The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  Gaining courage, Nabber persisted: “Then why don’t we find him? I’ll help you—you know, with coinage and the like. It will be just like old times.”

  “There’s no going back to old times.”

  “But—”

  “You know nothing,” Tawl was becoming angry. “Nothing. A world of good deeds isn’t enough to cancel out what I have done.”

  The desperation in the knight’s voice was enough to stop Nabber’s tongue. He should never have spoken so carelessly in the first place. A small part of him wondered what else Tawl had gone through, for the pain he was experiencing seemed to have more than one source. Nabber wanted to reach out to him, to help him, to put his arms around him. Swift would have frowned on such softness, though. So he spoke instead. “You should put some of that ointment on your arm. A burn like that could get infected.”

  “It’ll be all right. It’s more than a few weeks old now.”

  Nabber stood up. “No, I insist. If you’re going to fight tomorrow night, there’s a chance it might reopen if it’s too dry and stretched.” He went over and knelt beside the knight. Expecting to be brushed aside, he was surprised when Tawl held out his arm.

  “I suppose if you’re going to be my second, you might as well start now.”

  The memory of Swift’s disapproving face was the only thing that stopped Nabber from giving away his joy. Tawl’s second! It was the greatest, the highest, the best and only honor he’d ever been given. Pride swelled in his heart as he unwound the knight’s bandage. His hands shook with excitement over his newly bestowed title.

  What he saw beneath the linen put a stop to his elation. Close up, the burn was appalling. The surface was puckered and raised, and there was a slit of weeping flesh where the skin had been burned away. It took all of Nabber’s considerable talent for stoicism to keep the shock from his face. Down the length of the burn, cutting through the circles like an arrow through a target, ran Tawl’s old scar. Only it no longer looked old. It looked bright and biting and newly given.

  Fourteen

  A full moon shone down on the city of Bren. The wind sent the mist from the lake northward to the frozen wastes. The stars were set in a clear sky, yet five thousand people hardly noticed. A ring of torches sent smoke into the crowds, and their brightness formed the center of the night.

  A halo of light surrounded the pit. Casting outward, it grazed across the faces of all who had come, drawing everyone under its thrall. People were quiet, subdued, dressed in their best with rings on their fingers and jeweled daggers at their belts. Not one hawker plied his trade. The only noise was the whip of the wager, and never had Bren been so anxious to bet.

  Maybor drew his furs close. Spring might be on its way, but tonight, in this city, winter was king. The duke would be here soon. The court waited in their gilded enclosure anxious for him to arrive. Baralis was here, standing alone, dressed in black, his features masked by shadow. Maybor was well pleased that the man had decided not to take his official seat; it meant he would have the Hawk to himself.

  He had a good view of both fighters. The duke’s champion had bared his chest for the benefit of the crowd. Grease was being worked into his muscles, and bound around his forehead were the colors of Bren. A fine specimen, broad and thickly muscled, a bit like he’d been in his youth. Maybor glanced toward the other man: tall and golden haired, he stood alone. There were dark circles under his eyes and a bandage about his arm. There was no doubt in Maybor’s mind which of the two his money would be on.

  It was a good thing, not allowing women to the pit, he thought as he surveyed the all male crowd. Fights were men’s affairs and there would be no feminine flapping to spoil the night.

  People kept looking his way. He must cut a fine figure with new fur-trimmed cloak and his gift from the duke at his side. A fine, gray boarhound lay at his feet. Its small eyes never rested, its flattened ears moved with every sound, and its huge jaws waited like a trap ready to be sprung. Maybor stroked the creature’s head absently. It was quite an honor to be given one of the duke’s own hounds. The Hawk had brought it himself soon after he’d been told about Kylock’s invasion plans. A suitable payment for such privileged information. Maybor smiled. The duke had doubtless enjoyed flaunting that particular morsel in front of Baralis.

  And here he was now, walking across the courtyard escorted by twelve armed guards. The duke of Bren’s appearance set the crowd buzzing. No fancy ceremonial robes for the Hawk. He was dressed, as always, in military blue. Maybor couldn’t quite keep a disapproving glint from his eye: the man had no sense of show.

  The duke made straight for the court enclosure. He bowed first to Maybor and then Baralis. He stepped upon the raised dais and waited for the noise of the crowd to stop. Every eye was upon him. Silence came and the duke raised his right arm. Both fighters made their way forward. Positioned as they were on opposite sides of the pit, they arrived in front of the Hawk at exactly the same time.

  Maybor, who was sitting behind the duke, saw everything clearly. The champion presented his knife first. The Hawk took it and measured the size of the blade against his forearm. Satisfied, he gave it back: “May Borc bring you glory,” he said. He repeated the ritual with the blond stranger, but his blessing lacked the power of the first.

  Both men had their seconds with them. Behind the champion stood a man who could only be his brother. Not quite as handsome or as well muscled as Blayze, he walked with a pronounced limp. He was currently whispering to his brother, and his inward slanting teeth caught the light. On the other side was a boy, barely old enough to hold a sword, his right arm resting in a sling. A poor choice for a fighter’s keeper.

  The fighters and their seconds withdrew. They wasted no energy exchanging glances. Once they had taken up their positions by the pit, a cry went up:

  “Fighting tonight for the honor of Bren is Blayze, duke’s champion.” The crowd cheered loud and long. Finally, when they stopped the crier began again. “And his challenger is Tawl, knight of Valdis.”

  Before the crowd could react, the golden-haired fighter raised his arm. “No, my friend,” he said. “Not from Valdis.” Wisps of excitement raced through the crowd. “But I have been told—” began the crier.

  “I tell you that I am from the Lowlands.”

  Maybor had to admit that there was a compelling force to the man’s words. He rubbed his hands together. Things were taking an interesting turn. A little drama before the match was salt for the meat.

  “Very well, sir,” said the crier. “In Bren we take a man on his word.” He then turned and addressed the crowd: “And the duke’s challenger is Tawl, from the Lowlands.” The announcement met with more whispering than cheering.

  Both men jumped into the pit. A red scarf was raised and the crier looked to the duke for a sign. Still standing, the duke raised his right arm. He made a fist, and then with one sharp movement, he brought it to his chest. The scarf dropped into the pit.

  • • •

  Nabber watched as they circled around each other. No chance of Tawl spotting any weaknesses with Blayze. There was every chance that Blayze would notice how pale and drawn the knight looked, however. The burn on Tawl’s right arm was vulnerable, too, but he hid it well. Most people assumed the bandage was there to hide his circles—even now, after he’d stated that he wasn’t from Valdis. Nabber guessed it had cost Tawl a lot to deny his knighthood.

  Blayze lunged forward with his knife. Tawl feinted to one side, but just as quickly he was back. Knife arm now down, Blayze was vulnerable. The knight drew back his weapon as if ready for a strike and then punched Blayze square in the face with his left fist. The crowd was stunned. They hissed at the indignity of the move.

  The champion went reeling backward. Tawl pounced, trying to floor him, but he hadn’t counted on the sheer physical strength of the champion. The man hardly swayed. He pushed Tawl away with such force that the knight had to struggle to keep his footing. Nabber could clearly see the sweat on Tawl’s bro
w. The crowd was frantic, betting with the frenzy of locusts on a field of grain.

  Blayze sauntered over to where Tawl was recovering. The torchlight gleamed on the grease. He raised a finger to his chin and prodded the flesh. A small gesture, designed to provoke. A challenge to Tawl to try punching him again. The knight leapt forward. Blayze was ready for him. Up went his elbow, smashing into Tawl’s jaw. It was a risky move, for the knight’s blade was close to his flank. The force of the blow was so great that all Tawl could do was rake the blade down the champion’s side. It was barely enough to draw blood.

  Blayze gave Tawl no time to recover. Altering the grip on his knife, he stabbed at the knight’s chest. The two fighters were so close it was impossible to see what happened. Then Blayze backed away and the light fell on Tawl. His linen undershirt was stained with blood. The crowd cheered wildly. A huge knot twisted in Nabber’s stomach: the stain was growing larger.

  Glancing toward the court enclosure, Nabber looked upon the face of the duke. He was a man well pleased with what he saw.

  There was no respite for Tawl. Blayze hounded him, and Tawl was forced to back away. Nabber wanted to shout out, “He was poisoned!” but he knew the knight’s sense of honor would prevent him from making it known. Nabber respected that. It was what set Tawl apart from every man he’d ever known.

  It was hard to gauge just how bad the wound was. More telling than the blood was the fact that the knight had slowed down. He was in the center of the pit and Blayze was circling like a vulture. The champion kept making quick feints and lunges, hoping to entice Tawl into letting down his guard. He was taunting him, too, saying that from what he’d heard he wasn’t surprised that Tawl no longer wanted to be known as a knight. Nabber felt truly ashamed. He had given Blayze that particular weapon.

  The blood reached Tawl’s waist. His breathing was sharp and fast. Sweat ran down his nose and cheeks, and still he managed to keep the champion at bay. The crowd was not happy with this lull in the fight; they hissed and jeered at Tawl for taking evasive action rather than attacking.

  Blayze was losing patience. He was anxious for an exchange to show off his skills. He shouted loudly, “I say you are a knight and I’m the one to prove it!” A cheer went up from the crowd. A series of fast moves dazzled the audience and served to confuse Tawl. Blayze’s knife traced intricate patterns in the air. Each flash of the blade was a warning.

  He made his move. A quick strike with the knife caught Tawl’s right arm. The bandage was slit down the middle. Blayze stepped back and Tawl’s bandage fell to the ground.

  “Aah!” A sharp intake of breath united the crowd. The circles were there for everyone to see. The circles, the burn, and the scar. Nabber felt a deep pain in his chest; he could hardly bear to look at Tawl. His vision thinned and blurred. Tears streaked down his face unnoticed. It was all his fault.

  Tawl raised his eyes from his circles and faced the crowd. People who had been jeering stopped. There was something in the knight’s face that compelled silence. Golden hair gleamed in the torchlight and the bloodstained tunic became an emblem. His voice, when it came, rent through the fabric of the night, changing its very texture: “I no longer count myself a knight,” he said softly. “I am not worthy of Valdis.”

  The words brimmed with truth and anguish. The crowd shifted nervously—one man’s tragedy had been revealed and they were unsure how to react. Blayze decided for them. Unhappy with the shift of emphasis from himself to the knight, he attacked.

  Jumping on his back, he brought the knight to the ground. Tawl drew up his arms and legs and sprang backward. Blayze failed to find his footing and stumbled to the ground. Tawl pounced like a mountain lion. He brought his left knee down hard on Blayze’s wrist. The bone cracked and the champion lost his grip on his knife. Tawl kicked it away, out of reach. Shifting his position, he pinned Blayze to the ground. By fixing his weight on the champion’s thighs, he prevented the man from leaping up.

  The crowd was stunned and thrilled in one. Cheers and hisses were heard in equal measure. Nabber promised Borc that he’d never pocket another man in his life as long as Tawl won the fight.

  Tawl’s blade came down. Blayze struggled to keep it from his throat. He was fighting a losing battle. With his right wrist broken, the champion was attempting to fend off the knife. Tawl’s sword arm might be burned, but it was still more than a match for Blayze’s left.

  Just as the tip of the blade pierced the skin, something happened. Tawl wavered. His arm shook and then his body convulsed. His left arm shot to his chest and he lost his grip on the champion.

  • • •

  The air quivered with sorcery. Every hair on Baralis’ body prickled with it. Someone was drawing power upon the golden-haired fighter. It was in his lungs like a cancer. Baralis sent out his awareness: he had to discover who was foolish enough to attempt such a feat.

  He was a blind man feeling for edges. The drawing was weak, unfocused, the work of an amateur. He followed the trail to a pinpoint in the crowd. A slight, cloaked figure was the source.

  Baralis felt the fighter flex his will. It was a tangible force and it was backed up by fate. Its strength was breathtaking. A warning flashed deep within Baralis. This man, this golden-haired fighter who once was a knight, had a destiny so urgent that it wouldn’t let him succumb to the shock of the drawing. He was fighting it tooth and nail. Baralis had heard about such men during his stay in the Far South. It was said that their fates would repel all interference—especially from sorcery. Thieves, they were called, but he couldn’t remember why.

  Even as his hold on the blade wavered, the knight still fought on. The sorcerer was weakening. The power tautened like a drawn bow, ready to snap back. Inexperienced the cloaked figure might be, but he had still drawn enough to burn the skin off his own face.

  The sharp tang of sorcery brought saliva to Baralis’ mouth. He looked closely at the instigator. So small, so slight: it was a woman! Excited curiosity won over caution and Baralis shaped a compulsion on his very next breath. Weaving with subtle precision, he worked it below the thread of the drawing. An instant later the cloaked figure turned and looked at him. With the cries of the crowd sounding in his ears and the taste of sorcery still fresh upon his tongue, Baralis recognized the face of Catherine of Bren.

  The knight’s will fought back with deadly force. In that instant, Catherine lost control of the drawing. A fraction of a second later, Baralis sent out a drawing of his own. Not pausing to think, he directed every fiber of his soul toward the space between Catherine and the knight. The drawing broke. Baralis heard the sound of it snapping through the air. He sped to meet it. There wasn’t enough time to brace himself. It smashed against him with the force of a storm. His mind was torn from his body and then he fell into the dark.

  • • •

  Nabber felt certain that Tawl was a goner. The knight’s seizure had given Blayze enough time to recover both his strength and his blade. The champion took the knife in his left and slashed at Tawl’s face. Tawl was doubled up with pain, but he just managed to turn away. The blade sliced his ear. Blayze moved forward again, preparing to strike. The crowd cheered him on. Victory was in sight.

  All of a sudden, Tawl appeared to recover. He straightened his back and dropped his arm from his chest. He looked into Blayze’s eyes and smiled. A second later he kicked in the champion’s kneecaps. Both of them. The man fell to the ground. Tawl was on him in an instant. He punched an elbow into his face, breaking his nose. Blood splattered the features of both men. Tawl surprised the crowd by throwing away his knife. He took Blayze’s forehead in both hands and smashed his skull into the ground. Again and again the man’s head was brought down upon the stone flooring. The crowd was horrified. All eyes were on the pool of blood which surrounded the champion’s face.

  Nabber felt a sudden tug on his arm. He tore his gaze away from the pit and found himself face-to-face with the girl in the portrait. “Make him stop!” she screamed. One swift second to put
everything into place—she was obviously the champion’s sweetheart—another second to ponder on the exaggeration of the artist—the girl looked a lot more haggard in person—and then he was off, leaping into the pit like a hero to the rescue.

  He ran straight up to Tawl. The knight was in a blood frenzy, aware of nothing except the need to destroy. Nabber put a hand upon his arm and said gently, “Come on, Tawl, time to stop. No need to fight anymore.” The knight looked up. His eyes were glazed, unfocused. Nabber realized he was far away in another place, fighting a fight that could never be won. “Please, Tawl, for me. Please stop.” Tawl hesitated; his eyes cleared. He stopped and let Nabber pull him away. Standing up, he began to make his way from the pit.

  The crowd waited in silence. In took Nabber a moment to realize what they were waiting for. The red scarf of victory still lay on the ground. Instinctively, he knew Tawl would never raise it. As his second, he could do it for him. Nabber picked up the red marker from the floor and held it above his head. As he did so, he looked for the hooded girl from the portrait. She was nowhere to be seen.

  • • •

  Maybor watched as the young boy raised the scarf over his head and the crowd broke into an uneasy applause. It was turning out to be a most interesting evening. By far the high spot had been some five minutes earlier, when Baralis had collapsed where he stood. One minute the king’s chancellor was his usual contemptible self, stealing glances from the side like an uninvited guest, and the next he’d turned as pale as pig lard and his legs gave way under him. He was quickly borne away by a handful of servants, his body as still as a corpse.

  The matter caused little commotion. The duke barely looked up from the fight. Sick envoys were obviously not a priority when the honor of Bren was at stake.

  Maybor was hoping that some enterprising courtiers had taken it into their heads to poison the man. Either that or he’d been stricken with a fatal seizure. Indeed, seizures seemed the order of the night. The golden-haired fighter had definitely succumbed to some sort of attack. Strange how he recovered just after Baralis collapsed.