Annalise - 16th Harvestwatch 1383
Wolvsbane, Trifectorate Confederacy
"Curiosity unlatches the gate to knowing; knowledge traces the road ahead; how we wield that knowledge crowns us hunter, or brands us hunted."
Archivist Maxim, in his prologue of Maxim's Monster Manual
The library swallowed us as we entered.
Dust rose at every foot fall and wrapped itself around my throat like old wool. Endless shelves soared to a ceiling I could not see, each press of leather spines packed tight enough to look like the scaled hide of some dozing serpent. No windows, no lanterns, no pules of friendly light greeted us.
Qapla struck flint to steel. The newborn flamed painted his tusks in molten amber and threw trembling shadows across the aisle. He shoved the broad oak doors shut and drove the bolt home.
"Nothing leaves," He rumbled. His free hand lowered a morning star that glimmered with a star field of iron studs. "We go forth in a straight line. I lead, Annalise stays center, Nox covers the rear."
Nox's tail snapped once, an irritated cat twitch. "Every aisle twists. We will be flanked long before we find Maxim."
"I would prefer not being flanked or chewed," I said as brightly as I dared, hugging my violin. "Let us give the monster something tastier than us."
They stared. I smoothed my shirt, cleared my throat, and knelt amid the dust.
"Ten minutes," I promised.
With chalk I traced a circle and set three silvery harp strings at equidistant points. Rising, I tucked the violin beneath my chin and sang,
"Hands that penned the tales of old,
Guard these halls from harm untold;
Ancient quills, attend my plea
Guide our steps and shelter me."
The words bled warmth into the cold. By the final chord something unseen unfurled inside the sigil, a courteous nudge of presence waiting for its first instruction. The chalk lines guttered as though doused by wind.
I shook out a gray guard cloak I had bargained for at the jail and draped it over the empty air of the circle. Cloth settled on nothing, then it straightened, obedient, as my servant found its shoulders.
"All right!" I said as I turned to look at my companions, "We should be good to… Why are you all staring at me like that."
Nox and Qapla both held open books in hand, looking at me with a mix of surprise and caution.
"Didn't know you knew magic." Qapla stated, "Song singers are a rare breed." He gestured towards the cloaked figure.
"It's just a simple spell. A wind spirit that thought my song was pretty and will obey simple commands."
"Smart." Qapla said as he slapped the book closed and stepped to the side revealing a dark winding hallway made solely of books. "Then let's get this over with. This place gives me the creeps."
"All right then." I whispered to the spirit, "lead."
It glided ahead into the darkness, hood bobbing like a ghost lantern. We followed single file. Shelves twisted, arched, doubled back. The columns of books cork screwed, arched, and cramped so tightly that torchlight could not reach the ceiling. When my sleeve brushed one binding, dried leather peeled away with a papery sigh.
Minutes stretched. Qapla's torch guttered. Somewhere behind us a book thudded to the floor.
"I knocked it over." Nox called softly
I let out a tense sigh and tightened the invisible tether in my mind. Present, steady.
Snap.
The connection sheared like a violin string. I staggered, clutching my temple.
"Gone," I hissed.
Qapla surged forward, Nox pushed past me sprinting alongside him, blade already bared. We skidded around a corner and burst into a chamber that could never fit inside the building we had entered.
Forty paces square, domed so high the ceiling vanished into black. The shelves had folded outward to make room for a mountain of books, no, a pyramid, centered in the midriff of the room.
Volumes were stacked around with a manic precision, thousands upon thousands, gilt titles glittering like scales. These books were newer than those at the entrance. The smell reached me next: parchment, mold, and the copper tang of fresh ink.
At the base of the pyramid lay the gray cloak, crumpled in a forlorn heap. The cloak lay next to a fallen heap of tomes scattered around as if hurled by a tantrum.
Poor things abandoned stories always made my heart squeeze. So, I knelt to right of a fallen volume.
The spine split.
Three ragged seems peeled open like rotten fruit and the whole volume sprang. Its pages gaping in a paper toothed maw.
"Annalise duck!" Qapla's handaxe flashed past me as I dove backward. Thunk. The book hit the nearest wall and hung there, skewered and twitching. Green ichor splattered my sleeve.
Two more shapes blurred toward Nox; spiders made of leather and ink. Their hard bound covers sprouting chitinous, ink spattering legs. Nox met the first in mid air, blade shearing it cleanly. The second ricocheted off her guard and landed near Qapla, who hammered it beneath his morning star, boards exploding like snapped kindling.
Qapla moved with a practiced ease and smashed it with his Morningstar as it landed. Another sprang from off the bookshelf from behind Qapla. This time I was ready.
I raked my bow across the violin strings no melody, just a snarling chord that clawed the air. Sound hit the creatures like hot iron. It spasmed mid air and dropped. It let out a dull silver glow, as light ethereal smoke leaked from it.
Silence lasted for a mere heartbeat.
A fifth book fatter, mold stained vaulted from the pyramid and latched onto my arm. The cover split as it landed, and something half lath half fungus unfolded. Wraps of damp vellum, hooked with coppery tendrils. It rapidly crawled up my arm toward my face. Wherever the tendrils touched I felt a white hot pain.
"Oh, HELLS NO!" I screamed and shoved raw magic through my voice. The thing writhed for a brief moment, until it sagged lifeless, but still stuck to my sleeve like damp dough
Across the chamber Nox swept her blade clean; Qapla crushed the one I killed with his boot. As he stalked over to the handaxe he threw he sniffed the air, war hound wary.
"What are these?" Nox flicked a scrap of twitch cover away.
"Books. I think." I winced, levering the sticky carcass of my arm; gummy strands snapped like old glue. "But definitely nastier."