The Barbed Coil

by J. V. Jones

  “The holy fathers turned him down. They could not in all conscience agree to it.

  “Frustrated by their reluctance even in the face of his threats, Hierac then promised them the ultimate gift. Bind the Coil for me, he said, and as long as Garizon is a country or even a memory of a country, it will protect the Anointed Isle from all invaders. Your monastery will never be torn asunder while the Barbed Coil remains in this world. You will be free of all Garizon taxes and levies, and my troops shall withdraw, never to return, unless it is for your protection and at your request. This I do hereby swear by all the blood the Barbed Coil has shed.

  “So that is what the holy fathers did. Not there and then. Not right away. But a promise was struck and a contract was drawn, and Hierac was as good as his word. Withdrawing his men that very morning, he issued a warning to all who gathered at the beachhead to meet him that from henceforth no one was to set foot upon the Anointed Isle unless they came in peace. Garizon would protect the abbey as its own.

  “Meanwhile the monks set their most gifted scribe to work upon the problem of binding the Coil. Brother Ilfaylen spent six months designing the illumination that would hold the ephemera in place. Inventing new forms and new metaphors as he worked, Ilfaylen studied first on the Anointed Isle and then in Garizon itself. For the last month of the six he did nothing but trace designs directly from the Coil. It is inlaid with them, you see. Every strand of gold upon the crown is etched with patterns and devices. I have never laid eyes upon them myself, but I believe there is much power to be drawn from such markings.”

  Hearing Avaccus’ words, Tessa couldn’t resist glancing down at the ring. The gold strands formed smooth threads, broken only by the barbs. Nothing was etched into the metal.

  Avaccus continued speaking. “Finally Ilfaylen judged himself ready to begin the illumination, and so presented himself to Hierac. By this time Hierac was a man possessed. He forced himself to stay awake for days at a time, fearing he might lose the Coil if he slept. When he did sleep, it was with the crown laid across his chest and a servant standing close to warn him of the slightest change. The moment Ilfaylen came to him, he bade the man begin, and for the next five days and five nights, the scribe worked on a pattern that was as good as a cage.

  “Lashing the Coil with his brush, weighing it down with his pigments, Ilfaylen designed an illumination that defied all the magic of the Shedding. The Barbed Coil, the mighty ephemera that flitted from world to world like a harlot from lover to lover, became nothing more than an insect under glass. Ilfaylen bridled and contained it. He placed his hand upon it and pressed its nose to the dirt.

  “During those five days it is said the moon failed to show in clear night skies, that dams dropped their foals before their time, that tides pulled high onto beaches and water levels dropped low in wells. Infants weak from jaundice and old folk weak from dropsy died in unheard-of numbers, and all cities on the continent reported a record number of flies.

  “Ilfaylen did what he had been chosen for: he fixed his shackles to the Barbed Coil and chained it to the earth. When he had finished the ephemera became little more than a harnessed ox, destined to plow the same furrow on the same field, over and over again.”

  Seconds passed. The silence following Avaccus’ words had an expectant quality to it, like the moment immediately following the end of a play, when the last line has been uttered and the actors hold their poses, waiting for the audience to respond.

  Unable to resist the pressure, Tessa finally said, “So it’s remained here ever since.” Suddenly tired of sitting, she made an effort to scramble to her feet. Pain pulsed along her right thigh. The puncture wound on her shin pulled apart, and blood trickled down to her ankle. Frustration at her weakness made her fight her buckling knees and pull herself up in spite of the dizziness washing over her. She had to think. A wound she couldn’t see on the back of her shoulder prickled as the rough fabric of her tunic rubbed against the scabbed flesh. Leaning against the cave wall for support, she said, “What happened to the pattern Ilfaylen drew?”

  Avaccus made a sound that might have been a sob or a laugh. “My, my, young lady. You certainly know how to get to the point.” He scratched his finely shorn hair. “It was sealed in a lead box and then buried in an undisclosed location in Veizach. All three men who worked on the grave were slaughtered before they had chance to clean the dirt from their fingernails.”

  Avaccus’ use of the word grave made Tessa shiver. “Were there any copies made?”

  “Copies?” Avaccus shook not just his head, but his entire body. “No. Right from the beginning Hierac forbade it. Whenever Ilfaylen left the scriptorium he was watched. Every night before he retired, he was searched from head to foot, his scribing materials were confiscated, his sleeping quarters inspected, and the parchment itself was held up to the light and checked for pinholes.”

  “Which would have been a sign Ilfaylen was keeping a copy?”

  “Yes. But true to Hierac’s orders, the manuscript was not pricked. No copy was ever made.”

  “What about Ilfaylen’s sketches, his blueprints?”

  “It was all done on wax tablets. Hierac insisted that nothing ever be put to parchment. After the illumination was completed Hierac himself stood over Ilfaylen’s shoulder and watched as the scribe melted the top layer of wax from over two dozen tablets.”

  Tessa nodded. She thought for a moment and then said, “Two dozen wax tablets would have been a heavy burden to carry on a long journey. Did Ilfaylen have an assistant?”

  “Yes. That is why we know so much about the scribing. His assistant kept a journal of his master’s journey to and from Garizon: the places he stayed along the way, the food he ate, other matters such as that.”

  “And did he include any details about the illumination?”

  “Little more than I have told you. He was bound by the same restraints as his master. He could write nothing about the contents of the illumination.”

  Tessa felt her legs giving way beneath her. She couldn’t recall why it had been so important for her to stand and so let her body flop to the floor. She landed badly, twisting an ankle that was already weak. Thirst gnawed away in her throat, but she was reluctant to ask Avaccus for anything to drink. She wanted no more potions administered in bone cups. “Does the account of Ilfaylen’s journey still exist?”

  All the while Tessa struggled to stand and then keep standing, Avaccus maintained his cross-legged sitting position. Watching his composed stance, she got the feeling he was accustomed to sitting in one place for long periods of time. “Sadly the journey book no longer exists,” he said. “Twenty years ago there was a fire in the abbey’s west tower and many books and scrolls were lost.”

  So there was nothing to go on. No copy of the pattern. No record of its making. Tessa let out a long breath. If a pattern had bound the Coil, then it would take another to free it. One that incorporated all the elements found in the original design, then turned against them like a traitor in the ink.

  “What became of Ilfaylen after he returned to the isle?”

  Avaccus clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Yes. That’s the thing. The man was never the same again. He took ill during the journey overland from Veizach, and it was several days before he had the strength to make the sea crossing from Bay’Zell to Kilgrim. By the time he finally arrived back at the Anointed Isle he was a different man. I think painting the pattern wasted him more than any illness. Whatever the cause, he had lost something from inside himself. He never painted another pattern again. For many years he lived the retired life of a scholar, writing, learning, rebuilding his strength.

  “Eleven years later, when the old abbot died, it was Ilfaylen who came forward to fill his place. The holy fathers had thought Ilfaylen would be quiet, malleable, a defender of the old ways. Yet those eleven years of silence had distilled something in his soul. The day he was made abbot he changed everything. He broke up the Quires, forbade all painting of the old patterns
, and had every manuscript containing details of the old designs thrown into the sea. He forced the abbey back into mainstream beliefs and spent the rest of his life working for peace.”

  “He never tried to undo his binding?”

  “No. What was done was done. He had sworn terrible oaths that he would never revisit his work upon the Coil. And he didn’t. He lived a long life and changed many things, but that was the one thing he left untouched.”

  “And the Barbed Coil?” Tessa felt herself growing sleepy. The sea coldness was slowly reclaiming her aching limbs. “That has stayed in Garizon ever since?”

  “Yes.” Avaccus stood. Weaving a path through the wheels of cheese, he made his way toward the candle. “The Barbed Coil has been the power behind the Garizon throne for five hundred years. Always, the king who wears it seeks to invade and destroy: claiming land, victories, lives. Their ambitions are never their own. People make the mistake of thinking that it is Garizon itself or its kings that have this driving need for conquest. They are wrong. It is the crown that directs every battle, pushes every blade, nestles at the heart of all ambitions. Even bound as it is, it cannot forsake its nature. War is, and always shall be, its purpose.”

  Very cold now, Tessa settled herself down amid the rocks. When she spoke, her voice dragged with exhaustion. All she wanted to do was sleep. Perhaps when she woke in the morning all this would turn out to be a bad dream.

  “What if the Coil continues to stay in this world?”

  Avaccus knelt in front of the candle, blocking most of its light. “I think the entire continent will be destroyed. The Barbed Coil is a mad dog chewing on its leash. It has been dormant, its powers uncalled upon, for the last fifty years. Now Izgard is the first king in half a century to wear it. It has lost time and lost battles to make up for. Its sphere of influence is growing. Its power is growing.” Leaning forward, he snuffed out the light. “And ten days from now it will have been upon this earth for five hundred years.”

  The silence following Avaccus’ words was broken by the sound of a bell tolling in the distance. The long, muffled notes set the air in the cave resonating. Tessa felt as if the darkness were pulsing against her skin. Even though there was no longer any light to see by, she could hear Avaccus returning to his place at the back of the cave. His joints cracked with the dull sound of striking weights. The bell continued tolling. On the fifth toll Avaccus stopped moving and said, “There is power in the number five. Ancient power custom shaped to be used by ancient things.”

  The bell rang three more times, marking the beginning of Eighth Toll, and Tessa and the old monk spoke no more.

  Camron spat blood. He squinted into the darkness, searching. Something moved. His right thumb released the trigger, and a crossbolt exploded from the plate. It hit nothing. Shooting off into the distance, it skimmed a bank of smoke, or a shadow cast by the moon, or a fleck of ash caught in Camron’s eye. There were no targets left. All the harras were dead. It had taken them thirteen hours to die. Still, Camron kept his position on the skirt of the hill and watched. And even as the crossbolt fell wasted to the ground, he drew another from his pack, cocked it, and set his sights. He couldn’t believe the harras were finally gone.

  Fingers encrusted in dried blood, hands that wouldn’t stop shaking, eyes so raw they hurt when he blinked, Camron lay belly flat on the ground and waited. Cuts striped his body, bruises blackened it. Exhaustion so deep it caused blackouts ate away at his muscles and his thoughts.

  He was alone, that much he knew. The battle had been lost.

  The stench was terrible. Blood in all stages from freshly spilled to burned dry could be smelled with every gust of wind. The rotting, animal-lair odor of the harras was everywhere. Camron could taste it mixing with the blood in his mouth. Smoke hung in tired bands, too heavy to be dispersed by the breeze. There was no longer any ash or burned matter in the air. It had settled to the ground before dark, turning all the surrounding hillsides black. The moon was full, but cloud cover robbed most of the light. Strangely, it was as warm as day.

  Which, thought Camron, his mind stumbling from subject to subject like a blind man from step to step, was really just as well. As his cloak had been burned off his back hours ago. Or had it been sliced to shreds by a harrar’s blade? He found he couldn’t remember.

  Frowning, he tugged his fingers through his hair. A fistful came free in his hand. Black and brittle as dead insects, he threw the charred locks onto the ground. A second later his finger was back on the trigger. Someone was coming.

  They approached from the rear, forcing Camron to swing his body around in the mud. As he spun about, his bow stock jarred against a stone, causing the bolt to jump from the string. Camron hissed a curse. He hated crossbows. He had no memory of how he came to have one in his hands. Surely, at the beginning, he had started out with a shortbow? Shaking his head, he worked to fix the bolt back in place.

  A dark silhouette drew nearer. Camron centered him in his sights. His finger felt large and awkward on the trigger. It wouldn’t stop trembling.

  “Who lays there?” The voice was challenging, aggressive, but the Rhaize accent was unmistakable. “Name yourself or be speared.”

  Camron didn’t move. He knew he should take his finger off the trigger, but a part of him wouldn’t let go. Blood pouring from a gash in his gum made it difficult to speak. “Camron of Thorn.”

  A quick inhalation of breath followed his name. “If you’re injured, sir, I’ll walk you back.” The figure took a step forward. He was young and dark haired. Large eyes looked out from a face that was black with blood and soot. He stooped down toward Camron. “Here, let me help you stand.”

  Camron flinched.

  The young man backed away immediately, raising his spear above his shoulders in a gesture of no harm. “Are there any others here with you?”

  Camron shook his head. He wasn’t sure of much, but that he knew. “They scattered. Most are dead.”

  The young man nodded. “I think you should take your finger off that trigger and come with me down to the river.”

  The river? Camron didn’t understand. He felt himself blacking out.

  He came to. Something that stung his sliced gum was being poured in his mouth. “Swallow,” said the young man. “It’ll do you good.”

  Camron swallowed. The fluid was both hot and cold. It washed away the taste of blood. As he pulled his shoulders from the mud, he noticed the familiar weight of the crossbow was missing from his elbow. Looking around, he spied it, tossed aside, in a charred hand of grass.

  Seeing where Camron’s gaze was focused, the young man managed a tired smile and said, “There was a moment I thought you were going to use that on me.”

  Camron couldn’t deny it. He nodded. Slowly the liquor was helping patch together his thoughts. All sorts of pain came with increasing reason. Grimacing, he took another drink from the flask. As he wiped his lips dry, he said, “How many survived?”

  The young man looked down. He went to speak, but a muscle quivering in his jaw failed him. He shook his head. Claw marks raked along his throat. Camron handed him the flask, but he refused it. After a moment he said, “Five hundred. Perhaps less.”

  Camron closed his eyes. He was too tired to feel shocked. “What happened?”

  “How can you not know?” The young man’s voice was rough. Something shone from behind his eyes. “If it wasn’t for you and your archers, everyone, even the Sire, would have died. You shot them. You shot all the harras. You had less than a dozen men in the end—I watched you from my post. The harras kept coming and coming, forcing our troops into the valley. We were cut off. The harras were blocking our retreat. There was smoke everywhere. Flames.” The young man shuddered. “Balanon was burned alive.”

  There was still no shock. Camron felt dead inside. The Sire’s survival meant less to him than the loss of his crossbow.

  “You opened the retreat.” The young man continued speaking. Camron heard something akin to awe in his voice bu
t couldn’t understand why. “No one else was fighting the harras. The Sire marshaled the charge into the valley. We weren’t ready. There was no time. The harras were on our heels.” Shaking off the memory with a violent snap of his neck, the young man cried, “It was like being in hell. The smoke. The harras. The screams.”

  Camron wanted to say something to comfort the young man, but he had no words. Memories ripped through his mind: the soft tearing sound as naphtha ignited behind his back. The warm blast of air on his neck. A voice barking orders—could it be his own? Screams. Feet scrambling in mud. Arrows and crossbolts pulled desperately from dead men’s packs. The snapping maw of a harrar tearing at his cheek.

  Unbidden, Camron’s hand rose to his face. Dried blood flaked between his fingers.

  They had run out of arrows. Weaving in and out of the smoke, the harras had made poor targets. They could take half a dozen hits without going down. Arrows shot from the shortbow needed to be aimed well to cause damage, and except for Segwin the Ney’s longbowsmen, none of the troop were skilled archers.

  Hampered by smoke, low on armaments, their position had been overrun twice. The close contact fighting was the worst. Camron had seen a score of Balanon’s men flee. He didn’t blame them. He would have done so himself if he had paused to think. Strangely enough, the harras didn’t fight with the same intensity as they had in the Valley of Broken Stones. At some point Camron remembered feeling more like an obstacle than a target. The harras had a specific job to do: to spread terror through the Rhaize troops and drive them down into the valley. Whole companies of longbowsmen waited there, cool, collected, ready.

  Camron felt a sick pull in his stomach. Thrusting his hand out toward the young man, he said, “What is your name?”

  The young man’s fingers closed around his. “Pax.”

  “Help me stand, Pax. Take me down into the valley.”