The Book of Words

by J. V. Jones

  Gervhay grinned. “Borlin warned me you’d state the obvious.”

  Both men laughed. Tawl bent down and raked a fistful of cold earth off the ground. It was too cold to stick well when he rubbed it into his face, so he spit a couple of times to soften it to mud. He was pleased to note that the four Highwall swordsmen had already done the same. Seeing what he was doing, Gervhay followed suit. The young knight covered his hands and his neck for good measure.

  Tawl turned to Andris. “Take care, my friend. I trust I’ll see you later just before you save my hide.”

  Andris clasped his arm. Two days ago he would have smiled at such a remark. Today he was simply grave. “You’ve got half an hour of darkness left. Use it well.”

  Looking at Andris’ fair northern face, Tawl suddenly realized the full extent of what he was asking him and his men to do. They were about to break the founding tenet of the knighthood: loyalty to one’s leader. Tawl’s mind clouded with doubt: was he asking too much? Was it fair to involve other knights in his own personal war? He opened his mouth to speak, to offer Andris a chance to withdraw, but the knight forestalled him with a blessing.

  “Borc be with you,” he said.

  Something about the manner in which he spoke made Tawl wonder if Andris had guessed what he was thinking. Glancing quickly up into his light gray eyes, Tawl saw that he was right. The knight’s gaze was as firm as a warning. “Go,” he said. “The time has long passed for doubts.”

  Tawl bowed his head. First Melli, now Andris—what had he done to deserve such selfless gifts? Briefly he remembered the demon in the lake: perhaps one day if he was lucky he might be worthy of them all.

  Gervhay called from behind and Tawl raised a hand in parting to Andris, then turned and walked to the west.

  Strange dreams hounded him like packs of muzzled dogs. They barked, they harried, they snapped at his ankles, but never once did they manage to bite.

  Baralis knew warnings when he saw them—even now, with a body driven beyond the limits of exhaustion, his mind was as sharp as a tack. Dreams held messages and persistent dreams held the most potent messages of all. What was wrong? What had he overlooked? What had he left undone? Normally he would turn and face the hounds of chance, look them in the eye and demand to know their meaning. But such things demanded physical as well as mental strength, and he had nothing, absolutely nothing, to spare.

  The drawing against Jack had brought him within touching distance of death. When he saw Jack emerge from behind the curtain he knew he had to destroy him. No matter that only moments earlier he had spent the better part of his strength killing the two knights standing guard; he had to reach within himself and find one drawing more.

  And what a drawing it had been! Keen as an assassin’s blade, dense as a defending wall. Split seconds were his accomplices, expectation was his friend. He spotted the enemy before the enemy spotted him. It hadn’t been a contest of strength or skill, it had been a matter of time. He hadn’t allowed Jack the chance to defend himself—his arrow had already left the bow.

  Yet such a loosing had its price, and he was paying the cost of it now. Unable to move a muscle, he lay in his bed like a drooling invalid while Crope attended his needs. Strength would return in a few days, and if anything should happen unexpectedly, there were always potions to bridge the gap. In the meantime, he took his normal recuperative medicines—mineral-rich infusions and sorcery-enhanced drugs—Crope drizzling them between his lips while he slept.

  Baralis’ senses were weak, but they were still on alert. He was half-expecting to feel something from Kylock: a drawing generated from frustration or rage. The king would be taking Melliandra’s rescue badly. He had secret plans for Maybor’s daughter—plans that Baralis could only guess at—and to have her stolen away from under his feet might have sent him deeper into madness. So far there had been nothing, though. No great lashing out, no palace-shaking tantrum, nothing to indicate a sudden flare of emotion.

  Dimly, Baralis was aware of Crope moving around the room. He tried to force himself awake: he needed to discover if his servant knew anything about Kylock’s mental state.

  Up through the brittle layers of unconsciousness he went, cracking the fragile sheets like footsteps on thin ice. The hounds were still behind him, barking out their warnings, foaming at the mouth. One layer of sleep to go, one glassy, wafer-thin layer that bordered the waking world. He pushed against it with his mind and it shattered into slivers. First he saw his chamber and Crope, and then he spied the reflection in the glass. The reflection of his dream. The hounds full on.

  A single image flashed like sunlight upon a lake. And that was exactly what it was: a lake, a dead body, a drawing that worked beyond its time. It was Skaythe.

  Baralis blinked and the image fractured into so many streams of light.

  “Master, master. Can you hear me?” Crope loomed over the bed, hastily stuffing his wooden box in his tunic.

  Baralis couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw tears in Crope’s eyes. He had neither the time nor energy to ponder their meaning: the dream was what counted now. Even Kylock could wait. “Crope,” he whispered, his voice a lead weight upon his tongue. “Where is Jack’s body?”

  “Down belowstairs, master. In the dungeon. Locked away.”

  Baralis let out a sigh of relief. “Listen carefully. I want you to destroy it. Fire up the forge they use for heating extra water when the court is full. Fill it with as many logs as it will take, stoke it to a frenzy, and then throw the body upon it. You mustn’t leave until you see the bones turn black. Do you understand?”

  Crope nodded slowly. He opened his mouth to say something, but then nodded once more instead. “Yes, master,” he murmured after a moment. “Until the bones turn black.”

  “Good. Now bring me my medicines and warm me some holk, and then go down to the cellar and get started.” Baralis watched Crope hurry away before closing his eyes to rest.

  The image of Skaythe’s dead body returned to him with the dark. The hounds had sent the vision as a reminder to take no chances with Jack. Skaythe was weak, inexperienced, yet his last drawing had lingered on past his death, seeping from his body into the lake. If even he could manage that, then how much more could Jack do? Of course there was a chance that Jack’s last drawing hadn’t been full formed—after all, there was so little time—but it never hurt to take precautions.

  Baralis knew better than to ignore his dreams.

  Tawl spied the first of the watches: two men, neither of them looked like knights. “Gervhay, can you take them from here?”

  Gervhay shook his head. “If I miss at this angle, there’s a chance the arrows will go straight into the tent. I’ll head north as far as those bushes on the rise and take a couple of shots from there. That way we’ll stop any stray arrows from going wild.”

  Tawl nodded. “Keep your head low. We’ll head forward and wait for you by the ditch.” When Tawl looked around to confirm it, Gervhay was already gone, bellying over the ground, his bow slung over his back like the wing of a dragonfly.

  A quick glance at the eastern sky revealed the gray blush of dawn. The snow clouds would slow down the light, but at most they had twenty minutes of darkness left.

  “Follow me,” hissed Tawl to the swordsman at his heels. His eye had spotted the yellow-and-black of Tyren’s tent, and from this distance it looked like fair game. Scrambling over the freezing earth, he ignored the pain in his arm and the spreading numbness in his fingers and toes. Tyren was close now, close enough to make Tawl’s blood run cold. The demons were gathering for the kill.

  Ahead the ditch showed itself as a black line—judging from the smell it was where the camp dumped its waste. Just as Tawl crawled up to the staggered bank, he heard a soft whirring sound. Then another. The two watches went down. Gervhay had aimed his arrows well.

  “Keffin, Baird. You two go ahead. I need to know how many guards we’re going to run into before we get to Tyren’s tent.” Tawl was about to tell the t
wo Highwall troopers not to take any risks, then thought better of it: risks were all they had. He settled for a warning to watch their backs, and then waved them on ahead. He wished he was going with them. Waiting, even for a few minutes, was unbearable to Tawl.

  The remaining two Highwall swordsmen came and crouched beside him. Fair haired and stony faced, they drew out their swords and waited.

  Gervhay sprung out of the darkness, surprising everyone. He grinned triumphantly. “Two down. Two hundred and ninety-eight to go.”

  “If all goes well, we won’t have to kill that many,” said Tawl. He tried to sound stern, but Gervhay’s natural enthusiasm was something he didn’t want to stifle. “You did well. Get ready to pick off a few more.”

  “Point and shoot. That’s me.” Somehow, the young knight had managed to get several twigs caught in his hair, giving him the look of a mad woodsman. “Now, if you gentlemen are well-rested, I say we go and find some trouble.”

  Tawl had to put a restraining arm on Gervhay: an archer had no business going first. “Take the rear, my friend,” he said. “And keep to the shadows when you can.” With that, Tawl leapt across the ditch, and running as fast as he could with his back bent low, he made for the nearest tent.

  Open ground was the greatest danger at this point. A keen eye could easily pick out a fast-moving form in the quarter-light. The distance between the ditch and the tent seemed impossibly long, and Tawl dreaded the alarm being sounded with every stride. The two Highwall men ran without making a sound. They were faster than Tawl and overtook him as he stepped upon the cleared ground of the camp. By the time he reached the tent, they were already talking to Keffin and Baird.

  Straightaway, Tawl noticed blood on Baird’s long-knife. “What happened?”

  “Just silenced a couple of guards, that’s all.” Despite the calmness of his voice, Baird was shaking. “They were outside the command tent, and they caught sight of Keffin. When they came close to investigate, I slit both their throats.”

  One after another without making a noise? Tawl was impressed. He would have liked to ask the Highwall swordsman how he managed such a feat, but there was no time. Any minute now the camp would start to wake. He nodded toward the interior. “How’s it looking?”

  Baird shrugged. “Two guards on Tyren’s tent—same as all the others. The problem is that the entrance to Tyren’s tent looks directly onto three of the main tents—that’s eight guards to take out from the start.”

  “Plus the two sets we’ll have to pass along the way,” added Keffin.

  “I think we’ll be going in the back door, then,” said Tawl. From where he was he could see the back of Tyren’s tent. It was overlooked by the command tent and the supply tent. Baird had already killed the guards on the command tent, so that meant less men to deal with. He looked at Baird. “How quickly can you slice me a way in?”

  Baird smiled. “Quicker than I slit a throat.”

  “Good.” Tawl glanced toward the eastern horizon. Ten minutes to first light. Five minutes before Mafrey and Corvis were due to make the signal. The timing had to be right: as soon as someone called the alarm they were dead unless the Highwall troops moved in. “Gervhay,” called Tawl softly.

  “Aye,” came a voice from the shadows.

  “I want you to stay back and cover us going in. Keep to the east side, pick off anyone who comes close to Tyren’s tent, and whatever you do, lie low. I don’t want anyone spotting you while you’re out here on your own.”

  “It’s as good as done.”

  Tawl watched Gervhay’s bow hand make a salute, then he disappeared into the shadows. Tawl turned to the swordsmen. “Now. Baird, you know what you’re doing. Keffin, you’re with me. Murris, Sevri, I want you two to flank out around the tent. Keep an eye on the west side and the entrance, silence any wary guards, and watch out for the signal. If there’s too many men to deal with, then you come in the tent with us. Right?”

  “Right.”

  Tawl nodded at both men. “Let’s go.”

  He chose an indirect path to Tyren’s back door, hugging shadows and tent sides whenever he could. His mind was ticking seconds: he had to have Tyren in his keeping before Andris and the Highwall troops came in. Once the exchange started, the knights would rally around their leader. Tawl knew his only hope was to have a dagger at the leader’s throat.

  As he made his way to the center of the camp, a strange lightness invaded Tawl’s chest. He felt excited, free, almost happy—he was here now, and there was no going back. By the time dawn passed into day he would have met his fate full on.

  Something moving to the south caught his eye. It was a guard on the camp’s far border dropping to the ground. Tawl grinned. Follis and the two Highwall marksmen were doing a little preraid thinning.

  The yellow-and-black of Tyren’s tent was only paces away now. Tawl beckoned Baird ahead. Just as the burly swordsman came forward with his long-knife, a cry sounded to their near left. It was cut off in midcall.

  “Go,” hissed Tawl to Baird. Tawl followed him to the back of Tyren’s tent. Keffin was at his heels.

  Another shout came from the left. There was movement in one of the main tents. An arrow shot past from the west.

  Baird’s hands were firm as he sliced through the tent. The fabric was oiled and half a finger thick, but his blade cut it as if it were silk. The downward stroke was accompanied by a soft tearing noise, and even as Tawl brought his sword forward, he heard a cry from inside the tent:

  “Guards!”

  Tawl pushed past Baird and forced his way through the slit. His sword touched tips with another, and before he could even see who he was fighting, he began defensive strokes. Immediately, he stepped to the side of the slit. He needed to give Baird and Keffin a chance to enter: he didn’t want to attend the banquet alone.

  As Baird pushed into the tent, a streak of dawn light fell upon the face of the man Tawl was fighting: dark eyes, dark hair, olive skin.

  Tyren smiled. “It’s been a long time, Tawl.”

  Tawl took a quick breath. Tyren looked exactly the same as when he’d seen him last. The urge to bow, to supplicate himself before his leader, was strong but fleeting. It took Tawl by surprise. Tyren had betrayed him: he had to remember that.

  Pressing his lips firmly together, Tawl resisted the urge to speak. He parried Tyren with a series of close body thrusts while he tried to orientate himself in the tent. Several chests, a slim table, a bench, and a pallet were positioned against the walls. The middle space was free and Tyren was using it to his full advantage, forcing Tawl to fight from the side.

  Outside the sound of men running and shouting could be heard. Underneath the noise of the camp awaking was a low, distant rumble: Andris and the troops were on their way.

  Tawl’s eyes fell on the entrance flap—no men had come through yet. Murris or Sevri must have cut the two guards down. Tawl pushed Tyren back with a reckless, curving lunge. Pain shot up his arm, but he forced himself to keep his sword point up. Baird and Keffin took advantage of the newly freed space to move toward the flap.

  Tyren tested Tawl’s sword arm by hacking downward with his blade. Tawl had no choice but to bring his weapon up and block the full force of the blow. Steel rang out. Tawl’s arm gave; a sharp spasm ripped through his shoulder, driving him to his knees. Tyren freed his sword for a thrust.

  Baird came up behind Tyren and slammed the flat of his blade into the leader’s back. Tyren went stumbling forward. His face registered pain, confusion, then anger. Quickly righting himself, he shouted at Tawl: “Call yourself a knight? Fight me one on one, or not at all.”

  Tawl got to his feet, his eyes not leaving Tyren for an instant. “I’m not falling for your talk of honor this time, Tyren. I’m a lot wiser now, and I see you for what little you are.” With his left hand he made a minute gesture to Baird. The two Highwall swordsmen pressed their blade-tips against Tyren’s flank. “I only fight one on one with people I respect.”

  Tawl turned his b
ack on the leader of the knighthood. “Tie his hands, lads. We’re going for a walk.”

  Thirty-five

  Slowly, cell by cell, particle by particle, layer by layer, time turned.

  Caught between metal and flesh, the magic worked its subtle purpose less than a step ahead of the grave. As the blood darkened and thickened, it was set running; as the last meal curdled, it was reclaimed. Moisture rose to line the drying membranes of the nose and throat, and the muscles of the intestines began to push.

  The magic had none of the force of a drawing. It wasn’t aimed like a weapon or brandished like a shield. It had escaped upon a dying breath: unspoken, unfocused, half-formed.

  Diffused intent was all that was left. Shaped from a reflex action of survival, cut off before fully ripe, it seeped from the body and nestled close to the body, and sent curves bending through time.

  The chain mail kept it pressed against the skin. Warming as it worked, edging back into moments past: it reconstructed and resuscitated in one. Time was thick around the body. Time was thin around the brink. The magic stayed the future with one hand and stretched the present with the other. First a hundred, then a thousand, then a million tiny changes. And then the heart was ready to beat.

  The rhythm rang through the body even now. Strong and deep, it provided the framework for momentum to build. Power gathered around the heart, bracing tissue, opening valves, clearing debris from the arteries—smoothing the way for the first mighty thrust.

  Steeped in a solution of slow-reversing time, the heart began to vibrate. Old magic met new magic. The power of Larn met power born of man. The heart was where they converged and the first beat marked the moment they joined.

  Terrible soul-wrenching suction, then one single lusty punch. The body jolted into life. Convulsing in its center, muscles contracted, blood rushed, senses reeled, nerve cells sparked, and sweat came oozing to the surface.

  Red and black. Black and white. Light flared only to recede to a pinpoint. A single moment cleaved in two as time was ripped asunder, and then Jack opened his eyes.