The Barbed Coil

by J. V. Jones

  “I bear it now, Emith,” Tessa said, surprised at the hardness of her voice. “Avaccus bore it too, keeping it to himself for so long that it turned his bones to lead.” She shivered, remembering the old monk in the cave. She didn’t want to end up the same way.

  Reaching down, she freed the woolen wrap from beneath the press. Specks of black powder fell from it as Tessa brought it to her lap. Ilfaylen’s shawl. As she handled the fabric even more powder fell away—the casein that had once bound the powder to the wool long since turned to dust. Stopping herself before the shawl was fully open, she handed it to Emith to put to one side. She didn’t want her first sight of the pattern to be some negative, colorless chart.

  Emith handled the shawl as carefully as if it were spun glass. Taking his cue from Tessa, he opened it no farther. “You were right, miss,” he said, laying it on the ground. “About everything: the copy, the pounce, the shawl.”

  Tessa shook her head, not wanting to hear any congratulations. She had done nothing except string a few details onto a single thread. Emith could have done the same if he had known all the facts.

  Shrugging aside these thoughts, Tessa put her hand on the press. The beechwood boards were rough and cracked, and as soon as she cut the first length of string, they began to fall apart. Pulling off the remaining ties, she handled the wood carefully to avoid splinters and then opened the disintegrating press like a book. Coming face-to-face with a leaf of protective yellow parchment, she removed it and looked upon the pattern beneath.

  Dust settled. Light from the candles ceased flickering. The sea grew as quiet as a lake. The air in the cave gathered into itself, becoming heavy and charged like before a storm. Tessa felt all these things as shadows on her back: they were inconsequential, curtains parting to reveal a stage. The only thing that mattered was the pattern itself.

  Red, gold, and black were its primary colors. Lines of blood red pigment pumped minerals across the page. Flowing outward from the centerpiece to the side panels, they nourished the design like a mighty aorta, breathing life into every outlying line and curve. Gold was at the heart of the page. Gleaming on the outside edge of spirals, carrying messages from knot to knot, it drew the pattern together like a skeleton of spikes.

  Black formed the shadows. Nothing was drawn without it; it underlined, undercut, and undermined everything. By turns it robbed the gold of its luster, then ran alongside scarlet threads, creating contrast. Forming deep hollows for spirals to fall into, then cutting fretwork and knotwork stone dead, black took as much as it gave. Maybe more.

  Tessa’s gaze darted from detail to detail. The pattern was beautiful, frightening, filled with power. Spirals were taut springs, lines hummed with tension ready to snap. Curves strained against their arcs, XXXs bulged like drawn bows, and borders seemed less like decoration, more like shackles, lashing the pattern to the page.

  There was nothing of nature in it. No plant life, animal life, land, sea, or stars. The entire illumination had a deadness about it, an unnaturalness that showed itself in each buckling line and curve. It had all the glassy-eyed false luster of a preserved corpse.

  Tessa shuddered. She felt out of her depth.

  The pattern was an aberration. Looking at it, she knew in her heart what Ilfaylen must have known as he’d painted it. The work was not meant to exist. Grotesque, artificial, and constrained: it was begging to be undone.

  Placing it on the ground before her, unable to tear her gaze from the design, Tessa spoke. “Start getting everything ready, Emith. Mix your pigments and prepare the vellum: we have a pattern to paint.” The words were formal, stilted, but she forced herself to say them. She didn’t want Emith to guess she was afraid.

  “Yes, miss,” Emith said, his voice small and filled with awe. “Should I match the pigments exactly? The red is mercury-based vermilion, the black looks to be carbon with jet.”

  “Yes,” Tessa said. Then, “No. Whenever you can I want you to use vegetable and animal dyes, not minerals. This is a dead thing before me. I need to draw something with life.”

  Izgard flicked his wrist, and his lieutenant cried a halt. The order was immediately picked up by others down the line, propagating and amplifying until every man, horse, and pack animal had heard it. Slowly, gradually, over the course of a thousand paces, the dark, pounding mass of Garizon’s army ground to a halt.

  It wasn’t dawn, not yet. But birds took flight, foxes found refuge, and the heat and motion of the horses thinned the dew. Mosquitoes still bit. Izgard saw blood on his lieutenant’s neck and matching spots on his horse’s flank. Izgard himself had not been bitten. Insects settled on him less and less these days. It was yet another gift of the Coil.

  “Should we build a full camp, sire?” It was the lieutenant. Like every other man in the ranks, he already knew his orders, yet he would never presume to act upon them without direct confirmation from his king.

  Izgard found himself warming to the man—even though his skin was pockmarked and uninviting to the touch. He nodded. “I want everything finished by dawn.”

  Turning to the horizon, Izgard searched out the yellow-and-black haze of Bay’Zell. He was not normally a man given to smiling, but his lips stretched pleasingly when he realized just how close he was to the greatest port city in the west. Seeing where Izgard’s gaze was directed, the lieutenant dared to join his king in a smile.

  Izgard did not begrudge the man the shared intimacy, though he saw fit to cut it short with further orders. “Set two squads to watch whilst the camp is made. And send a further two to patrol the borders when it’s done. Our sons must be secure whilst they sleep.” Let Bay’Zell stew for half a day, waiting for an attack. They had neither the manpower nor the balls to seize the offensive. While they sat and worried and waited for the Sire to save them, three of their key fortresses would be taken. One to the west, one to the north, and one to the east: Castle Bess. By the time the sun next set over the city of Bay’Zell, the full force of the Garizon army would be poised and ready to strike.

  The lieutenant bowed his head. “Any further orders, sire?”

  Izgard spun around. Scanning the ranks and columns of his army, he noticed a single line of covered carts rumbling to a halt near the rear. Seeing them, he felt a tremor of unease pulse down his spine. His two most precious possessions lay beneath the canvas of the second cart: his crown and his scribe.

  Unable to shake off his disquiet, Izgard turned to the lieutenant and said, “See to it that the first tent erected is my scribe’s. I want him ready and able to work within the hour.”

  T H I R T Y - F O U R

  P ax, fall back to the door. Keep it clear until I sound the retreat.” Camron spoke through a mouthful of blood. Kicked-up gravel shot against his left thigh and side. In the acrid, smoke-filled darkness, he could barely see Pax’s face. Yet he heard all the eagerness in the young guard’s voice.

  “Aye, sir. I’m as good as there. Don’t waste another man to watch my back.” With that Pax was off, slipping through the crossfire of blades, claws, teeth, and gravel, heading for the main entrance to the keep.

  Camron wished him luck. He needed it. Izgard’s creatures had overrun the inner courtyard. Stamping down the fire with their bodies, they’d forced their way through the gate, impervious to arrows and flames. Even the harras had fallen under the strain of multiple arrow wounds, yet these creatures seemed to feed off their injuries and their own spilled blood.

  Pain quickened them. Grunting or howling when they took a hit, they lashed out with taloned fists, sharp-boned elbows, and forearms as heavy and deadly as lead staves. All teeth, bone, muscle, and sinew, they pushed, clawed, and cleared themselves a path.

  Every part of them was a weapon. Shoulders were battering rams sent barreling into doors, fists were clubs, claws were sharpened blades, and their dark open maws had all the jagged-tooth readiness of man-traps. They carried knives and shortswords, yet they used them with no finesse, merely hacking and cutting, never switching their grip to
parry or block. When they lost their weapons to hand wounds or deflections, they used their claws and teeth instead.

  Camron still wasn’t sure how they had managed to break through the outer bailey—probably exploiting some weakness Izgard had discovered from studying the plans. That didn’t worry him as much as the fact that the creatures themselves were obviously familiar with the layout of the fortress and were currently trying to block all retreats. They looked and fought like monsters, yet intelligence shone cold in their eyes, and a single will united them, making them think and act as one.

  Bodies lay crushed underfoot. Camron couldn’t bear to look at them. He knew he should keep track of how many had gone down, but he didn’t have the heart for it. He had known these men for too long now. To count their corpses seemed a kind of betrayal.

  “Start moving back.”

  Camron looked around at the sound of Ravis’ voice. The mercenary was directly behind him, his body a black shadow except for the quick-moving silver of his sword. Camron was glad to see him.

  “Pax is keeping the main entrance clear,” he replied, his voice hoarse from shouting orders.

  “Good.” Ravis lunged at one of the creatures. “Then let’s get the hell away from here.” Glancing over his shoulder, he changed the grip on his sword, hefting it over his shoulder like a spear. “Seems there’s just you and me left out here now; I think it’s time we stopped playing fair.” On the word fair, he aimed the sword directly at the nearest creature and flung it toward its chest.

  Bone splintered with a sharp crack. The blade penetrated deep into the creature’s chest, bringing forth a stream of dark, foul-smelling blood. Howling in rage, the creature stepped back. As it brought its claws up to pull out the blade, Camron felt a mighty yank on his arm. It was Ravis, dragging him back toward the keep.

  “If I’d known you wanted to stay around and watch the show, I would have arranged to have dancing girls next.” Even as he spoke, Ravis’ eyes were scanning the area around the doorway, searching out the course of least resistance.

  Realizing he was now the only one of them with a sword, Camron shook his arm free of Ravis’ grip and began sweeping his blade in a defensive arc.

  While the creature hit in the chest howled and stumbled, clutching at his heart, others moved in to take his place. Feet crunching gravel, jaws smacking, eyes small and hard as flint, they spilled around their wounded ally like sea foam around a rock.

  Ravis and Camron broke into a run. High above them in the keep, two longbowsmen took up position and began firing down on the first line of creatures. The arrows weren’t enough to halt the advance, but those who had taken previous hits, or were scorched by the flames, slowed.

  Camron felt a band of muscle relax in his chest. If the creatures could be slowed, they could also be killed.

  The sound of swords clashing came from the darkness surrounding the door. Ravis flicked his knife from his left hand into his right. Camron brought his sword hand close to his waist. Relying on the archers to take care of the enemies behind their backs, both men turned their sights to those who waited at the door.

  Pax, broadsword in one hand, lime wood shield in the other, was standing in the doorway, fighting off two creatures at once. Blood poured from a gash on his forehead and a second, lesser wound on his arm. Judging from the way his shield kept dropping, he was tiring fast.

  “They’re expecting us to keep them out,” hissed Ravis to Camron. “I say let’s force them in instead.”

  Camron barely acknowledged what he said. His mind was focused on reaching Pax. Sword up, he met the first of the beasts head-on. Anger drove his blade deep into the grizzled meat of the thing’s shoulder. Sick of death, furious that another person he cared about was in danger, Camron fought with the blind, heedless frenzy of rage.

  He hadn’t wanted to fight again, yet there was no choice here. He couldn’t stand by and see his home invaded and his men slain. His father had been right to condemn war—Camron had seen the truth of it for himself on the battlefield at Hook River—but that didn’t mean all fighting was wrong.

  This was right. It had to be.

  Shaking off his doubts, Camron pushed the two creatures back behind the door. Jaws open, saliva frothing as they breathed, they sucked up the space in the hall. Their smell was sickening. Camron couldn’t bear the thought of it in his lungs. Exhaling sharply, he lashed out with his sword, hardly caring if he sliced flesh, bone, or air. Izgard was the real monster here. What sort of leader would do this to his men?

  Feeling the beginnings of a new type of anger, Camron stopped focusing on the creatures before him and started focusing on Izgard instead. How could that man call himself a king? How could he send his countrymen into battle in such a state? What became of their bodies later, when all the battles were won? Barely aware of what he was doing, Camron forced the creatures to defend themselves against him. Anger took him farther than any clever move; it raised his sword, placed blow after cutting blow, made him forget what it was to be afraid.

  All along he had been trying to figure out what his father really wanted from him, yet here and now Camron started to realize the only thing that counted was what he wanted for himself. He couldn’t rule a country because his father wished it. He had to feel it in his heart. And right now, fighting against a shadowed enemy that smelled as if it had been dragged from a grave, all he wanted to do was put an end to Izgard and his plans. The man should never have been allowed to take the crown.

  Wood rumbled behind him. Glancing around, Camron saw Ravis barring the door. Pax’s sword was in his hand. The young guard was nowhere to be seen, but a trail of blood leading down the stone steps to the granary meant he’d probably gotten away. Camron heaved a sigh of relief. There was just he, Ravis, and the two creatures in the hallway now. The bar across the door would hold—for a few minutes, at least.

  Ravis came and took up position by Camron’s side. Feeling the heat from his body, Camron realized he had no idea what it had taken for Ravis to close the door. Sweat poured from his neck and temples. Spots of blood spattered his face, yet it didn’t look to be his own.

  Smiling, Ravis began tearing into the nearest creature with his sword. “You did a good job pressing these devils back,” he said to Camron between ragged breaths.

  Despite everything, Camron found himself returning the smile. There was something showing in Ravis’ face—a kind of mad, reckless joy—that was impossible to ignore. The man seemed to relish all the danger of the fight.

  Working together, they isolated the first of the creatures. Already wounded many times, the beast was sluggish, dazed from loss of blood. Cornered, it lashed out ineffectively, roaring and spraying saliva, whipping its head from side to side. While Ravis watched his back and kept the second, more dangerous creature at bay, Camron moved in for the kill. Fear bubbled in his stomach, hot and black like boiling oil. Knowing he was either going to have to take the beast’s head off or puncture its heart, Camron bided his time, feinting and badgering, waiting for the right moment to strike.

  Then, as if Ravis somehow knew what Camron needed, he went on a rampage across the hall: smashing unlit lanterns, splintering wooden chests and doors, and sending displays of crossed weaponry crashing to the floor. Camron’s creature looked up at the noise. With its guard down for half a second, Camron struck. Putting the strength of his entire body behind the blow, he sent his sword slicing downward, through shoulder bone, ribs, and heart.

  The creature screamed. Chest convulsing, it fought all the way to the floor. Camron tried to remove his sword, but it was too deeply embedded in bone and wouldn’t come out. Unable to bear the sight and smell of the dying beast, he turned away.

  The second creature came straight at him.

  Tired, shaking, and weaponless, Camron looked for Ravis. In the blink of an eye, the mercenary was there. Dipping to the floor for the briefest of moments, he picked up one of the weapons he had just dislodged from the wall and with a quick flip of his wrist sen
t it flying through the air toward Camron, haft first.

  Catching the sword easily, Camron parried the creature until Ravis joined the fight, and together they battled side by side. Stronger and more alert than its dying companion, the creature fought with all the rage and desperation of a wounded animal. When Ravis disarmed it, it tore at them with its claws and teeth, springing forward, slashing their clothes and skin.

  Behind his back, Camron was aware of more of its kind beating against the door. And somewhere high up in the fortress, the sound of further battle could be heard. Izgard’s monsters had found another way in. Over in the far corner of the hallway, the dying creature’s howls grew weaker and more human sounding, then eventually stopped. Stealing a moment to glance over his shoulder, Camron found himself looking into the face of a dead man, not a beast.

  Strangely Camron grew more relaxed as he fought. Ravis was always there: behind his back, guarding his flank, stepping in front of him to deflect or ward off a blow. If Camron felt his sword arm dropping, Ravis noticed immediately and moved in to take the battle from him, holding the creature back until he had regained his strength. When Ravis himself took a bad blow to the neck, Camron stepped ahead of him, taking the brunt of the creature’s fury until Ravis had recovered enough to rejoin the fight.

  Camron came to rely on Ravis without question. It felt good to swing a blow knowing that in the crucial seconds when his arms were extended and his chest was wide open, the mercenary was there covering his weak spots.

  Together they wore the beast down. Bit by bit, blow by blow, cut by cut, they weakened the creature, until it was so groggy from loss of blood that it began to make mistakes. That was when, without a word exchanged between them, Camron and Ravis moved apart, encouraging the creature to step into the open space in the center of the hallway, and then attacked it from both sides.

  Camron lost count of how many blows it took to kill the thing. Exhausted, drenched with sweat, sick to his stomach with the smell and the gore, he kept stabbing the creature’s flank until Ravis pulled him away.