The Book of Lies

by James Moloney

  Three more brutal sweeps of Fergus’s blade sent Marcel retreating, until his foot caught against a tree root and he fell. Before he could scramble to his feet Fergus was on him, and only an urgent parry stopped the blow from slicing his head open. The next jarred the sword from his hands, leaving him helpless. Fergus raised his arms again and paused with the sword balanced above his head, as if he were mustering all his remaining strength.

  Then his shoulders slipped and his elbows drooped almost to his sides. He held the sword still, the blade in front of his eyes as he stared at it, as though unsure of what it was. Suddenly his body convulsed and he threw the sword away and staggered backwards. “I can’t,” he said quietly. “I can’t do it, Father, not even for you.”

  “Grab them both!” Damon ordered his soldiers angrily when he saw that the battle was over.

  Marcel was hauled to his feet, while a second pair of men took hold of Fergus, who was still bent over in shame.

  He was startled to find himself manhandled with the rest. “Father, what’s happened?”

  “You’re a fool, boy, and now you’re a hostage like your brother and sister. Unless Pelham surrenders, you’ll die with them as well.”

  Fergus gazed at the man he had thought of for so long as his father. Slowly, understanding began to spread across his face and he turned desperately to Marcel. With a mighty surge of his shoulders, he threw off the hands that held him and lunged for the sword he’d discarded. But before he could pick it up a black leather boot stamped down on the blade and he found himself looking up into a pair of cold and sneering eyes.

  “There’ll be no more fighting from you, young prince,” snarled Starkey, who had appeared suddenly out of the darkness, with Hector’s ravaged face at his shoulder. Starkey grabbed Fergus roughly by the arm and returned him to his captors.

  “They’ve brought you a present, Starkey,” Damon told him with mild derision.

  Starkey did not understand at first. When Damon nodded towards the ground in the centre of the clearing, he turned with little interest.

  “Don’t you see it?” Damon teased him. “I thought you’d cut your own throat the day they stole it from you. Now they’ve brought it back. That silly book you prize so highly. It’s there in the dirt, waiting for you.”

  Starkey didn’t pause to hear more. He rushed to reclaim the Book of Lies, clutching it to his chest like a child with his most cherished toy. Then he turned back to Damon. “What was that fighting I heard?”

  “I’d hoped one of Pelham’s brats would dispose of the other,” Damon explained casually.

  “Both of them! Is Marcel injured?” he asked anxiously.

  “See for yourself. He’s still breathing.”

  “Count us all lucky, then,” Starkey responded. He turned away towards the camp. “Bring them,” he growled at the soldiers. “Their lives aren’t worth a farthing, but before he dies that one will decide the victor in this battle.”

  At these words, the Book of Lies began to glow in his arms like a searing sun amid the blackness of night.

  Chapter 22

  Let Slip the Beast

  THE FOUR CAPTIVES WERE tied up hand and foot and allowed a few hours of fitful sleep in a tent crowded with the paraphernalia of war. It was only in the weak light of dawn, when they were dragged into the open, that they could take a proper look at the surly warriors of Lenoth Crag, all of them clearly hungry for battle. The rough furs that kept them warm in the mountains seemed out of place here and made them look like wolves that had strayed far from their forest homes.

  After a breakfast of scraps left unwanted by the soldiers, they were tied up again, this time with a single long rope around their waists, the loose end pulled along by a cold-eyed sergeant on horseback. “Stay on your feet or I’ll drag you all the way to Elstenwyck on your bellies,” he warned menacingly.

  The long hours that followed were cruel. Hot and sweating under the same merciless sun that had parched the farmland of Elster, they marched all day. Their mouths became so dry they could barely speak.

  Nicola moistened her lips and tongue enough to whisper to Marcel, “Can you get us free?”

  She meant his magic, of course. But with so many guards around, there was no sorcery that would help.

  Only Bea gave them hope. “Marcel, look what I have in my pocket! I’d forgotten all about it.”

  He looked down and found her holding the little leather pouch that had once dangled around Termagant’s neck. “If it worked the magic of the Book on Termagant, it might be enough to give Gadfly her wings…”

  Perhaps it would, but the rope held them tight, and they had seen Gadfly earlier, weighed down with weapons and supplies. Her disgruntled snorts had shown what she thought of this cruel treatment.

  Marcel looked around for her again, and that was when he saw what was happening behind them. They all turned, until the rope was tugged and they were forced to trudge forwards again, but that glimpse had been enough. As the army marched relentlessly towards Elstenwyck, the withered fields of wheat and corn they passed were being set alight. The fire spread easily in the hot, dry air.

  “A Beast will touch the land with flame,” Marcel murmured, remembering the fire back in Elstenwyck, and what they had seen last night.

  Just before sundown, the walls of the city appeared in the distance. “Make camp!” came the call. Then Zadenwolf himself moved among his troops, bellowing an instruction that sent a chill through Marcel. “Don’t spend too much time on it. Tomorrow night you’ll be sleeping on the soft mattresses of Elstenwyck.”

  Towards midnight, Hector found the exhausted children asleep in the open and kicked them awake. “Starkey wants you.” He untied their ropes but took hold of Bea so that she did not fade away unnoticed into the night. Then he led them between the fires and the tents to Starkey’s quarters. Few of the men were sleeping. Some sharpened the blades of their axes and swords. Others simply stared silently into the flames, wondering perhaps whether they would be alive at sundown tomorrow.

  The Book of Lies lay on a table in the middle of Starkey’s tent. When they were assembled opposite him, he opened it at the very last page. “When all my pages fill with lies,” he quoted from the verse he knew by heart. “There’s barely a line left on this page. It’s time for Mortregis to return,” he insisted, looking pointedly at Marcel.

  He turned as Eleanor and Damon entered and came to lean over the Book. “Do you still believe in this sorcery?” sneered Damon, revealing his contempt for such things.

  “Quiet! You’ll both change your tune soon enough.”

  Eleanor turned towards the children. “These are more valuable to us than that book. Pelham will surely give himself up now that we have all three of his brats.”

  “No, Marcel and the girl came alone, to rescue their brother, it seems. Pelham cares more for his kingdom than he does for his own children.”

  Eleanor eyed the sullen figures huddled against the side of the tent. “Then they are worthless as hostages. Why wait until tomorrow to kill them?”

  Starkey turned his intense gaze to the table before him. “Because I still need them,” he said, without looking up. “The verses in this book hold a clear promise.

  “The Beast will grow and spread its wings

  Destroying rogues and making Kings

  “Do you hear it, from a book that can only tell the truth? It has victory hidden in its magic, I tell you.”

  “You’re wasting your time,” barked Damon. “You would need the skill of Alwyn himself to perform such tricks, and if your spies are right the old fool is dead.”

  Starkey’s hand found its way to his chin, letting the fingers work at the lengthening stubble. He had not shaved in some time, and his handsome face had become haggard and wolf-like as it had been in the forest. “Yes, I have my spies,” he said as he turned his glowering eyes on Marcel. “You were in the palace with Alwyn before he died. You told him about these verses, didn’t you, Marcel? Did he teach you how Mortr
egis can be conjured?”

  Marcel stammered a terrified denial, but Starkey was in no mood to believe him. “He did, didn’t he!” He strode to the other side of the table, thrusting that hated face so close to the boy’s nose that he could smell the sweat as it trickled on to the despicable man’s brow.

  “Leave him, Starkey,” said Damon angrily. “That dragon is no more than a childish legend. We have our own forces now. Even if the elves do not join us after all, Zadenwolf’s army will cut Pelham’s men to pieces.”

  “So we will,” replied a deep voice from the entrance to the tent. They all turned in surprise to find Zadenwolf himself in the opening. “Edster’s army has not fought a battle in centuries. It will be no match for my war-hardened warriors, now that the old wizard is dead,” he assured them.

  Zadenwolf knew little about the Book of Lies so he barely noticed when a hint of golden light filled the tent, emanating from the table before Starkey. But the others saw it, and it brought a gleeful smile to some faces and dread to others.

  Suddenly Fergus was talking. He had remained withdrawn and ashamed all through that desolate day, but now he seemed consumed by anger and bursting to speak his mind. He took two resolute paces towards Damon. “You think Zadenwolf alone can bring you victory, don’t you?” he sneered. “Have you told Eleanor about the secret meetings you had with him? Yes, I’ve overheard you, begging him to turn against your cousin, so that once Pelham is gone you will rule alone.”

  Fergus dodged a savage blow from Damon, shouting, “He’s planning to kill you, Eleanor!” before Hector clamped a sweaty hand over his mouth.

  He had managed to arouse Eleanor’s suspicions, though. “What’s he saying, Damon? Are you plotting to betray me?” When Damon hesitated, she demanded hotly, “Swear it now, in front of the Book of Lies.”

  The tent fell silent as they waited for his answer. “No,” he said finally. “I’m a prince and soon to be King. I’ll not have my loyalty tested like a common subject.”

  Marcel had quickly realised what Fergus was trying to do. If they could get these two squabbling, then their true natures would be revealed. Perhaps Zadenwolf would grow frustrated and abandon them. It was a slim hope, but they had no other.

  His sister must have caught on as well. She called out to Damon. “You’re a fool to trust Eleanor, too! She doesn’t want to share the throne any more than you do. She has her poisons ready. You’ll have to watch everything you drink, every mouthful of food.”

  Eleanor took Nicola’s arm, her face a picture of fury, and began to push her roughly out of the tent, but Nicola just continued her attack. “Think of my own mother, Damon. You’ll suffer the same fate as Queen Ashlere.”

  “Wait!” shouted Damon, his face suddenly pale with fear. He took hold of Eleanor’s wrist and made her release the girl. “Is it true? Would you poison your own cousin?”

  “Make her swear before the Book,” Nicola urged.

  Eleanor eyed the Book of Lies haughtily. “I won’t be tested by Alwyn’s book either. I am the rightful heir, born before you, Damon. If anyone is to rule alone, it should be me.”

  Already unsettled by Nicola’s suggestion, now Damon was incensed. “I am the male heir! A kingdom should have a king, not a queen with a woman’s weakness.”

  “Weakness! I had the strength to poison Pelham, when you were too frightened to act.”

  “You wouldn’t pour it into his wine. That part you left to me.”

  “What about Starkey?” Fergus said cunningly. “If he can make the Book’s prophecy come true, do you really think he’ll let either of you rule?”

  Eleanor and Damon turned narrowed eyes away from each other to focus the full force of their distrust on Starkey.

  But Starkey himself was not fooled by these tricks.

  “Enough!” he thundered. “Don’t you see how these children have put us all at each other’s throats? Our plan remains the same. You will rule together, with me as your Chancellor – once Zadenwolf’s army has defeated Pelham,” he added, with a nod towards the mountain king, who watched stony-faced and silent near the entrance.

  The shameful tale of how the cousins had tried to poison Pelham had left Zadenwolf unmoved. But stony-faced? No, not quite, Marcel saw. His eyes had wandered to Zadenwolf’s grim features while Starkey and the cousins made their spiteful claims and he had discovered something unexpected. Zadenwolf’s lips might be hidden beneath the thick hair of his beard, but hadn’t they curled into the faintest hint of a smile? Yes, Marcel was sure of it, though as he searched for it again that fleeting smile had vanished. In its place he found a venomous stare fixed on Starkey, like that of a snake inspecting its unsuspecting prey.

  Fergus and Nicola had shown the way, and now it was Marcel’s turn, not with magic but with the same weapon that his brother and sister had used. “Do you trust King Zadenwolf, Starkey?” he began cautiously, hoping that if he kept his voice low and reasonable, almost friendly, then the man would hear him out.

  “What do you mean?” snarled Starkey, glancing uneasily towards Zadenwolf.

  Marcel continued quickly now, knowing he would have only one chance to get this right. “The King has brought his great army into Elster to kill my father, but will he really go back to the mountains and leave it all to you?”

  “Foolish boy!” he retorted. “We’ve already promised Zadenwolf a part of the Kingdom, in the high country adjoining his borders.”

  “Cold and remote, like Lenoth Crag,” said Marcel. “This valley is warmer than where he comes from. And more fertile too, in spite of the drought. Why would he be content with a bit of forest when he could have everything? How can you be sure he hasn’t come to take the throne for himself?”

  At an angry nod from Starkey, Hector strode across the tent, and with a vicious flick of his hand he silenced the boy’s mouth at last.

  Sickening colours blundered into one another behind Marcel’s eyes as Nicola helped him to his feet again. Now the tent had become deathly silent. Zadenwolf had not said a word and the expression on Starkey’s face had begun to change from sly confidence to a raw and nervous doubt.

  “Won’t you deny it, then?” Fergus taunted Zadenwolf, taking up the attack.

  Nicola joined in. “Is it true? Have you played all three of them for fools?”

  At last the reluctant King spoke up. “It is all as we agreed. You three will be the powers in this land. I will not betray you.”

  It was what Starkey and the royal cousins had longed to hear. But even as they tried to pretend that they had never doubted, the Book of Lies erupted. The cover flew open and the pages began to fan rapidly, inevitably, until the last page lay revealed. Close to the bottom edge of the paper, words began to appear, Zadenwolf’s words.

  It is all as we agreed.

  The unseen quill reached the end of the line and began the next. It would certainly be the last, because no more words would fit on the page after this. The magical script looped and coiled, repeating the King’s words, proving them to be a lie.

  You three will be the powers in this land.

  Finally, there was less than half a line left, with precisely the right number of words to fill it. They were written into place, and at last the Book of Lies was full, with the last words recorded on its pages forming the most wicked lie of all.

  I will not betray you.

  Zadenwolf himself knew nothing of how this strange book worked, and it was only the shocked response of the others that warned of how he had been exposed.

  Eleanor’s eyes grew round and wild. She fixed them on him with a fury that might have sent a lesser man lurching backwards in dismay.

  “He’s tricked us!” cried Starkey, enraged.

  Damon drew his sword, but Zadenwolf was ready for him. His own weapon flashed in the candlelight, knocking Damon’s from his hand before he could attack.

  “Sergeant!” he roared, and before Hector or Starkey could lunge at the treacherous King, three burly soldiers burst into the tent
. “Take their weapons,” he ordered sharply, and when it was done, “Set up a guard around this tent. These three are my prisoners, and the children and Starkey’s bowman too. If they show their faces outside this tent tonight, kill them.”

  “You can’t do this!” Eleanor stormed. “This kingdom is mine by right!”

  This was the first of a dozen frenzied accusations from her and Damon, each more vehement than the last.

  Zadenwolf dismissed them all with contempt. “You were fools, both of you, and you as well, Starkey. Did you truly think I would risk my army against Pelham’s in return for a scrap of land fit only for elves to live in? These children here have more sense than the three of you.”

  “What will you do with us?” asked Nicola fearfully from where she stood huddled with Marcel, Fergus and Bea.

  “Haven’t you guessed?” he goaded them. “Tomorrow I do battle with Pelham, with the elves as my allies, but what is the use of killing one king if there are still others alive who can claim his throne?”

  With this cruel announcement still ringing in his captives’ ears, Zadenwolf swept through the open doorway, a gloating smile on his face. His soldiers followed, leaving the prisoners alone, though the squeak of leather and the clink of metal all around the tent told them that they were well guarded.

  “This is outrageous! We can’t just wait here to die!” Damon snarled.

  “You heard him,” snapped Eleanor. “One step outside and you’ll the tonight instead of tomorrow.”

  Then she turned on him. “It’s all your fault, you know! You persuaded us to trust him!”

  Damon had no answer to this and his brief defiance quickly foundered. He turned away from the rest, nursing his wretchedness in private. Seeing this, Eleanor’s courage failed as well. She slumped in a corner of the tent and began to weep tears of self-pity.

  Marcel was stunned to see them turn so rapidly from indignation to cowardly, snivelling despair. He found himself quickly losing heart as well, and there seemed little comfort in the downcast faces of his brother and sister. Not even Bea, for all her courage, could force the defeat from her gaze. They would all the in the morning; and after them, who could say how many others, some wearing the alien attire of Zadenwolf’s army, the rest in the red livery of his father, the true King. As Marcel stared around the tent, full of desolate and hopeless figures, he saw that the real enemy was not Zadenwolf at all. It was Mortregis himself, returned from his sleep.