The Book of Lies

by James Moloney

  “I thought you’d frightened it off,” he reproached Fergus.

  “It’s not the same one.”

  “What do you mean?” said Marcel.

  “Look at it. See the white fur on its belly? The wolf I chased away was black from head to tail.”

  Just as he spoke, that same black wolf stalked out from behind the boulder to join the first. Marcel felt a chill in his bones. He backed away, but when he turned to check the ground behind him, he saw that two more wolves were edging their way into the clearing. There was something sinister about their red eyes, almost as though these creatures were more than simply wolves.

  Fergus raised his sword and lunged at the closest of them. Beside him, Marcel had nothing to fend them off but his bare hands. He tried swinging the bag with the Book of Lies inside it, but heavy though it was, it wouldn’t be enough.

  Slipping the strap over his head again, he snatched up a fallen tree branch to make a club of sorts. He struck at the nearest wolf, but his feeble attack brought only a low, menacing growl that turned his blood to ice.

  Fergus’s sword swung again, making the wolves wary, but they weren’t as cautious with Marcel. He struck hard with his club, hitting one on the snout as it backed away. The wolves were toying with them, testing them. Any second now, they would rush in from all directions.

  “We haven’t got a chance if we stay apart!” Fergus yelled. “We’ll have to stand back-to-back!”

  Marcel didn’t take this in. Fear made him stare blankly at the wolves and chased everything else from his mind.

  “Behind me!” Fergus shouted, with more urgency this time. When Marcel still didn’t move, Fergus swore savagely and moved closer himself until he was guarding Marcel from behind.

  “Move when I move, and turn when I turn,” he commanded, and at last Marcel understood. The wolves in front of Fergus were kept at bay by his sword, wielded bravely and with a skill that even he couldn’t explain. When they circled towards Marcel, who had only a stick of wood to defend himself, the boys turned quickly in unison, bringing Fergus to face them.

  The black wolf rushed in, but it fell away sharply, snarling in pain from a blow to its jaw. The pack circled again, closing in on Marcel, and though he fought them off with heavy blows, one grabbed his arm. Fergus swung round with a mighty slash that took the wolf just behind its front leg. Yelping as the blood spilled on to its fur, the beast released its grip.

  “Are you all right?”

  “There’s blood, but I can still move it.”

  “Stay on your feet,” Fergus told him urgently. “If they get us down, we’re finished.”

  A second wolf sprang at them and this time snared the leg of Fergus’s breeches just above the ankle. Despite his own warning, he was dragged to his knees. Marcel swung his awkward club and forced the others away, but there was nothing he could do for Fergus. If he turned on that wolf for a moment, the other three would tear both of them to pieces.

  Fergus hammered desperately at his attacker using the handle of the sword, but this alone was not enough. Turning the sword in his hands, he held it like an enormous dagger, and with only a moment to aim, he drove the point into the wolf’s side. A pitiful yelping rose up instantly as the wolf slumped to the ground beside him. Marcel watched, his stomach churning as Fergus pulled the blade free. “Behind you!” Fergus screamed, and Marcel turned just in time to beat off another attack.

  Fergus struggled to his feet, dragging air back into his lungs, and once again turned back-to-back with his companion. One wolf lay dying, and a second bled from a shoulder wound, but it circled still with the other two, all twice as thirsty for the kill now that their companion had been slain. Exhausted, and bleeding themselves, the boys might not be able to beat them back this time. The wolves advanced.

  Then a noise in the distance made their heads turn. Even the wolves looked away. Running feet, human feet, pounding quickly towards them.

  “Here!” shouted Fergus desperately.

  Starkey burst into the clearing, his sword whirling ferociously and in his other hand the jewelled dagger. He came at the wolves, catching the weakened one with a second blow, so that now two wolves were accounted for. His terrible blades kept up their savage work until the remaining pair finally backed away to the edge of the clearing.

  “Marcel!” Starkey cried in astonishment when he realised there were two boys to be saved. “What are you –” He broke off. There was no time for such questions now. “Quickly, there might be others nearby,” he hissed, pushing them in front of him. He kept his sword ready, looking ahead of them one moment and over his own shoulder the next.

  No more wolves appeared, and by the time they reached the track, where Hector and Nicola were waiting, it was plain that for now the creatures had given up the attack.

  “Marcel! You escaped after all!” cried Nicola, her enthusiasm taking him unawares. But when she saw the blood on his sleeve, her voice changed quickly from amazement to concern. “What happened?” she asked, looking beyond him as though Termagant herself were chasing them.

  “Wolves,” Starkey answered, as he guided Fergus to a fallen log and sat him down to inspect his leg. “You’re lucky,” he said after tearing away the ravaged cloth. “It didn’t get hold of you.”

  There was blood dripping on to the soil, though, and it was only then that Starkey realised it came from a deep gash in his own hand. Hector brought him a rag, and after he had dabbed away the blood he bound the wound tightly.

  Another was handed to Marcel, who laid the leather sack aside and sat down next to Fergus. When he had wiped the blood away, he found that three teethmarks had punctured his skin.

  “You’ll live,” Hector sniffed dismissively. He took back his weapon from Fergus, then turned his mind to something that concerned him more than flesh wounds and stolen swords. “What’s this one doing here?” he muttered to Starkey, nodding towards Marcel. “He’s meant to be back in Fallside. How could he have caught up with us?”

  Starkey fingered his chin and gazed thoughtfully at Marcel. “Hector is right. What are you doing so far from the orphanage? How did you come to be in that clearing?”

  “I had no choice; I had to escape,” Marcel told them hotly. At the same time he wondered how he could explain about Gadfly. They would think he was mad. A flying horse! Even he could barely believe it. And what would he tell them about Bea and the Book of Lies? He wasn’t ready yet to reveal the prize he had brought with him!

  But he had brought magic of another kind with him too, and this was all that mattered to Starkey. “You still have that ring on your finger, I see. What did you tell me back in Fallside? The beast you spoke of, Termagant, you told me it would follow you, it would be able to find you, wherever you went. Wasn’t that Lord Alwyn’s curse?”

  His face grew stony as his suspicions hardened into fear. “The old wizard has let you escape. He has used you, boy, used you to lead his fearsome creature to the rest of us.”

  At this, Hector fitted an arrow to his bow and stared into the trees in the direction they had come. Soon they were all looking about them nervously, even Marcel as he worked at the golden ring, tugging vainly.

  Starkey rested one hand on the hilt of his sword, ready to use it at a moment’s notice, but his eyes settled on Marcel. The fingers of his other hand cupped his chin, stroking roughly through the stubble until he seemed to reach a decision. “There is only one solution,” he said firmly. “You must go back to the orphanage.”

  “But you’ve got swords and Hector’s got his bow,” Nicola protested.

  “Against such magic? Even with a hundred men, I would still send him back. So long as Marcel has that ring on his finger, Termagant can find him and Lord Alwyn will know where we are.”

  The terrible emptiness stirred again in Marcel’s heart, causing more pain than the teethmarks on his arm. “But I have some part in what you’re going to do,” he pleaded. “You told me so yourself.”

  “I have these two instead. Yo
u’re nothing but a threat to us,” answered Starkey with a cruel candour. But when he saw how deeply he had cut Marcel, he tried to convince him with gentler arguments. “You must go back, for the good of us all,” he urged, and coming forward three paces he laid his hand lightly on the boy’s shoulder.

  Marcel heard the change in Starkey’s tone and knew instantly that he was right. For the good of them all, he must go back before the curse of Lord Alwyn’s ring led Termagant to this sorry band of fugitives. She could end their flight with a single savage swipe of her claws. Just the thought of it made him wince.

  “You’re right, there’s nothing I can do about the ring,” he conceded, splaying his fingers in front of him to catch the glint of the shiny gold. “I have to go back.”

  “At least give him a sword,” Fergus insisted.

  “We cannot spare one,” growled Hector.

  “But he must have something. There are wolves out there,” Fergus went on.

  “Well, it seems you have an ally, Marcel,” said Starkey, raising a bemused eyebrow. “He’s right, too. Hector, give the boy your sword.”

  “But –”

  “Do as I say,” Starkey snapped, but he seemed to think better of this approach and immediately dropped the harshness from his voice. “You’re the best archer I’ve ever seen, Hector, and that will have to be enough. Now, give him your sword.”

  Such praise chased the scowl from Hector’s face, but he still wasn’t happy as he drew his sword and tossed it in the dirt beside Marcel.

  “The matter is settled, then. You’ll leave as soon as your wound has been seen to,” Starkey declared.

  This job was left to Nicola. She had watched Hector tend Starkey’s hand earlier, and now she tore the shredded sleeve of Marcel’s shirt to get at the wound, just like an expert. “It’s not too serious,” she assured him.

  When she had tied the bandage around his arm and knotted it in place, Marcel looked down to inspect her handiwork. Impressed, he touched it gingerly with his other hand, but immediately found himself staring at his little finger. “Damn this ring. I’ve tried to yank it free so many times, it’s a wonder my whole finger hasn’t come off”

  He laughed to himself, realising what he’d just said. “Now that would be a trick to play on Lord Alwyn, don’t you think?”

  Nicola was puzzled by the odd expression on his face, part grim determination, part bald fear, as he said over and over to himself, “What a trick it would be…what a trick…”

  His mind created the scene: a truly horrible picture, he had to admit, but if he could actually do it, if he had the courage, then he’d set himself free.

  How could he manage it, though? He’d need something to do it with. His eyes fell on to Hector’s sword, so recently laid at his feet. It was his sword now.

  But he could not do what he was planning by himself. He would need someone to help him. Nicola would be no use. That left Fergus.

  Starkey and Hector were busy separating some provisions for Marcel to take on his journey back to Fallside. There was a chance to slip away. “I need your help,” he whispered to Fergus.

  “Meet me in a minute or so behind those trees,” and he nodded to show the direction. With that, he picked up the heavy sword.

  Just the sight of its blade so close made the colour drain from his face. No, don’t think, he told himself. Get moving.

  Perplexed, Fergus watched him slip away, but this seemed yet another promise of adventure so he followed soon afterwards, making sure he was not seen.

  “What are we going to do?” he asked eagerly when he joined Marcel behind the screen of trees.

  “You’ll see,” whispered Marcel, relieved to hear a certain determination in his own simple reply. “Here, take the sword,” he said, pressing the handle into Fergus’s hands.

  Marcel led him deeper into the forest until he spotted a tree stump that seemed to suit his purpose. But when he looked back at Fergus, brandishing the sword, his mouth went dry.

  “What’s all this about, Marcel?”

  “I’m going to make sure Termagant can’t find me.”

  “But the ring, there’s no way you can get rid of it.”

  “Yes, there is. That’s why we’re here. We’re going to cut it off.”

  “But it’s a magical ring. Nothing in the world will cut through that metal.”

  “It’s not the metal we have to cut through.”

  This made no sense to Fergus, until he saw Marcel’s face and finally understood what he was planning. “No, you can’t do it! The pain!”

  “Don’t worry. You won’t feel a thing.”

  “How can you joke about it? You must be mad! Your own finger!”

  “It’s the only way to get the ring off my hand.”

  Fergus had shown his own courage against the wolves, yet now he confessed to Marcel, “If it were me… I don’t think I could do it.” Holding the sword carefully by the blade, he offered the handle to Marcel.

  “No, I can’t do it myself. That’s why I gave the sword to you. You have to cut the finger off for me.”

  Fergus’s face went even whiter than Marcel’s. “I can’t.”

  “You’re the only one who can. Come on, quickly, before they realise we’ve disappeared.”

  “No.”

  Marcel goaded him. “You’re the one who wants to be a soldier. You want to be a hero – well, here’s your chance.”

  “It’s not the same. I’d rather fight a hundred wolves than do this.”

  “Do it, Fergus! Do it now.”

  With grim resolve, Marcel knelt beside the tree stump and folded back the rest of his fingers. Just the smallest was left, laid out across the rough surface. The ring glinted in the afternoon light that filtered through the beech trees.

  Part of his mind screamed in protest. It wasn’t worth it. He would go back to Fallside as they wanted him to, then one day Starkey would return to set him free.

  No, he told himself. I can’t leave the danger to others. This might be the only way I’ll ever find out who I am. For some reason, he thought of Bea, and felt that her bravery in bringing him the Book of Lies was greater than anything he was doing now. “Come on, Fergus, hurry,” he urged.

  “I can’t do this!” Fergus wailed.

  Then, as Marcel watched, he made himself look down at the ring and the blade of the sword and his own trembling hands. “I’ll try,” he whispered hoarsely.

  A noise behind them made their heads turn. There was a flash of coloured clothing.

  “Now,” Marcel hissed. “Before they find us. Come on. If you lose your nerve, so will I.”

  Fergus hoisted the blade until it hovered above his head. Then it was moving, scything down through the air, the cutting edge hungry for its target. It struck a clean and solid blow. A scream pierced the air, the echoes bouncing chaotically against the rocks and massive tree trunks until the sound oozed around them like blood.

  It was Nicola they had seen through the trees. She had spotted Fergus with the sword raised, seen it flash downwards, and it was her scream that had split the silence of the forest.

  But Marcel’s hand was still pressed against the edge of the stump. The sword’s blade was buried in the wood. It had missed his finger by the breadth of a hair.

  “What are you doing?” Nicola yelled at them both.

  “It has to come off,” Marcel replied, now fierce in his determination. “It’s the only way to get rid of the ring.” He switched his attention to Fergus. “Again,” he demanded. “And this time, don’t miss.”

  “No!” Nicola roared at him. She grabbed Fergus and tried to pull him away. The sword clattered to the ground and Marcel feared his chance had gone. Starkey must have heard Nicola’s scream and would surely try to stop them.

  Marcel picked up the sword, gripping it tightly despite the pain in his arm from the wolf’s bite. He raised it as best he could, moving his other hand into position beneath him and knowing with a steel-hard certainty that he would do it – he
would do anything to see that hated ring gone from his hand.

  It was at this very instant that the ring moved. Or, at least, he thought it had moved. When he looked down he saw it still gleaming, taunting him to carry out what he had so far failed to do. There was no going back. He took a tighter grip on the sword.

  But now he was sure the ring had moved. It had slipped down over the first knuckle. He shifted his hand and saw it fall a little further, until it rested against the second knuckle. He laid the sword aside, poking at the ring with his other hand, and it fell from his finger to lie harmlessly in the centre of the stump.

  “The ring has come off!” he shouted, as relief flooded through him. “I’m free!”

  Chapter 9

  A Verse in Gold Letters

  FERGUS AND NICOLA STARED down at the ring in disbelief. “But all those times you tried!” protested Nicola. “How could it simply fall off?”

  Starkey came running through the trees, his sword in one hand and that pitiless dagger in the other. “What are you three up to? There was a scream.” He followed their eyes and soon he too was gazing down in amazement at the ring.

  “It just slipped off, as though it was never meant to be there,” said Marcel, at a loss to explain.

  “Oh, it was meant to be there, all right,” Starkey assured him, “but Alwyn is a trickster, like all magicians. There must have been a key. Some words.”

  Marcel looked at him blankly. “What do you mean?”

  “Some magic cannot be undone, but a curse like that ring is different. Such a spell is never cast without some way to unravel it. What did he say to you when he first made you put it on?”

  Marcel thought back to those terrifying moments after the horse race when he found Termagant circling him, growling and spitting, ready to snap him in two at the slightest signal from her master. Snatches of Lord Alwyn’s goading came back to him. The true test is whether you find the courage to remove that ring.

  “It wasn’t what I said,” he murmured. “It was what I tried to do. I was really going to do it, you see. I was going to cut off my own finger.”