The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  The stranger smiled. His teeth were small and perfectly even. Once again, he paused before speaking. Three fists this time. “I’m glad to hear the king has the same feelings about religion as we do.” The faint hint of mockery in his voice trailed away as he spoke the next sentence. “The north has been too long under the spiritual guidance of Silbur and Marls and Rorn. We shouldn’t be beholden to the whims of a southern Church.”

  The stranger took a breath, preparing to speak again, but Baralis cut him short:

  “Do whatever you have to do, Tyren. Just keep Helch on its knees until Highwall is broken, and no questions will be asked about your motives.”

  Tyren. A hard lump rose in Nabber’s throat. He tried to breathe and found he couldn’t. Tyren was the leader of the knights. He was Tawl’s idol, his savior, his mentor. And here he was making secret deals with Baralis that involved performing Borc-only-knew what atrocities on the unsuspecting people of Helch. Nabber wasn’t fooled by the words “religious activities.” He’d lived with smooth-talkers for too long not to see the truth behind a well-chosen phrase. Tyren wanted to convert the people of Helch to his own religious doctrines, and judging from what had been said tonight in this yard, neither he nor Baralis were fussy about the means.

  Listening to the two men plotting, Nabber vehemently wished that he had never stumbled upon the meeting. This wasn’t the sort of information Tawl would thank him for coming back with. In fact, Nabber was beginning to wonder if he should keep the details to himself. It would crush Tawl to find out the truth about Tyren. The leader of the knighthood was the one person left in whom Tawl had any faith.

  Nabber felt a sharp pain in his neck. Without realizing it, he had pulled the scab off his throat. Skaythe’s spike wound reopened and a trickle of blood slid down Nabber’s tunic. He forced himself to breathe, taking fast, feather-light breaths. Stay calm, he told himself. Stay calm.

  Baralis and Tyren had been speaking all the while, and as Nabber concentrated upon what they were saying once more, Tyren reached over to untie the reins of his horse.

  Baralis spoke. “I don’t want to hear any rumors of torture or worse coming out of Helch. Whatever you choose to do, it must be done quietly. It’s too early in the game to risk the south getting wind of our plans.”

  “Don’t worry, Baralis,” Tyren said, long, gold-ringed fingers tugging gently on the reins to loosen the knot. “I’ll make sure that nothing leaks out. There are countless different methods for discrediting a tattletale, and more than half a dozen ways to kill one.”

  As Tyren was speaking his eyes flicked from the wooden beam to the horse. For the briefest instant, he looked straight into the dark corner where the wall and building met. Less than six paces away from where he stood, separated only by the horse and its shadow and the wooden holding beam, Nabber tensed.

  Tyren hesitated for a second. His hand moved from the reins to his face. He peered into the darkness.

  The lump returned to Nabber’s throat. It was as heavy as lead this time. Sweat trickled down his nose.

  Suddenly the horse pulled on its reins, stepping away from the wall. Tyren was forced to move along with it in order to keep hold of the reins.

  “Well, Tyren,” said Baralis, nodding at the horse. “It looks as if your gelding is eager to be on his way. I think our business for this night is complete. We both see eye to eye on the religious future of the north.”

  Tyren checked the position of the saddle and the buckles on the stirrups and then mounted the horse. “And when the king decides to expand his empire outwards?” he said, settling himself down in the saddle. “I trust Valdis will be allowed to address the religious practices of the south, as well?”

  Baralis smiled slowly. “Oh, most especially the south.”

  Hearing Baralis’ words, Nabber’s stomach collapsed inwards, leaving an aching hollow in his chest. He felt as if he might be sick.

  Tyren nodded, satisfied. Baralis looked on as he guided his horse toward the gate. Neither man bid the other farewell.

  Baralis stood in the center of the fan of light escaping from the doorway and watched as Tyren rode away. When the sound of the horses’ hooves could no longer be heard, Baralis took a thin breath and then smiled.

  “Tavalisk,” he said softly, speaking into the darkness, “it may have taken me nearly twenty years, but I will have my revenge.”

  Baralis waited a moment longer and then turned and walked back to the building.

  As soon as the door closed behind him, Nabber took a long, deep breath. He thanked Borc and the spirit of Swift’s dead mother for keeping him safe and sound—he even thanked the horse. Sending his right hand down to explore his throbbing shin, he discovered a large, bloody lump that was unbelievably tender to the touch. The spike wound on his throat was still bleeding, and his tunic was soaked in sweat. Although there was nothing in the world he wanted to do more than to run as fast as he could from the yard, Nabber forced himself to stay put until the lights went out. Even then he didn’t dare move until a fair length of time had passed. He was taking no more chances tonight. Chased, accosted, threatened, trapped, and very nearly caught: he’d had quite enough excitement to last him all his life. Well, certainly a good part of it.

  Stiff from standing still for so long, cold, tired, and shivering, Nabber made his way out of the yard. He couldn’t muster any enthusiasm for throwing potential pursuers off his track and took the shortest, quickest route back to Tawl.

  It had been a long time since Kylock last measured the powder as Baralis had taught him. No longer did he bother to spread only enough grain to cover the dip in his palm. Now he took his drug by the fistful. Into his glass he sprinkled it, the powder flashing as quick and bright as an arrowhead shot to a mark. A cup of red wine wetted it for the taking. Only when the powder had been washed down his throat could Kylock breathe easy again.

  The terrible flashes when his skull crushed his mind, and when his thoughts turned inside out revealing the raw meat of brain beneath, would ease for a while now. The drug did that at least.

  As he drew the glass to his lips a second time, two guards carried the girl’s body away from the tent. It had been an especially unpleasant attack. Passion brought out more than the beast in him.

  “Get her hand off the floor,” he commanded to the men. The fools were carrying her too low and her hand was trailing the length of his carpet. It was tainted now, along with the pillows and the sheets. The whole place reeked of her. Everything would have to be destroyed. Kylock pushed past the men to the tent flap and made his way into the night.

  The sky was always dark when he was under it. And Kylock was not displeased to note that Bren’s purple-and-black expanse acted no differently from the rest.

  They were camping just south of the city—so close they could see the walls, taste the wood smoke, and hear the wagons creaking through the streets. Kylock cast his gaze upon the high battlements of Bren. Yes. This city was for him. Not an overbloated town like Harvell, not an ancient shabby hovel like Helch, but a glorious youthful city, growing, burgeoning: a terrible child. Bren didn’t sit in its own squalor like other cities: the mountain air carried off the stench each night and the rain washed the dirt to the lake.

  The lake, the mountains, the walls: Bren’s defenses were unmatched in the Known Lands. It was made to be the center of an empire. The long line of its dukes had prepared the city for him, constructing strong walls, impregnable gatehouses, and ringing the city with a network of portcullises. Now that they had done their job, it was fitting they were gone. Bren had seen the last of its dukes.

  Kylock drank the last sip from his glass. The drug was a sweetener for the wine. The smell of roasting flesh met his nostrils and he guessed the guards had thrown the girl on the fire. Burning was the best way to render a corpse unrecognizable. No one but he and the guards would know who the girl was or what had become of her. Her chest cavity would be split by the actions of the flame, and her two broken wrists would be reduc
ed to so many charred and disjointed bones. Kylock shrugged. It might even burn the expression of terror right off her pretty face. She would just be another disease-wracked whore who was torched for the good of the camp.

  He was feeling a lot better now. The drug was working its commission: the world was heavier, darker, and infinitely more solid under its thrall. It calmed the rage inside. Something alarming was happening to him. More and more he lost control of himself: violent schisms ripped through his body and his thoughts. Always there was the taste of metal in his mouth. Just earlier, when he was abed with the girl—when he had tied her wrists to the post and her neck to the board, and when the wax was hot enough to blister—his body had been racked by a violent contraction. It was as if a hand had squeezed his gut, sending bile flooding to his mouth. His brain grew large, or his skull shrunk small, and suddenly his thoughts were too many to be contained. A shocking pressure built up within and the only way to release it was to tear at the girl beneath.

  He fell on her like an animal. Teeth became fangs and fingers became talons. Blackness came to overwhelm him, and by fighting the girl he fought the monster off. If she screamed, he never heard it; if she struggled, he never noticed. All he felt was the cooling spray of her blood on his cheek and the feeble push of her second to last breath. By the time she took her last, he had clawed his way back to the light. Gut rested against liver once more and the pressure had lifted from his head. A trickle of his own blood had run down from his nose, and he spat in a cloth to remove the aftertaste from his mouth.

  “A missive has arrived from Halcus, sire.”

  Kylock spun around. He had not heard the guard approach. As the man handed him the sealed parchment, he noticed the guard’s eyes fall to his tunic. The girl’s blood formed a dark patch upon the gold. Kylock spoke very softly. “Blood spilled in secret is a bond between men. Go now, my friend, and tell no one of what you saw.”

  The man fell to the floor. “Sire, I would spill an army’s worth of blood on your saying.”

  Kylock nodded softly and gestured for the man to rise. “Your loyalty will not be forgotten.”

  The man bowed and walked away.

  Kylock smiled. Every day he discovered new powers that were made for kings alone. The ability to inspire unquestioning loyalty was a gift straight from the gods. What men would not do for money, they would do in an instant if it was a matter of belief. His men had faith in him: he won wars, took risks, and was hated by his enemies. He promised his men spoils and made sure that they got them: women or children, whatever their tastes. Gold, grain, appointments . . . destruction if they fancied. A town set alight in a frenzy of blood-lust was often the best reward after a day on the field. Nothing inspired greater contempt for the enemy than watching them burn.

  Kylock broke the wax seal. Yes, he had the loyalty of his men, and the contents of this letter proved it.

  Tonight, just before dawn, his mother would meet her death. Her castle in the Northlands would be raided by a rogue Halcus war party. None would survive to tell the tale. Kedrac, Maybor’s eldest, had planned every detail, right down to the rape and desecration of the dowager queen. The truly inspirational part had been his own, though. The queen’s body, when it was done with, was to be laid out on an Annis banner. The implication would be that Halcus was working in conjunction with the mountain city. The kingdoms would be outraged when the news came to light, and support for his next move—which just happened to be the invasion of Annis—would be all but guaranteed. What country would let the rape and murder of its beloved, and so recently bereaved, queen go unavenged?

  Of course the invasion of Annis would be merely a feint. His army would be needed elsewhere, but it suited him to let his enemies believe that they were too entrenched in a siege of honor to be moved. Kylock’s eyes searched out the dark lines of the battlements of Bren. It would be quite a surprise to all when his plans took their final turn. Of course Annis would be his eventually anyway—a few months here or there would make no difference in the end.

  Kylock read on. Kedrac was clever enough to write in code. Not only had he arranged the queen’s demise, he’d also timed the conquering of the last Halcus towns to perfection. Kylock was well pleased with Kedrac’s work. It meant that the day he married Catherine, he could present her with Halcus as her own. A magnificent gesture, but an unworthy gift: nothing was too precious for Catherine.

  He couldn’t wait to meet her. He would come to Catherine as a free man. With his mother gone he would be bound to no one. He would give himself wholly to his new bride, and when he came and knelt at her feet, she would cleanse him forever of the taint of the womb.

  Kylock turned back toward the camp. His manservant knew him well enough to have heated some water in his absence. He was dirty and needed to be clean. His hands and clothes stank, and it wasn’t fitting to even think of Catherine whilst he smelled of the whore he’d just killed.

  Four

  Jack was dreaming about Tarissa again. His thoughts, which so carefully avoided her during the daytime, seemed to gang up on him at night. She was always there; one moment laughing, tempting, merry as a dairymaid, the next she would be crying, pleading, falling on her knees and begging him to take her with him.

  Always, even in his dreams, he walked away.

  Only tonight he heard her footsteps following him.

  Jack’s heart raced to hear them. He turned to face Tarissa, but she wasn’t there. Still the footsteps came, nearer than ever now. Jack spun around. Where was she? The footsteps were so close the ground vibrated with their resonance.

  “He’s in here,” came a voice.

  Not Tarissa’s voice. Not a familiar voice. Not even a dream. Jack jumped up. His senses came after him. He was in the baker’s lodge and the light peaking in from the shutters told of a new dawn.

  The door burst open. Four men fully armed barged into the room. Nivlet, the one thin baker in the Baking Master’s Guild, stood behind them.

  “That’s him!” he cried. “He’s the one the Halcus are looking for.”

  Two of the men came forward. Jack’s hand was already on his knife. His mouth was dry and his thoughts were still reeling with sleep. As he moved to meet the guards, he cast his gaze from side to side, taking in the details of the room. Searching for distractions. The wood shuttle lay to his left, well-stacked with logs. Jack made a jump for it, kicking it toward the guards. The logs went careening forward, forcing the two guards to step back. Jack sprang with them. His knife was ahead of him, drawing ever decreasing circles in the air. The blade caught one of the guard’s arms. Jack put his weight behind it and sliced through muscle as well as skin.

  Something nicked him from behind. Spinning around he came face-to-face with the third guard. He had red hair, a large red mustache, and the longest knife Jack had ever seen.

  “Come and get some, boy,” he encouraged. His sideways glance gave him away. He was hoping to distract Jack long enough to enable the second guard to slice him from behind.

  His eyes never leaving Red Hair for a moment, Jack took a guess at where the second man stood. He pivoted his weight to his left leg and then kicked back with his right heel like a horse. He caught the man’s knee dead-center. Groaning, he fell forward. Jack made straight for Red Hair’s blade. At the very last instant, he pulled sharply to the side. Red Hair was already in motion, and his momentum carried him forward. He went smashing into the second guard, who was rocking over his knee.

  Jack had no time to watch the outcome. The air burned in his throat and his lungs seemed ready to burst. He turned his attention back to the first guard with the wounded arm. The fourth was still in the doorway, biding his time. Wounded-arm had gotten a spear from somewhere. He teased Jack with it, stabbing wildly at his chest and thighs. Jack grew angry at the man’s cowardice. Keeping a safe distance between himself and the spear tip, he raised his knife to his face. Wounded-arm’s blood was still drying on the blade.

  “Hmm,” said Jack, hoping to get the man
to look down at his wound. “I’d see a physician if I were you. Your blood looks a strange color to me.”

  The man smiled. “I’m not so easily fooled, boy.” He jabbed his spear forward.

  Jack was forced to step back. He realized he couldn’t go any farther, as he was now backed up against the wall. Something had to be done. He returned the guard’s smile. “I still think you may have to see a physician after all, my friend. About that terrible slash near your eye.”

  Just as the man’s face registered confusion, Jack tensed his knife arm like a spring and then shot his wrist forward. He released his grip on the haft and the blade went shooting straight for the man’s eye. Once again, Jack didn’t wait for the show. Now unarmed, he sprang away from the wall. Red Hair had recovered, but the second guard was on the floor. There was blood on Red Hair’s blade. The fourth guard had moved to his side, and both of them now blocked Jack’s path to the door.

  Two men, armed and ready, faced him. Jack knew it was time for sorcery. He concentrated on the metal in the blades. He felt it dense, rigid, resisting with all its might. Doing exactly what he had been taught, he entered the cool-metal hardness. This wasn’t one of Stillfox’s training sessions where the dangers were mostly imagined and the outcome carefully monitored like an experiment under glass. This was real.

  Split seconds were all he had. There was no time for straining or finesse, no time to be entrapped by the substance he entered. Jack fed off the urgency and the danger. His mind conjured up an image of Tarissa. She was there in a blink of an eye, Rovas in front of her, and gently she raised her hand to feel the heat from his forehead. Jack felt sorcery build. Shame was underneath, but he had no time to deal with that now. He let the power flood up from his belly whilst his thoughts swept down from his mind. The two met in his mouth and the metal bite of sorcery slithered down along his tongue.