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Already he knew he was not going to live out the night.
Still he hesitated, unwilling even at this point to accept what he knew. The hall was empty now, the
sounds of battle centered somewhere below. He thought to go out for a better look at things, but even as
he was contemplating the idea, a shadowy presence emerged from the back stairway. He pulled his head
inside quickly and peered out through his barely cracked door.
Black, misshapen creatures lurched into view, things that were unrecognizable, monsters from his
worst nightmare. He caught his breath and held it. Room by room, they were working their way down
the corridor to where he waited.
He closed the library door softly and locked it. For a moment he just stood there, unable to move. A
rush of images recalled themselves, memories of his early days as a Druid in training, of his subsequent
tenure as a Druid Scribe, of his ceaseless efforts to collect and preserve the writings of the old world and
of faerie. So much had happened, but in so short a time. He shook his head in wonder. How had it all
gone by so quickly?
There were screams close at hand now, freshly raised, come from just beyond his door, in the hall
where the monsters prowled.
Time was running out.
He moved quickly to his desk and took out the leather pouch that Bremen had given him. Perhaps he
should have gone with his old friend. Perhaps he should have saved himself while he had the chance. But
who would have protected the Druid Histories if he had done so? Who else could Bremen have relied
upon? Besides, this was where he belonged. He knew so little of the world beyond anymore; it had been
too long since he had gone out into it. He was of no use to anyone beyond these walls. Here, at least, he
might still serve a purpose.
He walked to the bookcase that doubled as a hidden doorway to the room that concealed the Druid
Histories and triggered its release. He entered and looked around. The room was filled with huge,
leather-bound books. Row after row, they sat in numbered, ordered sequence, reservoirs of knowledge,
of all the lore the Druids had gathered since the time of the First Council from the ages of faerie, Man,
and the Great Wars. Each page of each book was crammed with information gained and recorded, some
of it understood, some of it a mystery still, all that remained of science and magic past and present. Much
of what was written in these books had been done so in Kahle s own hand, the words painstakingly
inscribed, line by line, for more than forty years. Their recordings were the old man s special pride, the
summation of his life s work, the accomplishment he favored most.
He crossed to the nearest bank of shelves, took a deep breath, and opened the drawstrings to
Bremen s leather pouch. He mistrusted all magic, but there was no other choice. Besides, Bremen would
never mislead him. What mattered to both was the preservation of the Histories. They must survive him,
as they were intended to. They must survive them all.
He took a generous handful of the glittering, silver dust he found inside the pouch and threw it across
one section of the books. Instantly, the entire wall on which the books were housed began to shimmer,
taking on the look of a mirage in deep summer heat. Kahle hesitated, then threw more of the dust across
the liquid curtain. The shelves and books disappeared. He moved on quickly then, using handfuls of the
dust on each set of shelves, each section of books, watching them shimmer and fade away.
Moments later, the Druid Histories had vanished completely.
All that remained was a room with four blank walls and a long reading table at its center.
Kahle Rese nodded in satisfaction. The Histories were safe now. Even if the room was discovered, its
contents would remain concealed. It was as much as he could hope for.
He walked back through the door, suddenly weary. There was a scraping at the library door as
unwieldy claws tried to fasten on the handle and turn it. Kahle turned and carefully closed the bookcase
door. He placed the nearly empty leather pouch into the pocket of his robe, walked to his desk, and
stood there. He had no weapons.
He had no place to run. There was nothing to do but wait.
Heavy bodies threw themselves against the door from without, splintering it. A second later it gave
way, crashing open against the wall. Three crook-backed beasts slouched into the room, red eyes
narrow and hateful as they fixed on him. He faced them without flinching as they approached.
The closest held a short spear. Something in the bearing of the man before him infuriated him. When he
was right on top of Kahle Rese, he drove the spear through his chest and killed him instantly.
When it was finished, when all who remained of the guards had been hunted down and slaughtered,
the Druids who had survived were herded from their hiding places into the Assembly and made to fall
upon their knees, ringed by the monsters who had undone them. Athabasca was found, still alive, and
brought to stand before the Skull Bearer. The creature stared at the imposing, white-haired First Druid,
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