The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  South he went, high above the mountains, well above the clouds. The moon shed light but not warmth on his back, and the stars glinted like beacons upon his soul. They would have him for their own if they could. Not tonight, though. Not ever if he had his way.

  Skaythe had left a tenuous trail. Weak to begin with, the past ten days had reduced it to a broken line. Baralis was a hound on the scent of blood, and then a scholar making guesses. The last time he had heard from Skaythe was after Valdis had captured the baker’s boy and the renegade knight. Skaythe had intended to follow them north and, as soon as he had a chance, assassinate both of the fugitives. That was what the man had said, anyway. Baralis was beginning to suspect that Skaythe had a drama of his own to play.

  Still, no matter what happened to Skaythe, Baralis knew he could count on the knighthood to bring the fugitives to Bren. At least Tyren would not fail him.

  Baralis continued soaring southward along the Divide. Gradually he began to make his way down. The peaks were like spearheads below him, the stars like pinheads above. The trail was stronger now, and he followed it lower, the cold mountain mist brushing against his mind. Eventually he came to the area where Skaythe had last communicated with him. It was an exposed hillside at the foot of the Divide. There was nothing to tell of his passing. No sign of anything amiss.

  Gathering his wits and his perceptions about him, Baralis pulled in the air to the north. He was searching for a physical trail now. The vestiges of sorcery would be too weak to track. Slowly, Baralis began to make his way northward again. This time he used all his senses, spotting signs of campfires well dampened, sighting paths most likely to be taken, catching whiffs of old horse dung on the breeze.

  Just as he approached the cool depths of Lake Ormon, Baralis felt a glimmer of Skaythe again. A tiny speck long stale. Swooping down to the mineral-green surface of the lake, he tried to hone in on the scent. It was as if the power was dissolved into the water itself. Puzzled, Baralis spread himself out and skirted along the waterline.

  He could feel himself weakening. He had been out too long and his body was calling him back. Ignoring the warnings, he carried on, plunging in and out of the water, tearing through dried reed beds and leafless shrubs, racing along the shore. The trail went no farther than the lake, so the answers had to be here for the finding.

  Finally he came to a grassy bank. The scent was a fraction stronger and Baralis tracked it down. At the water’s edge, under the shade of an old mountain ash, half in, half out of the water, lay the partially frozen body of Skaythe. Dead. An arrow in his heart.

  It seemed Skaythe had drawn his power at the moment of death, and with neither the time nor strength to send it further, the icy water of Lake Ormon had claimed it for its own. Death drawings had a way of lingering long after the corpse was cold, working their quiet intent until their potency was lost to time. This one was weaker, but no different, than most.

  A sharp spasm racked through Baralis’ thoughts. He didn’t have much time now. His flesh was cold and soulless and it couldn’t survive much longer without a mind to give it meaning.

  Just as he turned to go, Baralis took a quick glance at the arrow in Skaythe’s heart. A dark thrill passed over him. It wasn’t just any arrow: the yellow-and-black fletchings were an emblem of Valdis. The knights sent to capture Jack and Tawl had shot down Skaythe.

  It could be a random shooting of an intruder, but why then was the body in the lake and not on a hillside near a camp? Baralis gave in to the pull of his blood and began the journey back to Bren. He had no eyes for the moon or the clouds or the stars, no thoughts to spare on the firmament. He saw only the yellow-and-black fletchings of an arrow loosed by Valdis. What possible reason could the knighthood have for coming to the defense of Jack and Tawl?

  Tavalisk was studying. It was making him hungry, irritable, and sore. He had craned his neck over so many books now that it clicked whenever he moved. Sounded like a damn cricket in his collar!

  Slamming his current book closed, Tavalisk pulled on the bell rope. It was time for a stiff but sweet drink, a large dinner, and his daily dose of Gamil. Studying was for lesser mortals, and as archbishop it was his moral obligation to free up his mind for higher pursuits. Which meant he might just ask Gamil to do his research for him.

  After a commendably short period of time, his aide appeared at the door. Not only had he been speedy, but he had also been resourceful. He came bearing a platter of hot food.

  “Aah, Gamil. Come in, come in. Just the man I was hoping for. Bring that tray straight over here.” Tavalisk patted the desktop. “Any wine on you, by the way?”

  “Alas no, Your Eminence. I only have one pair of hands.”

  “Hmm, you really should look into that.” Tavalisk took a duck egg from the platter. “Any news of Kylock’s army?”

  “They reached Camlee four days ago, Your Eminence. I received a message on the leg of a bird that stated the army attacked the moment it arrived.”

  “Camlee won’t be able to hold up to a full-scale army for very long. I’ll give them six weeks at the most.”

  “Less, perhaps, if Valdis sends troops from the south.”

  The duck egg turned to sawdust in the archbishop’s mouth. Of course Tyren would send troops from Valdis. Why hadn’t he thought of it sooner? He spat out the egg into a cloth. “This is ill news.”

  “There’s more, Your Eminence,” said Gamil with a touch of relish. “All the towns and villages between Bren and Camlee have been ravished. Kylock’s forces seized all their livestock and grain for army supplies. The reports I’ve received tell of people being killed by the thousands, of villages being burnt to the ground, and women raped and defiled. It sounds as if Kylock is allowing Kedrac free rein to do whatever he pleases.”

  “No. Not free rein, Gamil. Kylock will be actively encouraging Kedrac to ravish the northeast. The young king knows the value of fear.” Tavalisk was looking around for a drink. There was nothing on his desk except a jug of water. It would have to do.

  “Fear, Your Eminence?”

  “Yes. Word will spread that Kylock’s forces are brutal and merciless. People will soon surrender to him rather than risk his wrath. At the end of the day, an occupied town is better than no town at all.” Tavalisk drank his water. It tasted quite strange without a decent measure of wine. “Of course, the other thing fear is good for is keeping conquered cities in line. A man’s not going to risk revolt if he thinks his wife and children might be killed.”

  “Your Eminence is most wise.”

  Tavalisk glanced up at his aide. There was no sign of irony on his face. He made a quick decision. “Maybe not as wise as I thought, Gamil.”

  “How so, Your Eminence?”

  “You know Marod’s prophecy, the one that starts with men of honor?”

  “Certainly, Your Eminence. The verse that names you as the chosen one?”

  Tavalisk waved an arm. “Yes. Yes. That’s it. Recently I’ve been wondering about the authenticity of the verse. Its origin, its wording, and so forth.” The archbishop took a pause. This sort of thing wasn’t easy for him. “I’m beginning to think that I might have been wrong. Only thinking, mind.”

  “Why, Your Eminence?”

  “This business with Kylock is getting out of hand. He’s becoming too strong, too powerful. Short of a knife in his heart, I don’t think there’s any way to stop him. The other southern cities will never join forces with Rorn to defeat him—they’re too busy thinking about their own personal interests. They’re not going to take action until he’s right on their doorsteps. And by then it will be too late.” Tavalisk’s chubby cheeks were quivering. “Our only hope is that Kylock will draw the line at Camlee.”

  “I think he will for the time being, Your Eminence. After all, he’ll have Highwall and Annis to take care of once spring comes.”

  “Time being! Time being! What about time coming? What about all the years ahead? What about ten, twenty, thirty years of springs? Kylock is young�
�he has a lifetime ahead of him. He could take over the entire continent before he finds his grave.”

  Gamil was looking worried. It was unusual for Tavalisk to become so animated. “What can we do about it, Your Eminence?”

  The archbishop let out a heavy sigh. “We must do whatever is expedient. Rorn must survive intact, that much is certain, but how such a thing will be managed is anything but clear. Up until now it was my natural inclination—and my Marod-given duty—to fight Kylock’s forces. However, I’m beginning to suspect that such a course of action may not be in Rorn’s best interest.”

  “An occupied town is better than no town at all?”

  “Exactly. If I stick my head up and openly oppose Kylock, who knows what he will do to Rorn?” Tavalisk was thinking more of himself than Rorn at this point, but he knew it was prudent to link the two. “Now, say I am the chosen one in Marod’s prophecy, then ultimately I can be sure of prevailing. But if I’m not, then I risk ruining Rorn’s livelihood in the pursuit of a misdirected dream.”

  “Aah,” said Gamil slowly, “I see Your Eminence’s dilemma.”

  “It is Rorn’s dilemma, too,” reprimanded Tavalisk. He would not have his fate separated from Rorn. They were one and the same. “So, I need to know for sure if I am the chosen one. And that’s where you come in, Gamil. I want you to discover all you can about Marod and his prophesying, and find out just how accurate he is. I need to know if I am reading things right.”

  Gamil bowed. “I would be honored to do such a task, Your Eminence.”

  “Good. You can start today.” Tavalisk pushed all the various charts, manuscripts, and books on his desk over toward Gamil. “Here. These should be enough to be getting along with.”

  They rode north through the day and much of the night. Maybor’s death had given them a new impetus. It made them realize they weren’t playing a game. Real people were dying. The little village in the valley was full of men, women, and children whose lives would soon be shattered. Kylock’s forces would take whatever they wanted and tear the rest apart. Nothing was safe from them now.

  Jack’s blood itched. He felt it coursing through his heart, ribboning along his cheeks. His desire to get to Kylock was becoming a physical need; he had to see him face-to-face and, with his own hands, destroy him.

  Jack rode at the head of the party—he couldn’t bear to be at the back. Maybor had died and that meant Melli could die, too. They weren’t immortals anymore. None of them.

  They had to get to Bren before it was too late.

  Their route brought them down from the foothills and onto the plains. They rode through frost-tipped fields and white-green meadows, along frozen mud roads and cattle paths thick with dung. The land was quiet, deserted, the smell of burning lingered in the air. Occasionally they would catch glimpses of farms and villages, their charred timbers black against the icy landscape. They were traveling in Kedrac’s wake.

  Eventually they fell upon the army’s path. Thousands upon thousands of footprints stamped in the light snow. Debris lay on both sides of the path: pots, pans, fragments of tunics, sandals, boxes, jewelry—scraps of people’s lives, plundered then discarded.

  Two hours after finding the path, they came upon a camp. The smell warned them away. Tawl wanted to ride around it, but Crayne insisted they stop and investigate. There was the usual wreckage—burnt ground, hacked trees, decaying food, and human waste—but at the back, in a shallow ditch hidden by a cluster of bushes, lay the bodies of thirty women. Their naked limbs were smeared with blood, ice, and mud. Their hair had been shorn from their heads, their breasts sliced open, and their sexual organs were black with clotted blood.

  Every man in the party crossed themselves. Borlin took his shield from his horse and, using it as a spade, began to dig up the frozen earth. Crayne joined in, then Andris and the rest.

  Their journey was halted for an hour whilst they covered the bodies with soil. None of the knights spoke, but their faces gave it all away. At the shore of Lake Ormon they had taken Tawl into their hearts, and now, today, they finally rejected Tyren. No one dared say it, yet all of them knew: there were knights in the party that had camped here.

  They rode faster after that. They wanted the campsite well behind them.

  The moon was a fitful splinter that peeked out from behind heavy clouds. A fair breeze was blowing and there was an occasional speckling of snow. After the freezing, windy conditions in the foothills, the plains seemed almost mild. The horses were put under less strain so they could ride longer between rests. Jack set a hard pace, but the knights were always just one step behind.

  North and west they rode, changing course as the land permitted. The mountains of the Divide were shrouded in gray mist, and as the night wore on the mist stole across the foothills and down onto the plains, making the horses nervous and dampening everyone’s gear and cloaks. Jack slowed his horse down to a trot and looked for a place to make camp.

  In the dark band between mist and cloud, time and distance were difficult to judge. Jack had no idea how long or far they traveled before finding a place to stop. Grass for the horses wasn’t a problem as they had picked up grain in the village, but tree cover was important and fresh water a must. Finally they came upon a knot of gnarled oaks; not quite a wood, larger than a grove, Borlin called it a bosk.

  A narrow stream threaded its way through the trees, and Jack led his horse to drink. By the time he’d unbuckled the saddle, the knights were already building a fire. Jack liked to watch the knights make camp: they could strip branches with lightning speed and cook up something hot within minutes.

  After everyone had eaten their fill, they sat around the fire, pulling their blankets close to keep out the mist and taking swigs of brandy from a flask.

  “How far are we from Bren?” asked Jack, passing the flask on to Nabber.

  “Eight days of hard riding. Seven, if we flog the horses.” Crayne poked the fire with a stick. He was a well-built man, with a streak of gray in his dark brown hair and a glint of green in his eyes. Next to Borlin, he was the oldest in the company. “The approach to the city will slow us down. We’ll have to keep an eye out for scouts. If anyone stops us, we’ll have to maintain we’re on Tyren’s business.”

  “And what if we’re stopped by knights?”

  Crayne looked to Borlin, then Tawl, before he answered. “We’ll have to kill them. We can’t risk Tyren’s men stopping us before we enter the city. Once word gets out that you and Tawl haven’t been captured, then Tyren will come after us, Baralis will move the Lady Melliandra to someplace where we’ll never find her, and Kylock will ring the city with whatever’s left of his forces. Secrecy is the most important consideration if we’re going to gain access to the palace.”

  As Crayne spoke, Jack got the distinct impression that he had talked to Tawl at some point today. His priorities had shifted from the knighthood to the palace. Jack made a mental note to thank Tawl later. It was good to have someone to depend on.

  “How can we be sure where the Lady Melliandra is being held?” asked Andris.

  Tawl shrugged. He had just wrestled the brandy flask off Nabber. “Once we’re in the city, we’ll have to split up, ask around, find out whatever we can. Someone will know where she is.”

  “If she is in the palace, how are we going to get to her?”

  Nabber snatched the brandy flask back. “That’s where I come in, Andris. I know that palace like the moles on my feet. I’ll have us in there before you can strap on a breastplate.” The word breastplate came out as bwestfate. Nabber had drunk more than his share.

  Tawl handed him his water flask. “Drink all of this . . . Now!” he boomed when Nabber hesitated.

  Borlin reached in his pack. “Here,” he said, handing a loaf of bread around the fire. “Make him eat this as well.”

  “So,” said Crayne, ignoring the drunken pocket. “We can gain access to the palace. We can probably get into the city—though some of us will have to go on foot to draw less atte
ntion—but what do we do once we’ve got the Lady Melliandra?”

  “We lie low until nightfall,” said Tawl, “smuggle ourselves under the wall, and then ride east to meet up with Maybor’s men. Once they’ve arrived, we head to the south of the city and take over Tyren’s camp.” His words met with nods of approval from the men. Tawl seemed relieved.

  Jack coughed to gain everyone’s attention. “Once you’ve got Melli from the palace, I’ll be going in to take Kylock. I won’t ask anyone to follow me, and”—he looked straight at Tawl—“I don’t want anyone coming back to rescue me if I don’t come out. I expect you to go after Tyren.”

  The mist swirled around the fire, hissing when it came close to the flames. The knights were silent, waiting for Tawl’s reply.

  Tawl’s gaze did not leave Jack’s for an instant. They both knew how much was being offered. Finally he spoke: “You’re a good friend, Jack. I will promise to do as you ask, though my heart might lead me astray.”

  Sleep was slow to come that night. Jack tossed and turned until dawn, visions of Maybor on his deathbed and the thirty women in the ditch flitting through his dreams. The knights were restless, too. Jack suspected they were thinking about Tyren and how they would soon betray him. There would be no turning back if they failed.

  The night was long, the mist icy cold, and the earth beneath their blankets as hard as stone. When dawn finally showed itself as a pink tinge in the east, the party was already awake. With breaths whitening in the freezing air, and joints cracking as they rose, they collected their belongings and kicked out the fire, and headed north toward Bren.