by A J Hackwith
“You seemed well prepared for that,” Claire said, feeling thrown by her own assistant. Brevity was always surprising her, but then, that was what muses did. In all fairness, Brevity talked so much Claire had learned to only half listen when it wasn’t related to the Library. Perhaps she should change that strategy.
“I was a muse. Contrary to popular belief, it’s hard to get inspired when you’re panicking. Not the first time I’ve seen someone struggle through anxiety.” Brevity gave a careless shrug, not quite looking Claire in the eyes.
“You never talk about your previous work,” Claire said.
“You never ask either, do you?” It carried an accusation, but Brevity brightened, only a little bit forcefully. “It’s okay, boss. I knew better than to ask about yours too.”
The lightness in her tone sang along Claire’s nerves, but she was aware they had an audience. Thankfully, Leto had recovered and got to his feet unsteadily. “You didn’t . . . didn’t tell me it would be like dying.” Leto’s voice was hoarse and hollow, as if he’d been screaming. His color was faint, skin still clammy, but his chest rose and fell in steady, calm time.
Claire nodded to herself. “It’s different for everyone. That path is intended to be a test. It feeds on your worst fear.”
“Curious to fear dying, since you’re already dead.” Andras sounded more amused than sympathetic. It earned him a glare from Claire, but Leto ignored it.
“Is this the place?” Leto took his ghostlight back from Brevity. A distant cheer rose from the west, accompanied by the sound of clashing metal. They turned as one toward the noise, and Claire nodded.
“Oh yes, definitely Valhalla.” She struck off up the hill toward the sounds. They picked through the rubble of what looked like a wall built by giants. Huge stone blocks piled on end. Just over the rise, the faint gleam of a rooftop caught her eye. Claire squinted at it. It was easier to keep moving forward. Anything was better than looking back.
Andras caught up with Claire first, lifting his knees high to try to keep the worst of the burs from catching on his fine slacks. He grimaced at his surroundings before giving her a scrutinizing look. “My dear, are you unwell?”
“What?” Claire looked down and realized her hands were trembling, fingers curled into a fist. She took a sharp breath and stuffed them in the pockets of her skirts. “I’m fine.”
“The raven road can be trying even for experienced mortals,” Andras offered.
“I am quite well, Andras,” Claire said, if only to shut him up.
Burning books, blood on an unwritten rug, the back of her head, hunch of her shoulders as she turned away from her. Bile curdled in her gut. Worst fears, she’d told Leto. They were never things she wanted to run to, that tempted in the dark. Just things to run away from. Claire pursed her lips into a thin line. “Just fine.”
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.
Clai
re 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.”
“I knew of the way. I don’t get out as often as you do, remember.” Andras slid aside as a warrior with a spear staggered past him toward the keg. “The rumors might have . . . left out a few details.”
He had to raise his voice to be heard over the boisterous drumming that issued from an assembly gathered in one corner. Claire’s gaze was drawn to an older man at the center of the circle, drumming a skin basin as large as a table. He used his hands, sticks, whatever fell into his grasp, and had his head thrown back, lost to the howling rhythm. He was not the largest warrior in the hall, but the energy that poured from his sinewy arms drowned out practically every drummer around him.
Claire found herself frowning at the unnecessary exuberance. “Andras, you’ve been a dear mentor, but if your theoretical knowledge gets us killed, I will be withdrawing my professional acquaintance.”
“Understood, pup.”
“Who will your representative be for the trials?” Ragna finished conferring with another Norseman and turned back to them. “You should pick your finest warrior. Today’s battle master is Uther, wielder of the guardian maul named Widowbane.”
“I suppose we just missed the wielder of crumpets and tea.” Claire pursed her lips and looked to her companions. Wordlessly, all eyes slid to Hero and the sword on his back.
Hero jerked, pulling his thirsty gaze away from a line of silver goblets and possibly the lean warriors attached to them. “You can’t be serious.”
“You are kinda the only one with a weapon. Or any idea how to use one,” Brevity pointed out.
“Also, the only one with enough sense not to get anywhere near someone named Widowbane!”
“Actually, that’s the maul’s name,” Andras said. “Interesting human quirk, that—Norse only named their blades when—”
“Fascinating,” Hero snapped, reserving a glare for his companions before looking at Claire. “Surely you have a better plan than sacrificing me to the natives.”
“If you have ideas, I’m open to suggestions.” Claire was not happy about the way things were going, but she kept her face neutral. “We can’t continue until we prove ourselves, and we can’t leave until we’ve found Bjorn. You heard what’s at stake.”
Hero’s frown faded, and he held Claire’s gaze levelly, trading anger for a quiet that made her skin itch. He appeared contemplative. She found she rather preferred him sullen and angry. “And is that an order, Librarian?”
“Duels are honorable combat. They must be entered into voluntarily,” Ragna said.
If Claire couldn’t order Hero to satisfy the duel, that shot down any hope they had. Claire glanced around the hall, searching for a new plan. She racked her brain for Nordic culture, wondering what the reaction would be if she made a run for it and attempted to find Bjorn on her own. Corner and threaten him if she had to. There had to be protocols, protections. Surely they would have to respect the gravity of the . . .
“Fine.”
Hero stood stiff as the blade on his back, dark eyes glowering at Ragna. He’d managed to imbue an acid disdain into the one word. “As the only hero present, trials of honor fall to me. I’ll participate in your barbarian sport.” He grumbled, “Might enjoy hitting a few things, actually. . . .”
Ragna, if she even noticed it, was immune to scorn. “You may choose your weapon.”
Hero gestured to the filigreed sword on his back. “Broadsword. Unless you have a rapier about.”
“Sword it is.” Ragna turned toward Claire. “And you, storyteller. What weapon?”
Claire choked. “I beg your pardon?”
“You are the leader of these . . . people.” Ragna motioned over the Library’s host with a broad hand. “Leaders do not allow their own to bleed alone.”
“Who said anything about bleeding?” Hero interjected unhappily.
“You must forgive me, Ragna.” Claire chose her words with care. “Arlid was right, outside. I am not a coward, but I am not a warrior either. I’m a librarian, a scholar—my only skill is with words. I’m afraid I would put on a very poor show for your hall.”
“Not so!” The voice that boomed from the pit brought all the music to an abrupt halt, which caught the attention of the rest of the hall. Talk ground to a murmur as a scrawny man, nearly as leathery as the wide drum in front of him, stood.
It was the same man Claire had seen earlier, hooting and drumming like a creature possessed. He leapt around the oversized drum and made his way out of the drum pit with a few pats and shoulder slaps for the warriors he passed. “I believe we’ll be in for a grand treat. And it’s been far too long since I stretched my jaw.”
Ragna’s hooded eyes lit up. She clasped the man’s arm. “You will do us the honor, storyteller?”
“Storyteller?” Claire gaped. “You’re Bjorn?”
“That’s what they say.” The man wiped a sweaty hand over his impressive beard. “I hear you’ve come from the Library.”
He did not look much like a proper librarian, but Claire was relieved. Perhaps they could yet avoid this foolish scene. “Yes. We have questions about—”
“How is the gargoyle?” Bjorn asked suddenly. �
��Still got that chip on the right wing?”
“Probably. I try not to look too closely.” Claire shared an exasperated glance with Andras. “It’s of the utmost importance that we speak—”
“And we’ll discuss much, Librarian. After our duel.”
“Not a warrior. No time.” Claire clipped her words to keep from being cut off a third time. She gripped her bag of books more tightly. She was familiar with the outlandish nature of Viking tales, but this trip was quickly spiraling out of her control.
“There’s always time for a story,” Bjorn said. “Surely you know your stories, Librarian. Let the best verse win.”
“But—”
“A battle and a tale! A treat,” Ragna crowed, clapping Claire on the back hard enough to send her forward a step. “To the ring!”
13
CLAIRE
My dear apprentice, as a librarian you’ll undergo strict training under my somewhat unworthy tutelage. It can take decades to learn to wield words properly. But you need only look at the hungry demons at our door to know the power of inspiration. As we are unwritten authors, yes, some of that work is our own. Words may call to you, but it is important to maintain a healthy respect for that power. I know you grieve your lost life, but have patience.
There is much I have yet to tell you.
Librarian Gregor Henry, 1987 CE
THE POLISHED OAK OF the staff seemed to glow in the thick warmth of the longhouse. It was a beautiful construction. Claire knew if she ran her fingers along it, she’d find joints of birch, yew, hawthorn, and the other sacred woods of the north. Her thumb worried at the gnarl of amber trapped in its tip.
