The Book Knights Read online

  Contents

  Dedication

  Copyright © 2017 by J. G. McKenney

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  EPILOGUE

  To my parents for sharing the power of words.

  Copyright © 2017 by J. G. McKenney

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  ISBNs:

  978-0-9876823-6-9 Hardcover print version

  978-0-9876823-7-6Paperback print version (Createspace)

  978-0-9876823-8-3Amazon Kindle ebook version

  978-0-9876823-9-0Smashwords epub version

  978-0-9959299-0-6Kobo ebook version

  978-0-9959299-1-3Nook ebook version

  Cover art by Ivan Zanchetta (ivanzanchetta.com)

  Typeset in Sabon at SpicaBookDesign

  Printed and bound with www.createspace.com

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  First off, I’d like to recognize the efforts of all those authors and researchers whose past work on the King Arthur legend was invaluable to me in creating this new spin on a timeless tale. Having borrowed elements from many of the fable’s incarnations, my purpose was to create an entertaining and original story. I hope I’ve succeeded.

  Many people took the time to offer opinions and feedback on this book at various stages of its development, and I’m very grateful to those “book knights” for their help. A big thank you goes out to Ellen Brock, Madison Cassidy, Rowan Duff, Heidi Lucas, Owen Cunningham, and Madelyn Burt whose input helped shape the story. Arthur aficionado Brent Murry’s notes were very concise and encouraging. Stephanie Spencer’s thoughtful comments and enthusiasm have been an inspiration; I can only hope the book is discovered by more readers like her.

  Finally, I owe the deepest debt of gratitude to my wife, Wendy. Her patience and support have never waned. Without her love and devotion, I would never have completed this quest.

  CHAPTER 1

  The door exploded from its hinges, and a platoon of Incendi troopers armed with electroshock batons scrambled through the twisted frame, separating into squads to search the upper and lower floors. The husband and wife who resided in the humble two-story unit were pushed against the wall at the base of the stairs, awaiting judgment. Terror flashed in their eyes as the police ransacked the home, toppling furniture and smashing belongings.

  A young officer approached the couple, looking at them with a strange mix of sympathy and loathing. Tall and thin with a chiseled jaw and icy blue eyes, the captain was clad in black like his men and wore a fedora tilted forward on his brow. A gold flame insignia pinned near its peak flickered as the overhead light played upon its polished surface.

  “Your daughter. Where is she?” The captain spoke softly, his words laboring under the weight of concern. He stepped past them toward the kitchen, awaiting an answer. One of the squads was finishing its search there, cupboards were open, a pile of shattered dishes on the floor. The captain scanned the place settings on the dining table: two cups, two dishes, a knife and fork each.

  “S…she’s out with a f…friend,” the man stammered. “She hasn’t come home yet.” Finding his courage, he added, “Why are you here? What do you want?”

  The Incendi captain shook his head in disappointment. He hated to bear witness to such resistance, such denial. It was even worse, knowing a child was involved. He approached the man, whispering as he moved. With an open palm, he struck him square in the chest, hurling him back against the wall. The man crumpled to the floor in agony.

  “Stop!” shrieked the woman. She went to her husband and cradled him in her arms. With pleading eyes, she looked up at the officer. “Please. We’ve done nothing wrong.”

  The captain turned toward the battered front door. “That’s not what I’ve been told.”

  She followed his eyes to her next-door neighbor standing in the shadows beyond the threshold, arms crossed to shield her against the cool night air and the guilt of betrayal.

  “Mrs. Tulley?” The words caught in her throat, and she began to sob. “What have you done to us?”

  Just then, a voice rang out from the second floor: “Captain Mordred! Here!”

  Mordred sneered in disgust at the man and woman huddled together on the floor. “You have no one to blame but yourselves.” He nodded for them to be taken away, before striding up the stairs.

  Near the far end of the second-floor hallway, two troopers stood at attention next a rectangular waist-high opening in the wall. Hanging from an enclosed vertical hinge, a false radiator matching the cavity’s dimensions was suspended between them. Calling for a flashlight, the Incendi captain removed his fedora and crouched low, edging his way through the narrow passage.

  It opened into a thin windowless room. Particles of dust hung in the air, glowing embers caught in the shaft of light emerging from his hand. Mordred pointed the beam at the floor, and concentric circles of gold marked the worn carpet like a target. Still crouching, he moved slowly, carefully, pausing after each step, studying the floor’s surface, knowing that readers often left traps for Incendi. Seeing no evidence of subterfuge, Mordred straightened and raised the light. He couldn’t believe what he saw.

  The walls were covered by shelves filled with books! Halfway down the outer wall was a standing lamp with two high back leather chairs on either side. After careful inspection of the reading light’s mechanism, Mordred switched it on and called to the two men waiting outside. Entering the space, their eyes widened.

  “We will perform the Lighting as soon as I’ve examined the contraband,” said Mordred. “CEO Fay will be proud of our work tonight. Praise the Corporation.”

  “Praise the Corporation!” repeated the troopers.

  The Lighting ceremony was completed exactly as prescribed, the same words, the same rituals, just as Morgan Fay had instructed her first Incendi two and a half decades before. With his lieutenants standing at attention behind him, Mordred reached for a small gold case buckled to the wide leather belt of his uniform. Flipping back its lid, he pulled out a match and struck it against the case’s side. A flame hissed into existence, and he straightened his arm, holding the burning match out in front of him.

  “With this flame, I bring light,” he intoned. “With this heat, I cleanse.”

  He waited a moment before letting the tiny torch fall on a pile of crumpled pages at his feet. Then, dropping his arm to his side, he pivoted in place and led his men out.

  The fire crept across the floor, devouring paper and carpet, gaining momentum as it spread. A thick, black smoke filled the room, rolling over itself like a storm cloud, ravenous flames growling hungrily as they climbed. A moment later, there was another sound: a deep, drum-like thudding, barely audible above the burning tempest. A lower section of the shelf separated from the wall, a
nd a row of hard covers slapped the floor. More books cascaded to the carpet, and a groping hand emerged.

  The girl coughed violently, retching as she labored to breath amid the thickening blanket of smoke. She squeezed out from behind the book case, reaching back to pull a duffel bag from the cavity, pushing aside the dish, cup, and utensils her father had cast into the void in the rush to hide her. The bag held provisions, preparations made for a day they prayed would never come.

  Making sure her vidlink was in her pocket, she lifted the hood of her sweatshirt and with eyes clenched shut, crawled across the floor, dragging the duffel bag. Scalding heat seared her throat as she gasped for air, her face and hands feeling like they were on fire. Gulping a mouthful of acrid smoke, an intense wave of nausea washed over the girl, and she fell against the wall of books. She was helpless now, certain she was going to die.

  As the firestorm raged, her mind floated away from the horror. She was a young child again, sitting on her father’s lap, following his finger as it traced words on the page. She giggled and squirmed with excitement as the story unfolded, peeking ahead, eager to find out how the tale would end. Her mother leaned toward her from the adjacent chair, her smiling face awash in the light of the reading lamp. This is our secret, Arti. You can’t tell anyone. She could hear herself answer, I promise.

  When the story was done, she reached across with her tiny hand and closed the book’s cover. She smiled up at her parents expectantly, waiting to say the ritual words together.

  And they lived happily ever after.

  From somewhere in the cloud of her delirium, Arti Penderhagen heard the books on the shelves call to her, drawing her back to the present. Words echoed from their pages, guiding her hand along their bindings, showing her the way out.

  CHAPTER 2

  Arti’s memory of her escape from the burning home was as cloudy as the smoke that stung her eyes and filled her lungs. She wasn’t sure what happened in those last desperate moments, incapacitated as she was by the raging inferno. The fact that she thought she heard the books speak to her was an indication of just how impaired her judgment had been. She wondered what she would have done if they had summoned her toward the flames. Would I have followed? Would I be dead?

  She didn’t want to think about it. All that mattered was that she made it out of the burning library, finding her way to the window at the end of the upstairs hall. Propping it open with a piece of wood that was resting on the sill, an inrush of fresh air poured over her, and she coughed violently, throwing back her hood, taking several deep breaths. Once her head was clear, she threw the duffel bag out and scrambled over the sill, hanging precariously by her fingertips until she found the courage to let herself drop to the lawn below. The height was greater than expected; she struck the ground hard and rolled onto her side. Looking toward the front of the house to make sure no one was watching, she scrambled to retrieve the bag and crossed the backyard to a rickety cedar fence barely visible in the darkness. Momentarily snagged by a protruding wire as she straddled the barrier, she pulled herself free and melted into the night.

  Arti alternated between a fast walk and a jog, all the while wrestling with the awkward weight of the duffel bag and bouts of convulsive coughing. She threaded her way along a series of dark, deserted backstreets, avoiding the main thoroughfares still likely to have pedestrians and traffic, putting as much distance as she could between herself and the flames that devoured a life she could never return to. After walking for over an hour through a suburban maze of homes and apartment buildings, Arti found a narrow alley between two rows of townhouses where she could rest and examine the contents of the duffel bag.

  Loosening the rope around the mouth of the canvas sack, Arti peered inside. It was too dark to see what was there, so she plunged her hand in and felt around. As luck would have it, the first thing she touched was a thin, metal flashlight. When she pulled it out and switched it on, she was surprised to see how black her hands were, guessing the rest of her probably looked the same. She shook soot from her hair and brushed away ash and grit still clinging to the baggy hooded sweatshirt draped over her thin frame. Stifling a cough, she examined her torn pants, gingerly touching a lacerated knee, the product of her battle with the fence. She coughed again, the heaviness in her chest and a wave of nausea reminding her that the minor wound was the least of her worries.

  Shining the light into the bag, she inspected the rest of her supplies. There were a few cans of food, a small jug of water, a knife in a plastic sheath, a blanket, a lighter, and a red Corporation credit chip worth fifty flash. She saw something else: a letter.

  Propping the flashlight on her leg, Arti unfolded the paper slowly, noting the rough edge that ran down one side. She guessed it was from one of the books in the library. In the ever-shrinking world of print, scribes were forced to cannibalize the blank pages found at the front and back of manuscripts; there were simply no other sources of paper available to them. Pens were even rarer, as was the ink they used. This was one of the few examples of pen writing Arti had ever seen.

  She knew that her mother and father had learned the skill when they were very young, in the final years before the practice was abolished in schools, but she could count on one hand how many times she had seen them do it. The characters on the page appeared to have been applied in hesitant and uneven strokes, but the words they formed were legible. Arti wondered which of her parents’ hands had crafted the message.

  Arti:

  If you are reading this, it means the library has been found, and the Incendi have taken us. We know how frightened you must be, but try to be strong, and remember everything we told you.

  The Incendi will be hunting you now. Get to Isle as fast as you can. Stick to the plan, and trust no one.

  Be safe. We love you.

  Mom and Dad

  Arti’s parents had always warned her that such a day could come, making her rehearse the escape plan from the time she was old enough to understand their instructions. The secret library, if found, would be a deception in itself. They were correct in thinking the police would not search behind its shelves, but they didn’t expect the collection of books to be burned immediately upon discovery. Had they known this, they would never have put their daughter at such risk. Normal Incendi procedure involved cordoning off homes where contraband had been found to allow for Network coverage and a full Corporate investigation. That usually took days, more than enough time for their daughter to slip away unseen. Arti could only imagine the horror her parents must have felt knowing the house was being burned with her inside.

  Tears welled in her eyes making the words a watery blur on the page. After a few minutes and another coughing fit, she stood and gulped some water from the jug, then returned it to the duffel bag. Switching off the flashlight, she pocketed it along with the letter.

  “Stick to the plan,” she whispered, pulling the hood over her head, “and trust no one.”

  Arti had hoped to arrive at the West Bridge before midnight, but nearly two hours into the trek her pace had slowed considerably. She had never been to this part of the city before, and she lost her way more than once in the labyrinth of backstreets and boulevards crisscrossing its southern reaches. Precious time had been lost, and she knew that every minute that passed increased the likelihood of capture.

  Listening through a tiny speaker plugged into her ear, Arti feigned interest in the ads scrolling across the vidlink’s screen. The latest Corporation lottery was worth ten million flash, the sound of cheering accompanied an explosion of colored pixels. Barry Briton, star of the highest rated linkshow, Eyes on the Prize, pointed at the viewer and shouted, “You could be next!”

  The lottery ad faded away, and another took its place. This one featured a beautiful young woman with long auburn hair and skin like porcelain. Her green eyes sparkled above a toothy smile as the newest line of Fay Industries products—vidlinks, eyecams, and spylids—danced around her. “A picture is worth a thousand words,” she sa
id, pulling one of the devices magically from the air, turning its tiny screen toward the viewer. “Show, don’t tell. You are the Corporation.”

  Another blaze of light filled the screen, introducing a “newsflash”. It was no coincidence that it shared the same name as the Corporation’s currency, since the announcements almost always featured rewards given for turning in readers and, on rare occasions, the even more dangerous and elusive scribes.

  A line of troopers stood at attention in front of a burning home. A crowd of people bathed in the light of the fire cheered. A child with his back to the camera extended an arm to a tall Incendi officer. The captain in his fedora smiled as he shook the boy’s hand. The words “Ten thousand flash!” echoed in Arti’s ear.

  The camera panned across the home’s burning façade, and Arti immediately recognized it through the flames. That’s my house!

  The crowd cheered again, and the boy turned to face the camera, smiling. When Arti saw who it was, her heart skipped a beat.

  Robb.

  Arti had never told her neighbor about the library; that secret was too dangerous to share with anyone. But betrayal feeds on smaller morsels, crumbs of fear and suspicion—food that Robb Tulley apparently had an appetite for. Arti tried to remember what she might have said or done to give him reason to suspect her family had books. Nothing came to mind, but it was clear by what she was watching on the vidlink that he had reported them. Robb had been the closest thing to a friend Arti ever had, and now she feared that her trust in him was responsible for destroying her family.

  The crowd cheered again, and the newsflash ended with a picture of Arti’s face filling the link screen. The voiceover boomed: “REWARD!” Everyone, everywhere, was looking at Arti’s image right now; she recognized it as her grade nine school picture taken less than a month before. Straight blonde hair hung to her shoulders, framing a face devoid of expression. The portrait lingered for an eternity before finally fading into another ad.