Swords & Dark Magic: The New Sword and Sorcery

“It’s, ah, a sort of personal interest.” Casimir reached inside a belt pouch and took out a thick hunk of triangular crystal, like a prism with a milky-white center. “May I leave this next to the focus while we’re in the stacks? It’s just an impression device. It’ll give me a basic idea of how the index enchantments function. My family has a huge library, not magical, of course, but if I could create spells to organize it—”

“Ambition wedded to sloth,” said Molnar. “Let no one say you don’t think like a true magician, Aspirant Vrana.”

“I won’t even have to think about it while we’re inside, sir. It would just mind itself, and I could pick it up on the way out.” Casimir was laying it on, Laszlo saw, every ounce of obsequiousness he could conjure.

But what was he talking about? Personal project? Family library? Caz had never breathed a word of any such thing to him. While they came from very different worlds, they’d always gotten along excellently as chambers-mates, and Laszlo had thought there were no real secrets between them. Where had this sprung from?

“Of course, Vrana,” said Master Molnar. “We go to some trouble to maintain those enchantments, after all, and today is all about appreciating our work.”

While Casimir hurried to emplace his little device near the glass column, Molnar beckoned the rest of them on toward another gate at the inner end of the Manticore Index. It was as tall and wide as the door they’d entered, but even more grimly functional—cold, dark metal inscribed with geometric patterns and runes of warding.

“A gateway to the stacks,” said Molnar, “can only be opened by the personal keys of two Librarians. I’ll be one of your guides today, and the other…the other should have been here by—”

“I’m here, Master Librarian.”

In the popular imagination (which had, to this point, included Laszlo’s), female Librarians were lithe, comely warrior maidens out of some barbarian legend. The woman now hurrying toward them through the Manticore Index was short, barely taller than Yvette, and she was as sturdy as a concrete teapot, with broad hips and arms like a blacksmith’s. Her honey-colored hair was tied back in a short tail, and over her black Librarian’s armor she wore an unusual harness that carried a pair of swords crossed over her back. Her plump face was as heavily scarred as Molnar’s, and Laszlo had learned just enough in his hobby duels to see that she was no one he would ever want to annoy.

“Aspirants,” said Molnar, “allow me to present Sword-Librarian Astriza Mezaros.”

As she moved past him, Laszlo noticed two things. First, the curious harness held not just her swords but a large book, buckled securely over her lower back beneath her scabbards. Second, she had a large quantity of fresh blood soaking the gauntlet on her left hand.

“Sorry to be late,” said Mezaros. “Came from the infirmary.”

“Indeed,” said Molnar, “and are you—”

“Oh, I’m fine. I’m not the one that got hit. It was that boy Selucas, from the morning group.”

“Ahhhh. And will he recover?”

“Given a few weeks.” Mezaros grinned as she ran her eyes across the four aspirants. “Earned his passing grade the hard way, that’s for sure.”

“Well, I’ve given them the lecture,” said Molnar. “Let’s proceed.”

“On it.” Mezaros reached down the front of her cuirass and drew out a key hanging on a chain. Molnar did the same, and each Librarian took up a position beside the inner door. The walls before them rippled, and small keyholes appeared where blank stone had been a moment before.

“Opening,” yelled Master Molnar.

“Opening,” chorused the Indexers. Each of them dropped whatever they were working on and turned to face the inner door. One blue-robed woman hurried to the hallway door, checked it, and shouted, “Manticore Gate secure!”

“Opening,” repeated Molnar. “On three. One, two—”

The two Librarians inserted their keys and turned them in unison. The inner door slid open, just as the outer one had, revealing an empty, metal-walled room lit by amber lanterns set in heavy iron cages.

Mezaros was the first one into the metal-walled chamber, holding up a hand to keep the aspirants back. She glanced around quickly, surveying every inch of the walls, floors, and ceiling, and then she nodded.

“In,” said Molnar, herding the aspirants forward. He snapped his fingers, and with a flash of light he conjured a walking staff, a tall object of polished dark wood. It had few ornaments, but it was shod at both ends with iron, and that iron looked well-dented to Laszlo’s eyes.

Once the six of them were inside the metal-walled chamber, Molnar waved a hand over some innocuous portion of the wall, and the door behind them rumbled shut. Locking mechanisms engaged with an ominous series of echoing clicks.