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.
The hall had reacted quickly to the prospect of a duel. Claire and Hero were evidently to fight simultaneously—a dual duel. The wordplay made Claire roll her eyes, but she had to admire the way the hall had quickly reorganized for the occasion. Bjorn had swept her away to the far end. The tables were pushed clear, revealing a hard-packed arena in the center of the lodge. She stopped her pacing at the side of the ring. “Librarians are not warriors or wizards. Is this really necessary?”
Bjorn rolled his shoulders as he selected a staff of his own. “Have some sense of showmanship, lass. We may be a rough lot to you, but we appreciate a good performance. You’ve dueled in our way before, yes?”
“My predecessor taught me.” Claire stared at the staff in her hand as if it were a snake. “But more for . . . recreation and training, not death by combat.”
“Oh, I would never kill you, lass.” Bjorn turned with a smile. “Just mightily embarrass you in front of all these fine, handsome Viking men.”
“No loss. I prefer