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. A vast room
held row after row of bookshelves, each shelf filled with
neatly arranged, lovingly dusted, leather-bound volumes.
His heart yearned, suddenly, for the wisdom stored within
these walls, ached to think that all this irreplaceable
knowledge was in such dire danger.
"Michael!" Nikol called a warning.
A robed monk, wielding a sword, had crept out from
the shadows of one of the bookcases, stood blocking
their path.
"Hold . . . hold right th-there," stammered the Aesthetic.
"Don't. . . don't m-m-move."
The monk was thinner than the heavy, antique, two-
handed broadsword he was trying his best to hold. His
face was chalk-colored, sweat ran down his bald head,
and he shook so that his teeth clicked together. But,
though obviously frightened out of his wits, he was
grimly standing his ground. Nikol had been about to
laugh. She remembered the brutal mob, their hands
already stained with blood, and her laughter changed to
a sigh.
"Here," she said, stepping forward, accosting the
terrified monk, who stared at her, wide-eyed. "You're
holding that sword all wrong." Wrenching the poor man's
hands loose from the weapon, she repositioned them. "This
hand here, and this hand here. There. Now you have a
chance of hurting someone besides yourself."
"Th-thank you," murmured the monk, gazing at the
weapon and Nikol in perplexity. Suddenly, he brought the
sword, point-first, to her throat. "Now... I s-s-suggest you . .
. you leave."
"For the love of Paladine! We're on YOUR side," said
Nikol in exasperation, shoving the wavering blade away
from her
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