen the source of your power. You didn’t think this was anything but a feint, did you? We are Onei!”

  Lord Sissola lifted Tethan in the air by his neck even as the cleric spoke. Tethan kicked at Sissola’s head, dislodging his helmet, knocking it to the side. Sissola roared and hurled Tethan away, casting him over the heads of the rest of the Onei, over the orcan guards, through the burned branches of the trees of the plaza, and into the Nayen civilians watching from the edge of the plaza.

  Tethan plowed into the crowd, bowling over Nayen men and women, elderly and young. He twisted, rotating, bringing his arms down below his feet, yanking his arms out of his bonds.

  Lady Gal-nya screamed, cutting down with her right hand like a swordsman beheading a rival. A thunderclap rocked the plaza, reality splitting open like the flap of a tent to reveal a tormented landscape. A horrifying neighing echoed across the plaza, shrill and grating. A horse-like creature from a demented dream galloped into the square through that hole, black-skinned with a mouth full of gleaming white fangs, a curled horn growing up from between its blazing eyes, its flaming hooves clacking on the stone. Slowing to a trot, it pranced before Gal-nya, the view of its home world disappearing.

  Gal-nya leapt onto the back of the nightmare, screaming orders. Lord Sissola stumbled away, yelling in Nayen, his hands holding his helmet, repositioning it, calling out the same words again and again.

  A dragon swooped down, landing before Lord Sissola, its wings knocking down orcs and Onei as its rear claws smashed down on the cleric, crushing him.

  Tethan stumbled to his feet, noticing an old Nayen man hissing at him, holding the hilt of an onyx-bladed sword for Tethan to take. Tethan wrapped his fingers around it, grinning, and bowed to the old man, who bowed back to him as he released the black blade.

  The dragon launched itself into the air, Lord Sissola bellowing commands from its back. The orcs stared at Lord Sissola and Lady Gal-nya’s backs, but the Onei rose up, kicking at the knees of the closer orcs, taking the orcan spears, freeing themselves from their bonds.

  Tethan hacked into the back of the orcs, yelling, “Skybears!”

  The End

  The wall of Arenghel opened before Gal-nya, the stones sliding back out of her way without her hellish steed having to slow its pace. Broken bodies littered the ground, the nightmare’s hooves burning through the ones unlucky enough to be in its path. Gal-nya pulled the nightmare to a halt in front of the hypostyle hall before the entrance to the Great Library and Vellin’s tomb.

  A small band of Onei stood outside the closed door of the tomb, dead priests at their feet, facing Gal-nya, readying their weapons as they spread out.

  Gal-nya sighed and smiled. “They have not discovered the way in.”

  “Why are we here?” Sissola bellowed from within his armor. His dragon—a dragon Gal-nya had summoned and trained for him—landed in the plaza behind her, the creature’s claws crushing the bodies of the priests of Arenghel and the Onei who had fallen in battle with them. Sissola leapt from the back of the dragon, the mountain quaking beneath him as he landed, bits of dust and mortar falling from the ceiling of the hall and the mountain looming above them. “We should be back in Basaliyasta taking care of the Onei there.”

  Gal-nya whirled to face him, her fists tightened in impotent rage, dreaming of tearing the fool’s head from his body. “So what? What does it matter?” she yelled back at him. “They are nothing to us, no threat. This is the real threat.”

  “These fools?” Sissola snorted, gesturing toward the Onei before the temple. “Do you not trust Yut-hosa to deal with whatever threat a foolish group of barbarians could present to her?”

  An Onei shaman began to chant.

  “Look around, Sissola.” Gal-nya pointed at the bodies on the ground: the clerics and barbarians, the wyrms and the orcs. “Where is Yut-hosa? She was here to install the new Librarian.”

  The Onei disappeared, a glamour rendering them invisible to a human’s eye, to a dragon’s eye, but not to the eyes of the Council, not to Gal-nya and Sissola. The Onei launched their attack in silence, encircling Gal-nya and Sissola, charging at them, a mage summoning magic from a realm of Fire, archers shooting a stream of arrows.

  Gal-nya shook her head and whistled. Her steed, the nightmare, charged forward, biting one Onei’s head off, lashing out with its flaming hooves to crush one Onei’s chest and another’s skull. Gal-nya stood still, her hands clasped, rolling her eyes, sighing, pulling the drow dagger from her sleeve and stabbing one poor soul in the forehead when he got too close, then slipping the dagger back into its sheath, back into her sleeve.

  Sissola whipped his fist around, hammering into two unsuspecting Onei, their bodies crunching beneath his mailed fist. He stomped forward, his boot slamming down on one Onei’s leg, crushing it, and he swung his fist around, hurling two of the Onei into the temple wall, killing them on impact.

  Gal-nya spoke a few words, waving her hands, and the dragon reared back and breathed fire, torching the Onei shaman casting the glamour of invisibility. The shaman collapsed to the ground, shrieking, and the vanquished Onei appeared to mortal eyes once more.

  Sissola chuckled, his mighty fists on his hips, and glanced back at Gal-nya, saying, “I forgive you. This was worth the trip, Basaliyasta be damned.”

  “These Onei vex me,” Gal-nya said.

  “Come.” Sissola motioned Gal-nya forward, toward the door to the temple. “Let us see if Yut-hosa even noticed anyone was out here. Would you like to place a wager?”

  Gal
-nya whispered a spell, tearing through the fabric of reality, revealing the nightmare’s homeland. The beast trotted through the gap, snorting, bucking its head as it passed, and Gal-nya closed the hole behind it.

  The stone door of the Great Library and Tomb flew open, a cold wind blasting out. Gal-nya raised her arm before her eyes.

  Sissola shouted, “Yut-hosa, quit playing this game. I find no humor in it.”

  A head flew out from the open door, Yut-hosa’s head, shorn of her hair, bouncing on the stone and coming to rest between Sissola’s feet, her eyes wide, her mouth moving, working, trying to speak.

  A young girl with pale skin and black hair strode out, two human shapes following behind her; one was short and squat with legs too long and a round belly—Dyuh Mon, the Librarian who had been charged with communicating with Vellin, with passing the Council’s questions to the devil, with reading the books she wrote with her own blood to find her responses, to decipher them—and the other was tall and pale and athletic, his clothing rent and torn, stained black with blood.

  The girl, Vellin, a devil trapped in a human’s body, clasped her hands together and bowed. “Such an honor to see you two in person after such a long time.” She placed her hand on the Onei’s arm and said something in Onei.

  Sissola edged slowly back toward his dragon. He shouted, “Vellin, I order you back to your cell in the name of the Nayen and for the good of the nation. Back, devil, back to your home!”

  “Not so sadly, I am no longer under your control, for you are no longer in the best interests of the state,” Vellin said, her lips pouting, her black eyes big and round and childlike. “But I’ve created a new friend for you to play with. You will not like him.”

  “Vellin?” Gal-nya crept backward, swinging her arm back, striking one of the stone columns with such force the stone cracked. Her mind racing, her mouth dry, she whispered, “I warned them of the danger. They forced me to do this to you. It’s not my fault.”