In the Sanctuary in Dublin, there are seven secret libraries. One contains the Elder Journals, another one houses books that harm their readers, the third boasts notes on magic-science experiments and obscure rituals classified as dangerous; the fourth is filled with scrolls written in a language so ancient that nobody alive knows what they are about; the fifth is stacked with confiscated writings from all over the world; the sixth is full of books even China Sorrows would not dare touch.

The seventh secret library is a small room, stuffed, windowless; accessible only by removing a book in the Sanctuary Archives, a big, fat volume called The History of the Anatrim Monastery in County Laois in the Year 952. Rumour has it that this book was selected because it sounds so dull nobody ever picks it up by chance. One then needs to possess the correct key and know the correct password to open the entrance.

This library contains one thousand four hundred and sixty-three books, all bound in leather, all hand-written, stacked high in shelves up to the ceiling. Everything is coated in dust. The last time somebody came here was fourteen years ago. The reason is that the books need to be kept safe from prying eyes, according to Eachan Meritorious. The reason is that the books are boring, according to Morwenna Crow. As of yet, it is unknown whether Meritorious secretly agrees. Let us just say that the reason is as follows: Only the highest Sanctuary officials have access, and they usually lack the time to read books while at work.

On the top shelf of the rearmost row, there is a book that looks exactly like the others from the outside but is very unlike the others on the inside. It is the least boring of the boring books. It has two hundred pages, only a few of which are filled. The handwriting ranges from neat and precise to scribbly and blotchy to utterly indecipherable. In some places, there are smudges of dirt and ash and what looks like dried blood.

Nobody has picked up this book in a long, long time. Nobody has browsed the pages in many, many years.

But we will.

Mission Records 77-A

Preface

In accordance with a new Sanctuary guideline, each squad is required to keep a record of all missions undertaken, including but not limited to: aim of the mission, location, time, people involved/injured/deceased, strategy, unforeseen complications, success/defeat. Completed books are to be handed to Meritorious for analysis and optimisation of strategies. To be kept out of enemy hands at all costs.
This volume contains information on operations of squad 77, the special forces unit better known as the Dead Men.

– General Deuce

Preface II

Hello hello hellooo! This is Larrikin. Corrival said we have to do this reporting stuff now. We drew lots and I lost, so I’m supposed to describe our glorious latest mission. But I’m bored with the task already. This is so stupid, it’s basically torture twice: once for the person writing it and once for the person reading it. I don’t usually condone torturing people (who are on our side). So! I’ve decided to make it more interesting: We’re going to write our mission reports as poems. Yes, we are. Anton, stop complaining.

Monsty and the Deadest Men

By Larrikin the Great
 

There was this huge and creepy monster
That haunted our troops at midnight.
It made them feel all scared and lonster,
Could kill so smoothly even mid-flight.

That’s right, it had four monstrous wings
And claws as large as shackawon.
It could have worn a hundred rings
But didn’t even wear just one.

The deucy boss sent us to kill it
To spare the troops from further trouble.
“An easy task, we will fulfil it!”
Dex said, his tone so sure and mubble.

We found the monster in its cave
Along with eighty, ninety skulls.
Dex went in front, so wise and brave
And poked the monster in its frulls.

It jerked awake and snapped at Dex,
He fled and hid behind our backs.
“I take it back, you shouldn’t vex
A dragon when you lack an axe.”

“It’s not a dragon though, you see?
There are no flames within its jaws.”
We couldn’t let the thing go free
But killing it felt so, so mawse.

“Remember that I’ve always wanted
A small, cute puppy or a cat?”
I said, and added all beronted:
“I’ll keep the monster as a pet!”

The monster did not seem to like
My proposition, don’t know why.
It raised its claw and tried to strike,
I jumped up high onto its thigh.

Just then I saw the gruesome wound
On Monsty’s back, all blood and pus.
I couldn’t leave it here, marooned,
With flesh infected, full of bluss.

I put my hand on Monsty’s back
And healed it fast as best I could.
I was convinced that its attack
Would stop once Monsty felt regood.

Turns out I was completely wrong:
Now healed, it had an appetite
And was much fiercer, much more strong.
It turned its head to take a bite.

Before I ended in its belly
Bold Dexter shot it in the head
And then exclaimed, surprised: “Oh helly!
The monster has not just dropped dead!”

Skuldug and Ghastly both took turns
At throwing flames at Monsty’s face.
Alas, they left no grievous burns,
They just made Monsty mad and tace.

Stern Anton then went to the front,
A growl deep down within his chest.
And guess what! Monsty got the tont
And backed away at An’s behest.

“Now what?” asked Hopeless, half-amused,
“We cannot just leave Anton here.”
“We will not kill it!” I said, nused,
“We’ll find a home for my poor dear.”

“The answer’s obvious, you maves,”
Skulduggy said, his tone demoyed.
“We’ll send it down into the Caves.”
“Which caves?” – “You know, those of the Void.”

Skulduggy fetched a Teleporter
To bring us close to Mire’s house.
She said she’s not a beast transporter
But got us there with lots of grouse.

We dug until we found a cave
And said our very sad goodbye.
My Monsty, eager, good and brave
Then flew down with a goodbye cry.

We sealed the cave with great, great care.
I miss dear Monsty with my kends
But like to think it’s happy there
And making lots of monster friends.
 

—

Why did you leave out my part? How I ran at the monster to distract it, which was so courageous of me, and then, ahem, tripped over a skull and broke my nose on the floor? – Saracen

Sorry, your name just didn’t fit into the metre.

Mission 2  Don’t be silly, this was not our second mission ever! – L.

Mission 683  Stop putting random numbers. You didn’t count all of our missions, did you? Anyway, this is supposed to be a poem, so give it a proper title!

Unlike Some of Us I Don’t Have to Invent Words to Make It Rhyme  Eh! Now that’s just mean. I did not have to invent words, I wanted to invent words! That’s what artists do!

He’s right. Shakespeare invented lots of words too. – D.

Ha! Take that, you amateur! I’m the new Shakespeare!

Rescue Mission

By A. Shudder
 

It was the second day of June,
The place the Scottish town called Doune.
A lot of soldiers (fifty-nine)
Were taken prisoner by Serpine.
We broke into his guarded lair
And got them quickly out of there.
It went as planned, except for Ghastly
Who got cut by a sword quite nast’ly.
Out of the fifty-nine survived
Four dozen, who then soon arrived
In camp close to the Scottish coast
And were assigned to Boldfoot’s host.
 

To be clear, I did not do this voluntarily. The others seem enthusiastic though. This book is going to be a nightmare.  so much fun!

Too Late

By Dexter Vex
 

There was an asasin in Fife
We went to detane her alife
A vampyre came first
And stilled its blood thirst
The scrub on her graive, it will thrive.
 

—

Dex, your spelling is still a mess, you know?

Just a Stakeout

By a Hopeless poet
 

Just a stakeout,
They said.
Swift and easy,
They said.
In the dead of night
Living Dead Men
Invisible
In the shadows.

Just a stakeout,
They said.
Observing from a safe distance,
They said.
Who goes in
Who goes out
Who does what.
Safe.

Just a stakeout,
They said.
No trouble,
They said.
Don’t get seen
Don’t rush in
Don’t start trouble.
But trouble found us first.

Just a stakeout,
They said.
No playing the heroes,
They said.
But being a hero
Has nothing
To do with
Wanting.

Just a stakeout,
They said.
The Baron’s abroad,
They said.
The Baron
Right there
In the dead of night
Expecting us.

Just a stakeout,
They said.
Secret and silent,
They said.
Windows exploding
Walls crumbling
Bodies flying.
Screams.

Just a stakeout,
They said.
No danger,
They said.
The dead of night lit up
Two barely living Dead Men
Very much visible
In the firelight.

Just a stakeout,
They said.
No rescue attempts,
They said.
Broken bodies
Carried by comrades
SCREAMS
Escaping.

Just a stakeout,
They said.
No luck needed,
They said.
Back in the dead of night
All Dead Men
Still alive
By pure luck.

Just a stakeout,
They said.
 

For the record: This is a poem. The others are saying it’s not because it does not rhyme. I know it does not rhyme. I know it has no metre. It’s still a poem. Erskine would have agreed with me.
 

[scribbled in the margin next to stanza eight:]
No need to write in capitols. I didn’t scream THAT loudly. – D.

[written below that, occupying the margin of the rest of the page:]
To Meritorious or whomever: Yes, he did. Hopeless and I were carrying him, and my ears are still ringing. Hopeless even had to get their eardrums checked by the world’s best healer. – L.

Let me guess: their eardrums were completely fine, but you insisted on checking them anyway.

… Possibly.

Mission Accomplished, but Useless

By Bespoke Poetry
 

We were supposed to steal an axe that kills with every blow
Turned out it was a blunt, dull thing that only cut through snow.

—

Ohh, a two-line poem! I’ve got one too:
Diablerie, Diablerie, why are you on a killing spree?
Because I laughed ’bout Krav’s goatee? Or ’cause Rose needs to pee? – L.

—

Diablerie, Diablerie, why won’t you let S. Rue go free?
He’s useless as a bag of tea, so you can let him flee. – D.

[scribbled above “S. Rue”:]
D. Vex

—

Diablerie, Diablerie, your members always full of glee,
The Gallow guy especially—perhaps he’s fond of me. – Rue

—

Oh Serpine, let me come to thee, I’m begging thee, please hear my plea,
please take this gift I braught for thee: a tiny, pesky flea. – D.

—

Fishing for information is a pastime of the Baron
Maybe we should start to call him Heron. – Rue

—

Why do you think dear Mevolenty always wears a veil?
Perhaps instead of eyes he has antennas like a snail. – L.

Snails don’t have antennae instead of eyes, they have both: eyes at the tips of their antennae. Also the plural is antennae not antennas. – S.P.

Shut up.

—

[line crossed out into illegibility]
[line crossed out into illegibility]

—

There’s this lady who’s a beauty but her morals are quite minor
And this selfish, haughty woman’s name is—yes, you guessed it—Japan. – Rue

—

Skulduggery says he hates Serpine but I know he once missed
Serpine’s pretty face (with his fist). – D.

I might have neither eyes nor antennae but I can read just fine. – S.P.

Is that a thread?

Oh yes, Dexter, this is definitely a thread of conversation. I don’t quite see my sentence being a sewing thread yet but your imagination has always been particularly queer.

Skul, derisive wiseacres have a habit of getting the horse that bites. And that is a threat. – G.

Corrival said not to leave the book lying around. I’m locking it up until the next mission is done. – A.

Gone Wrong

By Erskine Unravelled
 

Back among brothers
Where I belong [inkblot]
Without question
Marks the resumption
Of a prior way of life,
A prior way of death.
[illegible]ause death is the Dead Men’s speciality,
Death is what we bring
To the enemies of the [crossed out into illegibility] mortals.
[line crossed out into illegibility]
[line crossed out into illegibility]
Death at midnight,
Death at noon,
And anytime in between.

Death was to be part of our mission
Whether we liked Him there or not.
Death taking the form of a bullet
To be placed in the Baron’s head.
Meti[illegible]sly thought through:
Where, when, who, how.
A perfect plan.

Death for just one person
To spare thous[illegible]s the acquaintance.
What would Death say
If He had a say?
Maybe He warned the Baron
Or maybe someone else did.
Who knows how many people on our side
Are not really on our side.
[ink smudge]

Death was there, waiting,
The bullet was there, waiting,
The Baron… was not.
Not there,
Not waiting,
Not shot,
Not dead.

Death writhing, cheated of His prey.
We can only pray
That soon, the two will finally meet
And one of them his end.
Hopefully,
The correct one.

More Handsome than All of You Combined

By Saracen who doesn’t Rue last night
 

The fairest face that you will ever see
Belongs to one I got to meet last night
I wish I never let him out of sight
He’s twice as thewed as Dex will ever be.

Not even Ghastly’s blows can match his punches
Like Larrikin he has an impish grin
His chest hair’s, unlike Anton’s, fine and thin
I crave his warmth much more than next week’s lunches.

His eyes shine more than Erskine’s in the sun
He’s better than Skulduggy with a gun
On Hopeless’ scale of frightening he’s a ten.

’Twas just one night, I know I shouldn’t mourn
And yet I can’t deny I feel so torn
Oh, why must he be one of Mevolent’s men?
 

—

That’s really all you have to say about that night? – D.

Hell, no! Just thought I’d spare you the details…

I was actaully referring to the mission. The one we ALL took part in.

… I was supposed to write something about the mission?? The others only said “write about last night.”

Ballad of the Bone-Breaking Barber

By Your Pleasantness
Unpleasantness!
 

It was a

Found them sitting around the fireplace, besmirching the precious book, snickering like children. Confiscated the book and sent them back to battle.
– C. Deuce