Most of the books about ancient history were tucked away in a corner of the ground floor, a place even the most learned scholars rarely ventured to. Ancient history and magic were considered dead subjects, a relic of the past with little practical use in the present. But I, I had always been fascinated by the subject. From a young age, I devoured books about forgotten kingdoms, mythical creatures, and ancient spells. I never expected to see it used in real life, never thought it would have any practical use in my own life.
The past few days, however, have proven me wrong. The dream of the undead army, the terrifying encounter with the Hell House, the rumors of the escaped dwarf… they were all connected to the ancient world, to the magic I had read about in dusty tomes.
I picked up a book titled Earth Realm and opened it to a chapter written in an ancient tongue called Aethel. The book described the dwarves, a race of skilled craftspeople and blacksmiths, some of the most intelligent and honorable creatures to walk the earth.
"Dwarves are known to be the best craftspeople and blacksmiths," I read aloud, tracing the intricate script with my finger. "They are said to have crafted weapons for gods and supernatural entities."
But their strength, the book said, was also their weakness. Their greed had been their downfall. It is said that Mammon, the demon of greed, was once a dwarf.
I turned the page, a drawing of a magnificent labyrinth, built in a land beyond the sea, caught my eye. The text explained that the labyrinth was built by Daedalus, a powerful dwarf who had flown to this land after the death of his son. He had spent thousands of years grieving his loss, while watching his nephew grow, taking his son's place.
"Fascinating story, isn't it? The poor creature lived thousands of years grieving his son's death, only to see his nephew grow. I can still remember how wonderful his envy towards his nephew was."
The voice, a raspy whisper, came from directly in front of me. I jumped, startled, my eyes searching for the source of the voice. Did the book just talk? Was it alive?
"Did you talk?" I asked, my voice trembling.
"The books don't talk, foolish boy. Only grimoires do."
The voice came again, closer this time. I realized the voice was coming from the gap on the bookshelf where I had retrieved the book. I cautiously peered through the gap. On the other side of the shelf, an old woman with a black cape, a pointy hat perched precariously on her head, stared back at me. Her face, a wrinkled map of time, was framed by a tangled mess of white hair, her teeth, few and crooked, stained with age. She looked like a witch straight out of a nightmare.
I jumped back, startled. "I am sorry, Madam. I didn't see you there," I apologized.
The old woman pushed aside the books on the shelf and leaned into the gap, her face close enough for me to smell the musty scent of ancient herbs and something sharp, like the bite of a bitter potion. She smiled, a chillingly wide smile that revealed her broken teeth. My legs tensed, my instinct to flee screaming.
"Call me Helga, Silvertongue," she said, her voice a dry rasp.
Silvertongue. I recognized the name from the Hell House incident. But wasn't it a dream? Should I ask what it meant? My mind started to race.
"Oh, you are wondering about whether to tell me about the Hell House incident, aren't you?" The old woman asked, her eyes sharp and knowing.
"How do you...?" I started, but a hand suddenly emerged from another gap in the bookshelf, making a shushing gesture. It belonged to an old woman with a weathered face and a stern look, her hand adorned with rings that glinted in the dim light of the library.
"Three questions, Silvertongue," the old woman with the black cape said. "I'll give you three, but do not ask me what 'Silvertongue' means. There are some things I am not allowed to say, even though I know."
This was ridiculous. Why would I trust an old woman who acted so strangely, who seemed to know more than she should?
"I'm sorry, I have to go," I said, turning away, quickly making my way towards the staircase.
"Later then, Silvertongue. Would you prefer a tea or coffee when we next meet?" she called out, her voice a soft chuckle.
I walked faster, trying to put as much distance between myself and the crazy woman as possible.
"Wait," she shouted again. "You missed your ring, boy." Her voice, this time, was a little louder, echoing through the library.
"Please, don't shout," I said, turning back, my voice laced with irritation.
"Then take your ring," the witch said, extending her hand through the shelf, revealing a black ring with a silver mark. Her head and hand were on one side of the shelf, her body still on the other side.
"I own no ring, Madam Helga," I said, my annoyance growing.
"Take it, or I'll shout, boy. After all, you shouldn't torture an old woman like this, putting my body parts through a shelf."
I cursed under my breath. This woman was truly insane.
"Okay, fine. Give it to me," I said, walking toward the old woman and extending my hand. But she pulled her hand back, back through the shelf to the other side.
"Come to this side and take it," she said.
I grunted and walked around the shelf, to the other side. But when I arrived, the old woman was gone. The books on the shelf were perfectly aligned. My heart hammered in my chest. My eyes scanned the shelf for any sign of the old woman. But she had vanished.
I was about to turn around when I saw a tiny silver spark, hidden within the shadows of the books, shining. I touched it, my fingers coming into contact with a smooth, solid surface. It was the ring that the old woman had shown me. It was there, alone.
I picked up the ring and examined it. It was made of some kind of black steel, a metal that my brother Eamon, the blacksmith, would recognize immediately. The ring felt oddly warm in my hand, and I felt a rush of strange energy, a sense of being watched, a whisper of voices calling from the ring, as if thousands of voices were trying to speak at once. I was in a trance, a state of heightened awareness, but I quickly pulled myself out of it, and stuffed the ring into my pocket.
I had been in the library far too long, lost in the world of ancient magic. It was time to find the Old Drunk Wolf.
He would know what to do.