crowd laughed.
Bjorn shook his head. “‘And the rest is rust and stardust.’”
“Nabokov,” Claire said with a grunt as she spun and dispelled a marching line of script and meteors. “God, Russians.”
Bjorn chuckled but did not dispute her sentiment on the literature. Claire paced a few more steps to catch her breath. This needed to end soon. “‘We lived in the gaps between the stories.’”
“Atwood.” Bjorn returned with a line from Tolkien, which Claire dispelled before he commented, “Your soldier looks tired, Librarian. Blows like that . . . he’s not standing much longer.”
Claire allowed her eyes to stray to Hero. Uther had gotten lucky. She’d missed the blow that had sent Hero sprawling, but its impact must have been tremendous. He’d risen from his knee but held heavily to his sword with his one good hand, ink dribbling down one cheek. He reserved all his energy for a glare at the moving mountain in front of him.
Claire swallowed hard and forced her attention back to Bjorn. “‘Logic may indeed be unshakable, but it cannot withstand a man who is determined to live.’”
“Kafka.” Bjorn dismissed it with a wave of his staff before returning a volley toward Claire. “‘The weak man becomes strong when he has nothing, for then only can he feel the wild, mad thrill of despair.’” He aimed the volley for Claire but was grinning at the other combatants in the ring.
“Arthur. Conan. Doyle.” Claire gritted her teeth, searching for a line that would wipe that smug, blood-mad grin off the Viking’s face.
But it was then that Hero made his move. He regained his feet and swung, lithe bronze figure glinting as the sword arrowed toward Uther’s ribs. The giant turned, fast, too fast, and a crack reverberated throughout the hall as maul met blade, and both sword and swordsman were flung away.
Hero sprawled on the dirt, groaning. Black liquid flowed freely from the cut on his temple now, and his movements were slow. His sword came to rest several yards away. Weaponless, Hero clenched his teeth in a death’s-head grin as he gained a knee and turned toward Uther. The Norse warrior inclined his head and brought his arms back to deliver the winning blow.
“‘War is cruelty, and none can make it gentle!’” The words were out before Claire could think them. But they were not aimed at Bjorn; her gaze was locked on the other fight. Silver words flew, and sharp serifs struck deep across a monstrous, scarred face. Uther stumbled midswing, bellowing in pain as his maul dropped, and the giant man clawed at his face.
Bjorn stared, mouth gaping. Hero, to his credit, knew an opportunity when he saw one. He scrambled for his sword and took a hobbled leap at Uther, growl in his throat.
“Parker! Gilbert Parker!” Bjorn shouted, and the silver words wound around Uther’s face dissolved. But Hero was faster. The broadsword pierced his ribs deep, and Uther’s bellow became shrill, then silent.
The giant man convulsed, landing a grip on Hero’s shoulder. But it began to loosen even as they fell back to the earth. Hero twisted the blade with a snarl, and it struck Claire that his features were beautiful, even more so in fury. A purity in the hate that she recognized. She hadn’t thought books could truly hate.
“Clever. No honor, but clever.” Bjorn was solemn as Claire turned back to face him. There was a dark regard in the old man’s eyes, but he spoke before Claire could open her mouth to explain. “‘And hope buoyed like a flag, fragile on the wind. Death was the only freedom.’”
The gold words curled in the air and furled out, thick and unstoppable. The words were unfamiliar, even as they triggered something that burned at the edge of her brain. But they were strange, accompanied with dizzying shapes, birds in flight, cathedrals, and cobblestone streets. White cliffs and sunsets. She had no defense. She managed to retreat two steps before the gold letters slammed into her chest and drove her to the ground.
A thick, buzzing weight twined hungrily around her arms. She squeezed her eyes shut and waited for the ensuing pain, but it never appeared. After a moment, Claire carefully cracked one eye open. The words had wrapped her up neat as a present, and they thrummed warningly against her chest, but they did not cut unless she struggled. Bjorn stood over her, dark eyes regarding her with a mixture of disapproval and amusement. “No response, Librarian?”
Claire took a short breath—all