The city seemed deserted now, but he did not trust the silence. There was something all too watchful about the gelid and stifling air; it concealed something that was drawing ever nearer, like a leviathan of evil might which enclosed the city in its fist; whose gelid, sepulchral air was its exhaled breath . . .
Time, time, time . . .
That single word beat in his brain to the rhythm of his steps. Time. ‘Is father alive? Will I get there in time, time, time . . .’
Finally, he had made it to the open courtyard. Hardly heeding the open space, he ran directly to the entrance without pausing.
Gaining the entry, leaning on the doorframe and breathing hoarsely, he found that the iron-bound oak doors stood askew, partially riven from their hinges. Beyond them was darkness.
When he had left the Library earlier, it had been lit from within by many torches and candles. Tapestries and works of art had lined the walls. Stone statues and carvings of wood had lined the halls like silent sentinels, and graced the many alcoves. There had been many times many artifacts made of ivory, pewter, copper, bronze, silver, gold, jade, and myriad other substances, behind the leaded glass of display cases.
The portraits and tapestries had been torn down, slashed and defiled. Stone had been broken, wood hacked upon, cases and artifacts smashed and hurled about. As he stumbled along in the darkness, Mraan was thankful that the ruin he picked his way through was obscured by darkness. The air was becoming dank now, like that issuing from a tomb.