Getting away from the fifth floor felt amazing.

Oak could have kissed the bare stone under his boots. He laid his rucksack on the floor and slumped down next to it. The three of them had legged it to the entrance to the southern tower as soon as Ur-Namma had stopped coughing his lungs out of his body.

Currently, they were resting in a lounge at the bottom of the southern tower. They had stopped here because the room had a functioning magical lantern. The light it cast resembled a roaring fireplace, which was a welcome change from the reddish glow of the cursed flesh.

For once, Oak was the least hurt of their company, and he had bruises all over his body. The stab wound on his left arm had opened a bit during the fight, but other than that, he felt mostly okay. The others were not faring as well.

Geezer was limping slightly. Oak had examined the hellhound's left front leg and luckily it did not seem broken. The muscles were likely just sprained. It was nothing compared to getting stabbed in between the ribs and, considering how fast the dog had recovered from that, Oak was not worried. Geezer would be right as rain after he ate a bit and got some rest.

Ur-Namma had a nasty, purple bruise the size of a dinner plate on his right side, and the elf was bone tired. Comparatively, the pain and the exhaustion did not seem to rate too high on the list of problems Ur-Namma cared about. Above all else, the elf seemed disgusted by the blood and gunk covering his skin and clothes.

“I tell you, I have suffered many humiliations during my life, but this ranks highly among them all. What I would not give for a bath,” Ur-Namma muttered. “I thought losing my hair was an indignity, but now I see it was a blessing in disguise. If I still had it, I would have to cut it off myself.”

“You know what I admire about you, elf?” Oak asked. “Even after all you have been through, you are such a good little optimist. Always searching for that silver lining in the storm clouds above us.”

“Rain. What a beautiful idea,” Ur-Namma said in a wishful voice. “I want to stand outside in a thunderstorm and let the tears of the sky wash me clean of this filth.”

Oak sniffed the air and made a face. “You do smell quite a bit. My nose has already gotten used to my own stench, but this? This is another level of disgusting.”

“Oh, believe me. I’m well aware,” Ur-Namma replied.

“We could swing by the grove we found near the sewer entrance after we have emptied your sister's vault. It constantly rains inside the groves, and we really need to replenish our water supplies soon anyway,” Oak proposed. “You can take a wash under one of those streams of rainwater dropping down from the trees, and I can see if I have collected enough souls to get another boon from Ashmedai.”

The mere idea of a wash made Ur-Namma smile. “Sounds like a fine plan to me. I declare my support.”

“I graciously accept it.”

At the moment, Oak was just happy they were all mostly in one piece. The journey through the Imperial Library had been harrowing thus far, and he could not wait to be done with the place.

“Do you mind if I work on some theurgy while we rest?” Oak asked. “There are some things in my sanctuary that need tending to.”.

“By all means. I’ll poke you with my longsword if the situation requires your attention.”

“No stabbing!” Oak said and got into a comfortable position.

Geezer trotted next to him and slumped down on top of his legs. The hellhound made for a nice, if a bit heavy, blanket.

“You keep watch, alright boy?” Oak said, and closed his eyes. The last thing he felt before diving was Geezer’s snout poking at his fingers.

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***

The soft rustling of leaves welcomed Oak home. It smelled of pine needles and sap.

The sanctuary looked just like Oak had left it the last time he had dived inside his own mind, with one exception. The wraith of the Librarian swung from the branches of the great tree in the center of this imagined homestead with a noose around his neck.

Unlike the other ghosts, the armored elf radiated the glacial cold of a polar night. Those long days in the North when even the sun has escaped from the winter’s bite and dawn never arrives to chase away the darkness. When the howling of wind silences the howling of wolves and all of Creation stands still. The wraith’s spear glistened with ice and frost covered the rope around its neck.

Currently, the wraith was connected to Oak’s wards. He pulled the wraith down to the ground with a thought and opened the knot which secured the noose to the tree. He would have to make some changes to make sure he could release the wraith with a simple mental command.

A quick-release knot was needed here and Oak decided to use the highwayman’s hitch.

Holding a bight of rope against the branch, Oak got to work. He placed a second bight behind the branch and around the initial bight, before passing the bight of the tail in front of the branch and through the first bight. Happy with his work, Oak tightened and secured the knot.

Now, all he needed to do was pull the tail with a thought, and the wraith of the Librarian would be released.

That over and done with, Oak reconfigured the wraith's connections to the wards guarding his mind from harm. Using the Librarian like a mere ghost to power his wards was fine in most situations, but its true potential lay elsewhere.

With extreme care, Oak made sure every connection from the wraith to his wards was spun correctly. It would not do for there to be any backlash when he released the wraith from its place in powering the wards. In any situation that required such an act, every moment counted.

The changes Oak made to the Librarians' connections should allow him to send the wraith into the Waking Dream, where it could perform a more active type of defense. Ideally, doing its very best to purge who or what was attacking Oak or his friends.

That could save his life someday if he found himself in a fight, and a spook tried to purge his mind at the same time.

Next, Oak dragged Kushim’s Bewilderment to the ground.

The Scribe was its usual confused self, not that the string of memory could be anything else. It was time to study the thought-plague and figure out what made it tick. He would need to know the memory construct inside and out if he wanted to craft similar weapons from other ghosts. As it stood, the only way he could use the thought-plague was to use up his only template of how to make more, and that was unacceptable.

Oak went over every string contributing to the whole that was Kushim’s Bewilderment, with a critical eye. It was masterfully sewn together, that much he could tell. A true masterpiece of minimalism. There was no fat on the construct. Every piece served a purpose and because of that, the end result was tiny enough it could slip through wards with relative ease.

Time sped by as Oak lost himself in the stitching and interconnected nature of the thought-plague. Strings of memory formed intricate webs, which often looped back into themselves. It was both mesmerizing and infuriating to witness. It would take a lot of practice to craft something similar. Despite his enthusiasm, Oak could tell he was losing focus. With that in mind, he was not too annoyed to feel the echo of something poking him in the shoulder.

It was time to wake up. Quickly, Oak put everything back to its place and left his sanctuary. He opened his eyes to find that Ur-Namma was poking his shoulder with his longsword.

“Stop that.” Oak growled and pushed the blade aside. “I’m awake and I’m pretty sure I asked you not to stab me. Two stab wounds are enough for me, thank you very much.”

“I got hungry, and I did not want to get up. Pass me those delicious biscuits, will you?” Ur-Namma asked. His expression was the picture of innocence.

Oak sighed and opened the rucksack. One day, elf. One day, when you are not so infirm anymore, I will beat your royal ass like a drum.

“Since you could not behave yourself, and you called hardtack delicious, Geezer and I are going to eat first,” Oak said. “In the meantime, you can think about what you have done.”

Geezer happily accepted a piece of corned beef and devoured it. Oak gave the hellhound another.

“Hey, savage!” Ur-Namma shouted. “I demand my biscuits!”

Oak let the elf’s orders fall on deaf ears and took a bite of his sorry looking sandwich made out of hardtack and beef.

Listening to Ur-Namma’s whining made the taste of field rations almost palatable. Almost.