Terry Brooks - A Knight Of The Word

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Terry Brooks - A Knight of the Word

1998

PROLOGUE

He stands on a hillside south of the city looking back at the carnage. A long,

grey ribbon of broken highway winds through the green expanse of woods and scrub

to where the ruin begins. Fires burn among the steel and glass skeletons of the

abandoned skyscrapers, flames bright and angry against the washed-out haze of

the deeply clouded horizon. Smoke rises in long, greasy spirals that stain the

air with ash and soot. He can hear the crackling of the fires and smell their

acrid stench even here.

That buildings of concrete and iron will burn so fiercely puzzles him. It seems

they should not burn at all, that nothing short of jackhammers and wrecking

balls should be able to bring them down. It seems that in this postapocalyptic

world of broken lives and fading hopes the buildings should be as enduring as

mountains.

And yet already he can see sections of walls beginning to collapse as the fires

spread and consume.

Rain falls in a steady drizzle, streaking his face. He blinks against the

dampness in order to see better what is happening. He remembers Seattle as being

beautiful. But that was in another life, when there was still a chance to change

the future and he was still a Knight of the Word.

John Ross closes his eyes momentarily as the screams of the wounded and dying

reach out to him. The slaughter bas been going on for more than six hours, ever

since the collapse of the outer defences just after dawn. The demons and the

once-men have broken through and another of the dwindling bastions still left to

free men has fallen. On the broad span of the high bridge linking the east and

west sections of the city, the combatants surge up against one another in dark

knots. Small figures tumble from the heights, pinwheeling madly against the

glare of the flames as their lives are snuffed out. Automatic weapons fire ebbs

and flows.

The armies will fight on through the remainder of the day, but the outcome is

already decided. By tomorrow the victors will be building slave pens. By the day

after, the conquered will be discovering how Life can sometimes be worse than

death.

At the edges of the city, down where the highway snakes between the first of the

buildings that flank the Duwarnish River, the feeders are beginning to appear.

They mushroom as if by magic amid the carnage that consumes the city. Refugees

flee and hunters pursue, and wherever the conflict spreads, the feeders are

drawn. They are mankind's vultures, picking clean the bones of human emotion, of

shattered lives. They are the Word's creation, an enigmatic part of the equation

that defines the balance in all things and requires accountability for human

behaviour. No one is exempt; no one is spared. When madness prevails over

reason, when what is darkest and most terrible surfaces, the feeders are there.

As they are now, he thinks, watching. Unseen and unknown, inexplicable in their

single-mindedness, they are always there. He sees them tearing at the combatants

closest to the city's edges, feeding on the strong emotions generated by the

individual struggles of life and death taking place at every quarter, responding

instinctively to the impulses that motivate their behaviour. They are a force of

nature and, as such, a part of nature's law. He hates them for what they are,

but he understands the need for what they do.

Something explodes in the centre of the burning city, and a building collapses

in a low rumble of stone walls and iron girders. He could turn away and look

south and see only the green of the hills and the silver glint of the lakes and

the sound spread out beneath the snowy majesty of Mount Rainier, but he will not

do that. He will watch until it is finished.

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Terry Brooks - A Knight Of The Word

He notices suddenly the people who surround him. There are perhaps several

dozen, ragged and hollow-eyed figures slumped down in the midday gloom, faces

streaked with rain and ash. They stare at him as if expecting something. He does

not know what it is. He is no longer a Knight of the Word. He is just an

ordinary man. He leans on the rune-carved black staff that was once the symbol

of his office and the source of his power. What do they expect of him?

An old man approaches, shambling out of the gloom, stick-thin and haggard.

An arm as brittle as dry wood lifts and points accusingly.

I know you, he whispers hoarsely.

Ross shakes his head in denial, confused.

I know you, the old man repeats. Bald and white-bearded, his face is lined with

age and by weather and his eyes are a strange milky colour, their focus blurred.

I was there when you killed him, all those years ago.

Killed who? Ross cannot make himself speak the words, only mouth them, aware of

the eyes of the others who are gathered fixing on him as the old man's words are

heard.

The old man cocks his head and lets his jaw drop, laughing softly, the sound

high and eerie, and with this simple gesture he reveals himself He is unbalanced

neither altogether mad nor completely sane, but something in between. He lives

in a river that flows between two worlds, shifting from one to the other, a leaf

caught by the current's inexorable tug, his destiny beyond his control.

The Wizard! The old man spits, his voice rising brokenly in the hissing sound of

the rain. The Wizard of Oz! You are the one who killed him! I saw you! There, in

the palace he visited, in the shadow of the Tin Woodman, in the Emerald City!

You killed the Wizard! You killed him! You!

The worn face crumples and the light in the milky eyes dims. Tears flood the old

man's eyes and trickle down his weathered cheeks. He whispers, Oh God, it was

the end of everything!

And Ross remembers then, a jagged-edged, poisonous memory he had thought forever

buried, and he knows with a chilling certainty that what the old man tells him

is true.

John Ross opened his eyes to the streetlit darkness and let his memory of the

dream fade away. Where had the old man been standing, that he could have seen it

all? He shook his head. The time for memories and the questions they invoked had

come and gone.

He stood in the shadows of a building backed up on Occidental Park in the heart

of Pioneer Square, his breath coming in quick, ragged gasps as he fought to draw

the cool, autumn night air into his burning lungs. He had walked all the way

from the Seattle Art Museum, all the way from the centre of downtown Seattle

some dozen blocks away. Limped, really, since he could not run as normal men

could and relied upon a black walnut staff to keep upright when he moved. Anger

and despair had driven him when muscles had failed. Crippled of mind and body

and soul, reduced to an empty shell, he had come home to die because dying was

all that was left.

The shade trees of the park loomed in dark formation before him, rising out of

cobblestones and concrete, out of bricks and curbing, shadowing the sprawl of

benches and trash receptacles and the scattering of homeless and disenfranchised

that roamed the city night. Some few looked at him as he pushed off the brick

wall and came toward them. One or two even hesitated before moving away. His

face was terrible to look upon, all bloodied and scraped, and the clothes that

draped his lean body were in tatters. Blood leaked from deep rents in the skin

of his shoulder and chest, and several of his ribs felt cracked or broken. He

had the appearance of a man who had risen straight out of Hell, but in truth he

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Terry Brooks - A Knight Of The Word

was just on his way down.

Feeders gathered at the edges of his vision, hunchbacked and beacon-eyed, ready

to show him the way.

It was Halloween night, All Hallows' Eve, and he was about to come face-to-face

with the most personal of his demons.

His mind spun with the implications of this acknowledgement. He crossed the

stone and concrete open space thinking of greener places and times, of the smell

of grass and forest air, lost to him here, gone out of his life as surely as the

hopes he had harboured once that he might become a normal man again. He had

traded what was possible for lies and half truths and convinced himself that

what he was doing was right. He had failed to listen to the voices that

mattered. He had failed to heed the warnings that counted. He had been betrayed

at every turn.

He stopped momentarily in a pool of streetlight and looked off into the darkened

spires of the city. The faces and voices came back to him in a rush of sounds

and images. Simon Lawrence. Andrew Wren. O'olish Amaneh. The Lady and Owain

Glyndwr. Nest Freemark. Stefanie.

His hands tightened on the staff, and he could feel the power of the magic

coursing through the wood beneath his palms. Power to preserve. Power to

destroy. The distinction had always seemed a large one, but he thought now that

it was impossibly small.

Was he still, in the ways that mattered, a Knight of the Word?

Did he possess courage and strength of will in sufficient measure that they

would sustain him in the battle that lay ahead? He could not tell, could not

know without putting it to the test. By placing himself in harm's way he would

discover how much remained to him of the power that was once his. He did not

think that it would be enough to save his life, but he hoped that it might be

enough to destroy the enemy who had undone him.

It did not seem too much to ask.

In truth, it did not seem half enough.

Somewhere in the distance a siren sounded, shrill and lingering amid the

hard-edged noises that rang down the stone and glass corridors of the city's

canyons.

He took a deep breath and gritted his teeth against the pain that racked his

body. With slow measured steps, he started forward once more.

Death followed in his shadow.

CHAPTER 1

It was dawn when she woke, the sky just beginning to brighten in the east,

night's shadows still draping the trunks and limbs of the big shade trees in

inky layers. She lay quietly for a time, looking through her curtained window as

the day advanced, aware of a gradual change in the light that warmed the cool

darkness of her bedroom. From beneath the covers she listened to the sounds of

the morning. She could hear birdsong in counterpoint to the fading hum of tires

as a car sped down Woodlawn's blacktop toward the highway. She could hear small

creaks and mutterings from the old house, some of them so familiar that she

remembered them from her childhood. She could hear the sound of voices, of Gran

and Old Bob, whispering to each other in the kitchen as they drank their morning

coffee and waited for her to come out for breakfast.

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Terry Brooks - A Knight Of The Word

But the voices were only in her mind'', of course. Old Bob and Gran were gone.

Nest Freemark rose to a sitting position, drew up her long legs to her chest,

rested her forehead against her knees, and closed her eyes. Gone. Both of them.

Gran for five years and Old Bob since May. It was hard to believe, even now. She

wished every day that she could have them back again. Even for free minutes.

Even for five seconds.

The sounds of the house wrapped her, small and comforting, all part of her

nineteen years of life. She had always lived in this house, right up to the day

she had left for college in September of last year, a freshman on a full ride at

one of the most prestigious schools in the country. North-western University.

Her grandfather had been so proud, telling her she should remember she had

earned the right to attend this school, but the school, in turn, had merited her

interest, so both of them should get something out of the bargain. He had

laughed, his voice low and deep, his strong hands coming about her shoulders to

hold her, and she had known, instinctively that he was holding her for Gran, as

well.

Now he was gone, dead of a heart attack three days before the end of her first

year, gone in a moment, the doctor said afterward-no pain, no suffering, the way

it should be. She had come to accept the doctor's reassurance, but it didn't

make her miss her grandfather any the less. With both Gran and Old Bob gone, and

her parents gone longer still, she had only herself to rely upon.

But, then, she supposed in a way that had always been so.

She lifted her head and smiled. It was how she had grown up, wasn't it? Learning

to be alone, to be independent, to accept that she would never be like any other

child?

She ticked off the ways in which she was different, running through them in a

familiar litany that helped define and settle the borders of her life.

She could do magic-had been able to do magic for a long time. It had frightened

her at first, confused and troubled her, but she had learned to adapt to the

magic's demands, taught first by Gran, who had once had use of the magic

herself, and later by Pick. She had learned to control and nurture it, to find a

place for it in her life without letting it consume her. She had discovered how

to maintain the balance within herself in the same way that Pick was always

working to maintain the balance in the park.

Pick, her best friend, was a six-inch-high sylvan, a forest creature who looked

for the most part like something a child had made of the discards of a bird's

nest, with body and limbs of twigs and hair and beard of moss. Pick was the

guardian of Sinnissippi Park, sent to keep in balance the magic that permeated

all things and to hold in check the feeders that worked to upset that balance.

It was a big job for a lone sylvan, as he was fond of saying, and over the years

various generations of the Freemark women had helped him. Nest was the latest.

Perhaps she would be the last.

There was her family, of course. Gran had possessed the magic, as had others of

the Freemark women before her. Not Old Bob, who had struggled all his life to

accept that the magic even existed. Maybe not her mother, who had died three

months after Nest was born and whose life remained an enigma. But her father . .

. She shook her head at the walls. Her father. She didn't like to think of him,

but he was a fact of her life, and there was enough time and distance between

them now that she could accept what he had been. A demon. A monster. A seducer.

The killer of both her mother and her grandmother. Dead now, destroyed by his

own ambition and hate, by Gran's magic and his own, by Nest's determination, and

by Wraith.

Wraith. She looked out the window in the diminishing shadows and shivered. The

ways in which she had been different from other children began and ended with

Wraith.

She sighed and shook her head mockingly. Enough of that sort of rumination.

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Terry Brooks - A Knight Of The Word

She rose and walked into the bathroom, turned on the shower, let it run hot, and

stepped in. She stood with her eyes closed and the water streaming over her,

lost in the heat and the damp. She was nineteen and stood just under five feet

ten inches. Her honey-coloured hair was still short and curly, but most of her

freckles were gone. Her green eyes, dominated her smooth, round face. Her body

was lean and fit. She was the best middle-distance runner ever to come out of

the state of Illinois and one of the best in history. She didn't think about her

talent much, but it was always there, in much the same way as her magic. She

wondered often if her running ability was tied in some way to her use of the

magic. There was no obvious connection and even Pick tended to brush the

suggestion aside, but she wondered anyway. She had been admitted to

North-western on a full track-and-field scholarship. Her grades were good, but

it was her athletic skills that got her in. She had won several middle-distance

events at last spring's NCAA track-and-field championships. She had already

broken several college records and one world. In two years the summer Olympics

would be held in Melbourne, Australia. Nest Freemark was expected to contend for

a medal in multiple running events. She was expected to win at least one gold.

She turned off the shower, stepped out onto the mat, grabbed a towel, and dried

herself off. She tried not to think about the Olympics too often. It was too

distant in time and too mindboggling to consider. She had learned a hard lesson

when she was fourteen and her father had revealed himself for what he was. Never

take anything in your life for granted; always be prepared for radical change.

Besides, there were more pressing problems just now. There was school; she had

to earn grades high enough to allow her to continue to train and to compete.

There was Pick, who was persistent and unending in his demand that she give more

of her time and effort to helping him with the park - which seemed silly until

she listened to his reasoning.

And, right at the moment, there was the matter of the house.

She dressed slowly, thinking of the house, which was the reason she was home

this weekend when her time would have been better spent at school, studying.

With her grandfather's death, the house and all of its possessions had passed to

her. She had spent the summer going through it, room by room, closet by closet,

cataloguing, boxing, packing, and sorting what would stay and go. It was her

home, but she was barely there enough to look after it properly and, Pick's

entreaties notwithstanding, she had no real expectation of coming back after

graduation to live. The realtors, sensing this, had already begun to descend.

The house and lot were in a prime location. She could get a good price if she

was to sell. The money could be put to good use helping defray her training and

competition expenses. The real estate market was strong just now, a seller's

market. Wasn't this the right time to act?

She had received several offers over the summer, and this past week Allen

Kruppert had called from ERA Realty to tender one so ridiculously high that she

had agreed to consider it. She had come after classes on Friday, skipping

track-and-field practice, so that she could meet with Allen on Saturday morning

and look over the papers. Allen was a rotund, jovial young man, whom she had met

on several occasions at church picnics, and he impressed her because he never

tried to pressure her into anything where the house was concerned but seemed

content just to present his offers and step back. The house was not listed, but

if she was to make the decision to sell, she knew, she would almost certainly

list it with him. The papers he had provided on this latest offer sat on the

kitchen table where she had left them last night. The prospective buyer had

already signed. The financing was in place. All that was needed was her

signature and the deal was done.

She put the papers aside and sat down to eat a bowl of cereal with her orange

juice and coffee, her curly hair still damp against her face as golden light

spread through the curtained windows and the sun rose over the trees.

If she signed, her financial concerns for the immediate future would be over.

Pick, of course, would have a heart attack. Which was not a good thing if you

were already a hundred and fifty years old.

Side 5

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Terry Brooks - A Knight Of The WordTerry Brooks - A Knight of the Word1998PROLOGUEHe stands on a hillside south of the city looking back at the carnage. A long, grey ribbon of broken highway winds through the green expanse of woods and scrubto where the ruin begins. Fires burn among the steel and gl...

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Terry Brooks - A Knight Of The Word

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