The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  They should have been dead. With his last breath of consciousness, Baralis had sped to Larn and told the priests that the threat had been removed. He believed it had. For twenty-four hours he believed it had. Then it was too late. He was too weak to move let alone perform a drawing. The priests at Larn had been blind, sitting targets.

  Oh, the pain was intolerable! Fueled by knowledge of his failure, it ate away at his soul. He had made the worst mistake of his life. A mistake of such enormity that it would haunt him for the rest of his days.

  But it would not stop him. No. He wouldn’t let it. Larn was just one step in the dance, and the music still played on.

  The baker’s boy was just that—a boy. Naïve, inexperienced, unable to control his powers: he was a force, but not one that couldn’t be reckoned with. Baralis began to feel calmer. After all, things were still moving in his favor. Right now, as he lay here in his bed, Kylock was directing the armies of Bren and the kingdoms to victory. The Wall didn’t stand a chance; they were out-manned, outmaneuvered and out of luck. Annis would soon find itself with neither neighbors nor friends, and come spring it would fall to the empire. Kylock was the most brilliant military strategist of his generation. No one could stop his advance.

  The seers’ prophecies would be missed, but they wouldn’t make a difference in the end. By predicting the exact date of the winter storms, they had already performed their greatest feat. Baralis relaxed beneath the heavy covers on his bed. Yes, Larn was gone, but it had tilted the balance in their favor first.

  As for Jack, well, he would doubtless head back to Bren now. In fact, by letting out the rumor that Maybor’s daughter was alive, Baralis could ensure that he did. Jack and the knight were both close with Melliandra; they would come to her rescue in an instant. Not that Baralis had any intention of allowing them to get to Bren. Skaythe should have recovered from his injury and be in Rorn by now: he could track them north. He wasn’t enough, though. He had already failed once, and Baralis knew better than to rely solely upon him again.

  Who else could he get to deal with Jack and the knight? Baralis thought only for a moment. Tyren. Tyren would do it. The head of the knights had men along the eastern coast and an intelligence network that was second only to the archbishop of Rorn’s. He could arrange to have the two fugitives tracked and caught. It was perfect. The knight was a wanted murderer, he had disgraced and disowned the knighthood—it was Tyren’s duty to see him brought to justice. And if the knight and his companion happened to meet with a nasty accident along the way, then that would be most unfortunate.

  “Crope,” called Baralis.

  “Yes, master?” Crope had been sitting in the dark waiting patiently for his master to stir.

  “Is Tyren amongst the kingdoms’ army?”

  “Yes, master. He’s brought a cohort of knights to the field.”

  “Good.” Baralis risked moving a little to face his servant. Pain raked down his side. “As soon as he enters the city, send a message to him saying I will see him tomorrow.”

  “Yes, master.” Crope sounded faintly distracted. His beloved wooden box was in his lap. “You slept a long time, master. Said things in your sleep.”

  “What things?”

  Crope turned the wooden box around in his hands. “About Larn. Said it was gone.”

  “Yes. Yes, the temple there has been destroyed. What is it to you?” Baralis was getting impatient. He needed to rest before his meeting tomorrow with Tyren.

  Crope slipped the little box back into his tunic. “Nothing, master. Nothing.”

  “Here, drink this.” Tawl offered Jack a cup of something hot.

  Jack took it from him. He had been awake only seconds and was still in a half-dazed state. “What is is?”

  “Rainwater holk.”

  “Well, I see the rain, but where—”

  “I have my ways.” Tawl smiled. He looked terrible. He had two black eyes, a swollen lip, a huge purple bruise on his left cheekbone, and a bloody gash on the right.

  “Do those ways include food?”

  Tawl held out something vaguely fish-shaped. “They do. Here, take it.”

  “No, thanks. If that’s a fish, it looks like it hasn’t seen the sea in a long time.”

  “You could be right. An old woman gave it to me. She’s got a basketful of them.” Tawl swallowed the thing whole. “Hmm. I think I’ll go back for more.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Jack said. He remembered the old woman rocking in her chair from the night before, and he wanted to see if it was the same one who had given Tawl the fish. He had a feeling it would be. How many old women could there be on an island this size?

  Getting up off the ground caused all sorts of problems. Aches, pains, blurred vision, buckling legs, and dizziness. In the end Tawl had to heave him up like a sack of grain. Part of Jack wanted to laugh. He and Tawl must look quite a sight—like a pair of wounded drunks.

  They were, as far as Jack could tell, somewhere in the cluster of shacks and lean-tos that lay behind the temple. A roof stretched over their heads, supported by two walls, not four. Ahead of them lay a similar structure, and beyond that there was nothing except sky. Jack didn’t remember getting here. But then, there were a lot of things he didn’t remember. A lot of things he didn’t want to remember.

  Tawl had a bad limp, yet he still managed to lend his strength to Jack. Together they limped, hobbled, and dragged their way toward the temple. Priests in brown cassocks crossed themselves as they passed. Wild-eyed men stared at them, and grossly disfigured women scuttled away like rats. No one challenged them.

  The rain drizzled softly. There was no wind. As Jack walked he became aware of the hollowness of the place. There was nothing: no rhythm, no inner warmth. Larn was just an empty shell.

  It beat inside, though. Jack could feel it in his heart. He had been changed, his whole being now beat in time with the ghost of the island. Faster and more urgent, it controlled his heart, his blood, his lungs. His body wasn’t used to it: it fought and strained and sweated. Jack felt as if he was developing a fever—sweating, shaking, aches—yet it wasn’t quite the same. It was his body coming to terms with being thrown out of kilter.

  “Jack, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. Just feeling . . . ” The words died on his tongue as he looked up at the temple of Larn. It was in ruins. The entire east side had collapsed. Massive granite slabs lay piled on top of each other like logs on a fire. Whole walls had fallen in, leaving doorframes standing like gravestones. Jack shuddered. He had done this.

  “The temple was built around the cavern,” said Tawl. “When that collapsed, it brought everything down with it.”

  Jack shook his head. He could think of nothing to say. Beneath the rubble, beneath the granite blocks and the dust and the rock, the seers lay dead. Bound to their stones, unable to save themselves, they had been crushed by the very temple they served. It was an appalling way to die. The seers had been as helpless as newborn lambs.

  “Everything comes with a price,” whispered Jack. “Everything.”

  “I know, Jack. I know.” Tawl’s voice was soft, close to breaking. “All you can do is learn to live with it.”

  Hearing the knight speak, Jack knew he wasn’t alone. He wasn’t the only one who had a past filled with regrets, uncertainty, and guilt.

  “He! He! He!” A high, cackling voice broke the silence. “It’s gone now. No coming back. He! He! He!”

  On the west side of the temple, sitting on the bottom step, was an old woman. A basket by her feet, a thin shawl around her shoulders, she slumped oddly to her right. Jack moved toward her. It was the same woman who had shown them the way in last night, perhaps even unlocked the door. As he drew nearer, he saw that the right side of her face was slack. She was still laughing away, but only the left half of her mouth opened and only her left eye blinked. Her right eye was closed. Jack’s gaze fell down to her lap, where her right hand emerged from the shawl. Curled up in a fist, it was brown an
d shriveled like a corpse. The fingernails were long and curved and dug into the dried-out flesh of her wrist.

  The old woman looked straight at Jack. “Did what she wanted, didn’t you?”

  “Who? Who wanted me to do this?”

  The old woman rocked back and forth on the step. “She did.”

  Jack was trembling. “Who’s she?” The woman didn’t answer. Jack ran to her. He put his hands on her shoulders “Who’s she?”

  The woman just rocked and cackled.

  Jack began to shake her. She knew something. Something about him, about why he had to come here, what it all meant. He had to know what she knew. He would shake the answers out of her.

  “Jack! Leave her alone.” It was Tawl, placing a restraining hand on his arm. “Come away.”

  Jack stopped. He was out of breath. The old woman looked frightened. He looked into her good eye. It was a bright, watery gray. “Please, please, tell me what you know. Why did you help us? Why did you show us the way?”

  The old woman began to rock back and forth again. Her gaze shifted out to sea, focusing far away on the horizon.

  Realizing he would get no answers, Jack turned away from her. “Let’s get off this island,” he said to Tawl.

  Together they rounded what was left of the temple’s back wall. Just as they fell under the shadows of the west face, the woman’s voice rang out one last time:

  “He! He! He! The seers knew. They wanted to die. That’s why they didn’t tell. He! He! He!”

  They found two skiffs on the island’s north beach. Tawl wanted to carry one of them overland to the southern shore, but Jack just wanted to be off, even if it meant extra rowing.

  His mind was an ants’ nest of emotions, suspicions, and thoughts. Somewhere, somehow everything was connected: the old woman, Larn, Captain Quain’s story, the past, the present, the future. He needed to find the thread that ran through them, the one thing that joined him to the seers and Marod’s prophecy. If only he didn’t feel so tired and heavy-headed. He needed sleep as much as answers.

  Being on the skiff didn’t help. The water was calm, but even the slightest swell sent his stomach reeling. The rain was good, though. Cool and fresh on his hot, shaking skin.

  After a while, Tawl took the oars from him and rowed on his own. He looked worried. Jack began to drift in and out of consciousness. After a while, a thought occurred in his bleary brain. “What about The Fishy Few, Tawl? What if they didn’t wait?”

  “They’ll be there,” said Tawl. “Unless the ship sank to the bottom of the ocean, they’ll be there.”

  Besik looked at Maybor. “If we don’t withdraw to the east now, they’ll have us flanked within the hour.”

  Maybor was sweating. Blood pumped wildly in his ears. Although Besik shouted, he could barely hear him. The sounds of battle were deafening. Blades clashing, hooves pounding, drums beating, screaming—it was enough drive a man insane. The sun had gone in and thick dark clouds had come down from the mountains, bringing the sky that much nearer to the earth. Maybor felt trapped: everything was closing in on them.

  He’d just come from leading a charge on the east gate. It had hardly any effect on the blackhelms: they just kept pouring out. Nothing could stop them. The Wall was outnumbered three to one. Kylock’s Royal Guard were converging upon them from the west, to the north were Bren’s mercenaries, and to the east the blackhelms were working to cut off Highwall’s only escape route. With the mountains behind them, they’d soon have nowhere to go.

  Maybor took a swig of brandy from his flask. Looking down at the battlefield, it was easy to see the maroon and silver of the Wall. A circle of black and blue was closing around them. They’d be cut off within minutes. Despite what Besik said, Maybor had a feeling it was already too late.

  “They’ll be expecting us to make a run to the southeast.”

  Besik nodded. “I know, but we haven’t got a choice. We can’t go south. Look at those clouds gathering in the west. The winter storms are coming. We withdraw to the mountains and we’ll all be dead within three days.”

  “We won’t even make it to the east.” Maybor was growing impatient. Time was running out. “Our men are tired. They’ve been fighting solidly for four hours. The blackhelms are just getting started—they’re fresh, eager, and they’re the most highly trained soldiers in the north. Why do you think Kylock is sending them through the east gate, not the south or the west?” He answered his own question. “Because they’re there to slaughter us the moment we withdraw.”

  “Don’t you think I know that, Maybor? Don’t you think I’ve taken that into consideration? To me it’s a choice between the southern mountains or the blackhelms, and I’ll tell you now, I’ll take dying from battle wounds over dying from exposure any day of the week.” Besik was shaking. Deep lines of tension creased across his brows.

  Maybor offered him his flask. “You’re a brave man, Besik.”

  Besik took the flask. “This is what we’ll do. I’ll have Hamrin sound the retreat. Bowmen, heavy cavalry, and two battalions of foot soldiers will clear a path to the southeast. The light cavalry and the remaining foot soldiers will bring up the rear. As they’re pulling back, I’ll have them flank out to the south. That way, we won’t risk being cut off from the mountains as well as the east.”

  It was a good plan. A fair plan. Once again, Maybor found himself admiring Besik: he always listened, always considered. Always gave his best. “I’ll take the southern forces.”

  “It’s a dangerous command. You’ll be the last on the field.”

  “Don’t you think I know that, Besik?” said Maybor softly.

  Besik smiled at the irony. His once jet-black hair was shot with gray. He wore the same clothes as his soldiers except for his one vanity of a beaten-silver belt. “The south is yours. I’ll lead the east.”

  The two men clasped hands and minutes later the retreat was sounded.

  Maybor rode down onto the field. The noise at battle-level was overpowering: it cut through thought, making it impossible to concentrate. The ground had been churned to mud. Red mud. Men and horses lay dead in it, their bodies missing limbs, hands, even heads. Maybor knew better than to look at the corpses—he’d mastered soldier’s blindness in his youth. The living were what counted.

  Already the retreat had started. The maroon-and-silver were slowly edging back. The kingdoms pressed against them from one side, the blackhelms from the other. Only the middle of Bren’s forces—made up of mercenaries, untrained, and partially trained men—was weak. Maybor had to admit that Kylock was a clever strategist: he had made the middle weak on purpose, to encourage the Wall forces to come forward. The nearer they got to the city, the easier they were to outflank.

  Maybor began barking out orders to the men. The foot soldiers would retreat ahead of the cavalry, and he wanted to give them a good head start. Besik was over on the east side of the field, claiming the majority of the men for the eastern assault. It wasn’t going to be a simple withdrawal; the commander of the Highwall forces was going to have to blaze a path through the duke’s guard. Maybor wished him luck.

  The minute the foot soldiers withdrew from the front line, the Wall cavalry began to break up. The blue-and-gold of the kingdoms was pressing hard from the west. They were trying to force the Wall east. Maybor, sweating, tired, and feeling very old, sent a silent prayer to Borc for protection. Not for himself, but for Besik: he was leading two-thirds of the Highwall forces into territory marked for slaughter.

  Maybor could no longer see what was going on in the east. Already the division between his troops and Besik’s troops had started. And already a company of blackhelms were riding in from the north, intent on driving a wedge into the breach.

  Looking to the south, back over what little remained of the Highwall camp, and the foothills and mountains that lay beyond, Maybor checked on the progress of the retreating foot soldiers. The men were running for their lives. They had just reached the first line of foothills beyond the camp
. Good. It was time to give the order to the cavalry. As Maybor swung back on his horse, he caught a glimpse of blue and gold in the southwest. The kingdoms’ forces were closing in.

  Maybor gave the order to the horn-blower. Three notes sounded: two high and short, one low and long.

  It was during the last note that Maybor spotted his son.

  Midway down the western slope, high atop a chestnut stallion, sat Kedrac directing his troops. His horse was decked in blue and gold, but his colors were Maybor’s own. Red and silver. The colors of Maybor’s coat of arms. The colors of the Eastlands.

  Maybor felt a terrible, crushing pain in his heart. Pride was mingled with the suffering. His son was leader of the kingdoms’ forces.

  Kedrac looked magnificent: young, determined, in control. A score of men surrounded him like courtiers around a king.

  Then, as Maybor watched, Kedrac raised his hand. Maybor went cold. His son was looking straight at him. The gesture was for him alone. They stood perhaps a third of a league apart—the only two men on the battlefield wearing red and silver—and stared at each other. Maybor felt his heart would break. His son wasn’t wearing the family colors out of pride, but rather as a slap in the face. A cruel taunt to a father he considered a traitor.

  Maybor turned away. He didn’t need to look at Kedrac to know what his next order would be.