The Best Weapon

by David Pilling

  The shamans' dance went on until they surrounded the line of boys, moving slowly and unnaturally around them like badly-made puppets.

  Suddenly one shaman turned and glared at Naiyar, pointing with his shaking, bony hand, his deep-set eyes wide and flecked with red. The shaman's other-worldly, unseeing grimace flickered with a glint of awareness as his eyes regarded Naiyar, who felt a pang of fear and disgust. But in that moment of awareness, it was the shaman who showed fear, not Naiyar.

  The shaman's jaw went slack, tears welled up in his eyes, and he shrieked and wailed as piss streamed down his legs. He let out a second, blood-curdling scream, still pointing at Naiyar, turned and leaped from the platform, still screaming as he plummeted to his death.

  Naiyar heard him hit the ground far below with a wet thud.

  The rest of the elders stood, aghast. The shaman should not have shown such fear, he should have rejoiced in finding his god.

  One by one, the shamans came jerking and drooling towards Naiyar. In each pair of eyes he saw the strange and unexpected glint of awareness, that there was someone in there looking at him. Someone gripped by fear and amazement.

  Gradually, all the shamans congregated around Naiyar, wailing and shrieking and pointing their scrawny fingers at him. When they surrounded only Naiyar, the cries suddenly fell silent.

  The elders seemed unsure of what they had witnessed. The shamans were supposed to present the Chosen Son to the tribe and rejoice. There would be ten days of feasting and drinking, and then one night the Son would be set loose in the jungle. The best hunters in the tribe would chase and kill him, releasing the god within him to join the others in the stars.

  Eventually, one old man stepped forward.

  "The shamans have chosen," he said in a loud but still uncertain voice. The sound echoed from the temple and descended to the now silent tribe waiting below.

  As they heard his words, the sound of the tribe's celebrations grew again until it was louder than ever.

  Naiyar's father gave him a worried look, but said nothing as he took his arm and led him to the front of the platform and showed him to his people. The tribe roared, an immense wall of noise that made Naiyar's blood run cold.

  The voices were right. He was being chosen.

  But not as a god.

  "No!"

  Naiyar heard a shout from behind him.

  "No! This cannot be!"

  Grizzal, one of the tribal elders and his father's implacable enemy, stood with his hands on his hips. "The boy was not chosen. You all saw the shamans. That is not how they are supposed to react—they are closest to the gods, they do not fear them."

  Lokee turned to Grizzal with a mildly amused expression on his face. Grizzal raised a scrawny arm and drew himself up to his full height. "The shamans must choose again!"

  "You've decided that, have you?" asked Lokee.

  "I am the chief here, Grizzal," cried Kelta from his seat, "and not even I can tell the shamans what they must do! They are the vessels of the gods. Do you question their actions?"

  "I...no...I...He's done something! This is not right! I'll find out what you have done, Lokee." Grizzal spat the name like it was a turd in his mead. "And when I do I'll have your skin!"

  "My skin?" said Lokee. "So that is what you have wanted all this time? And there I was thinking you were in love with my personality. I didn't realise it was a purely physical attraction."

  A few of the elders sniggered.

  "I am sorry, Grizzal," Lokee continued, "but I am not that way inclined. I would offer to swap skins but I fear yours may be a little tight around the crotch. Tell you what, throw in your wife's skin, then I'll have enough to clothe myself, my wife and children, and some left over for a good-sized rug and some drums. I bet I'd even have enough left to make hammocks for the whole tribe! They've all lain on your wife so I'm sure they would be comfortable."

  "Just you wait, Lokee—"

  "Wait?" Lokee smirked. "I'm afraid you have got yourself confused again. It is you who must wait on me. Because my son is a god. Come, Naiyar."

  He placed his hand on Naiyar's shoulder and led him through the congregation of elders, most of whom were still struggling to suppress their laughter.

  2.

  The drinking and smoking and dancing had been going for six days, as had the snorting of "flight-bark," ground-up bark of the Sagun tree that kept men awake, helped them drink ridiculous amounts of mead, and inflated their egos to monstrous proportions.

  And, of course, there had been the Trials, the contests young men underwent to become warriors and earn the respect of the elders and chief. They were designed to push each participant to his limit and to pit him against his fellow warriors, testing his physical and mental strength, skill, determination, and cunning. But most of all they were meant to separate the weak and the meek from the strong, the ruthless and the downright vicious.

  Trials were a regular feature of every young Djanki male's life—but during the feast of the Chosen Son, young warriors of eighteen competed in the Trials daily. It was considered a great honour to compete in the brutal games before the chief and the elders, but most important of all before the Chosen Son, their living god.

  Each trial was more imaginatively brutal and terrifying than the last. They started with simple events such as an endurance race through the jungle, during which contenders could use any means necessary to win. Another race was to the top of the highest cliff, rising up from the banks of the great river.

  Then there were the hunts. Kelta the chief, as was the custom, insisted on eating the biggest and most fearsome animals in the jungle and it was the young warriors who had to hunt them. Crocodile, rhino, elephant, jaguar—all these animals and more were on the menu.

  Naiyar had previously enjoyed his trials, though some of them had been terrifying. And to survive a trial was to earn the praise of the chief and the elders, and, if you were lucky, the admiration of the young women of the tribe. So he had been eagerly anticipating his chance to prove himself as a man.

  But the Chosen Son did not need to prove himself. After all, he was a god and the Trials were for his amusement, not something he could participate in. So, each day Naiyar sat bored, watching his friends compete against one another for reputations as strong and fearless warriors, and watching the chief and the elders drink themselves into a stupor.

  Today was no different. In fact today was worse, as it was the day of the tournament in which all the young warriors would compete, which meant it would take all day and Naiyar would have to watch every fight.

  Every Djanki male was trained in Kentau, an efficient fighting style that looked like a mesmerising dance, designed to confuse an enemy with rolls, flips, sweeps, relentless spin-kicks, and upper-cuts. Beautiful to watch but bewildering and painful to fight when you were up against a skilled master.

  "That Colken is lethal!" exclaimed one of the elders. "He fights like a Kentau master and he's only a boy!"

  Naiyar agreed. The young warrior had battered yet another of his peers without breaking a sweat.

  Lokee turned with a mischievous grin and looked up at Naiyar. "I bet you're glad you were chosen now, aren't you my boy! At least you don't have to fight that!"

  Naiyar tried to smile, but it was late afternoon and he couldn't count how many fights he had watched. He wanted to take part, to fight. Even losing would be better than sitting idle all day. He couldn't even feed himself—he had a servant-girl on either side, one with an enormous basket of fruit, the other with a ceramic jug of mead. He had to sit in a great high-backed chair where everyone could see him, and his back ached.

  Kelta the chief was to Naiyar's left, raised up on his litter, drifting in and out of drunken consciousness. The elders were spread out in front of him. The rest of the spectators watched the show from their places around the edge of the clearing.

  Grizzal was as drunk as the rest of the elders, but he didn't get excited and laugh and banter. Instead, he sneered. "Colken? Are you nu
ts? My son Viepa will take him—he's been practising. He'll show that Colken boy how to fight like a man."

  Lokee said, "He'll have to beat Appiah first."

  When it was their turn, Viepa and Appiah presented themselves and bowed to the elders. Grizzal laughed and pointed at Appiah. "That little shit? He won't last long."

  Appiah was a quiet, thoughtful boy, similar in size to Viepa and an adequate fighter, but without Viepa's sadistic streak.

  They faced each other and began circling warily, crouched in the Kentau stance with their arms apart in front of them. Naiyar had watched Viepa fight several times that day; he had to admit he was a good fighter, though he had won because the other boys had not performed the deadly moves in which Viepa took a sickening pleasure.

  The two fighters began to feint and parry, roll and spin. They were well matched. Both boys seemed reluctant to launch into an attack, but Naiyar could see that Appiah was the more patient and calculating. Viepa tried ever more desperate tactics to get past Appiah's guard.

  Appiah countered one of Viepa's lunges, having waited for just the right opening. Viepa feinted to his right, rolled the other way at the last moment, flicked his legs out as he spun round on his hands, then arched his legs up and over Appiah's guard so he could connect with his temple.

  The elders groaned in anticipation of the kick knocking out Appiah—but with surprising speed, Appiah dropped beneath Viepa's kick, planted the palm of his left hand in the grass, and kicked Viepa just above the groin, doubling him up in agony.

  Appiah swung his legs forward and planted his right palm on the ground, slowly lowering his feet to the floor.

  The elders roared their approval as Appiah walked toward them and bowed.

  Everyone cheered, except Grizzal, who shouted at his son. "Viepa, get up! Finish him off!"

  Viepa got to his feet, his face red. He took a deep breath, steadied himself, ran straight at Appiah, and kicked him hard in the base of the spine.

  Appiah screamed with pain and dropped to the floor, his hands pressed to his lower back.

  Grizzal turned to the elders. "My boy is the winner! Viepa wins! I told you he would show him how to fight!"

  None of the elders seemed impressed. "He cheated," said one.

  "He is a disgrace."

  "He is a coward."

  Even Naiyar was stirred from his boredom. He stood, sickened by Viepa's cowardice. "He is not the winner. He had already lost the fight before his act of cowardice."

  "He has won by his ruthlessness and cunning," said Kelta the chief, roused from slumber, "qualities which make a warrior. You have all been taught Kentau. Since when do they teach you to turn your back on an opponent who is still alive?"

  "But, chief," Lokee said. "This is a tournament, not a war. These boys are not enemies."

  Kelta laughed. "Veipa must fight Colken now. We will see if he is foolish enough to take his eye off his opponent. Bring Colken! It is the tournament's final fight!"

  Kelta gestured at four girls standing by, who bowed and carried Appiah, still writhing in pain, from the clearing.

  Viepa stood, rubbing his sore belly as Colken strode into the clearing. Colken glanced at Appiah as he passed him, plainly expecting to have faced him in the final, and then frowned at Viepa.

  "Now we will see a fight!" said Grizzal. Several of the elders rolled their eyes and shook their heads.

  Naiyar found himself interested in this fight. He wanted to see Viepa beaten and the smile wiped off Grizzal's irritating face.

  Once again, the two young men bowed to the elders, to Naiyar and to Kelta, and then faced each other. Viepa moved stiffly at first, but Colken allowed him time to recover.

  Colken fought as Appiah had, though he was more lithe, more agile, and his technique more natural. Viepa had learned the lesson Appiah had given him and approached the fight more cautiously. Colken feinted this way and that, trying to draw Viepa in. Viepa ducked and rolled around him, obviously waiting for a weakness or a gap in Colken's guard.

  Viepa's face became increasingly red as his anger got the better of him and the kicks and punches he threw became more laboured. He dropped to his palms and shot out his legs, intending to take Colken's ankles from beneath him. Colken cart-wheeled to his right, rolled behind Viepa, appeared in a flash on his other side and chopped him in the nose with the side of his left hand.

  The crowd gasped at the crunch of Viepa's nose bone.

  Viepa's head snapped back and blood spurted form his nose in a great arc. His hands slid from beneath him and the back of his head hit the floor.

  Colken wheeled around and beckoned Viepa to stand, but his opponent seemed unable to rise.

  Grizzal glared coldly at his fallen son.

  Colken shrugged and walked over to the elders to bow.

  As Colken's back was turned, Viepa climbed to his hands and knees, and blinked the tears from his eyes.

  Colken appeared calm, his face showed no emotion as he bowed to Kelta and then to Naiyar. Naiyar acknowledged the bow with a nod of his own, and then looked up to see Viepa hurtling toward Colken's turned back. Viepa dropped, landed on his forearms and arched his back, bringing a leg up over his head in a lightning fast movement. Colken, still looking at Naiyar, slammed his foot into the underside of his opponent's jaw. Viepa's body fell senseless to the ground.

  The crowd roared with laughter.

  3.

  Far, far away, in the lowest chamber of the Pit, the Lords of Hell sat and contemplated their chessboard. One piece in particular was the object of their attention. Carved from the thigh bone of a long-dead corrupt priest, the piece represented an archpriest. As such it was carved in the likeness of a suitably overweight man wearing heavy robes and a self-satisfied expression.

  Screwfate placed the tip of his hairy forefinger on the archpriest's bald head. "This one shall be our tool," he slavered, "I shall creep into his dreams at night, and plant the seeds of an idea."

  "Be subtle, brother," warned Lockjaw, "he is a man of faith, and they can sense our presence."

  The other's face wrinkled into a hideous grin. "Have no fear. This one's faith was long ago buried by his ambition. He shall suspect nothing, and think that my idea is his own."

  "Make sure you put your Mark on him! There is nothing as amusing as watching a priest go all to pieces."

  "I shall, I shall."

  And so a man's doom was sealed.

  * * * *

  In the cold North of the world, separated from the huge mainland continent that stretches all the way down to the Girdle Sea, is a bleak island ringed by jagged mountains and raging seas. When the Old Kingdom on the great southern continent collapsed, driven apart by internal strife and barbarian incursions, the survivors fled across the ocean to this island. Here, in a land where snow and ice ruled for much of the year, they tried to construct a new civilization from what they could remember of the old.

  The Founders (as they became known in the histories) called their new kingdom the Winter Realm. In the middle of the island, on the banks of the wide river they named the Life, the Founders built a city. They called the city Hope, and the best and bravest of the Founders was chosen to reign from Hope as King. This man's name was Jean de la Coeur, and he founded a dynasty of monarchs that ruled the Winter Realm for seven hundred years.

  One monarch, one city and one united people living under one common law. In such unity, so the Founders thought, lay their best chance of survival. And for seven centuries, the Winter Realm not only survived but prospered under the rule of the Founder King and his descendants.

  Then a time came when the line of the kings failed. King Rollo III died without a male heir, leaving only his sickly infant granddaughter to succeed him as queen. On her fragile life, the unity and survival of the Winter Realm now depended.

  * * * *

  Archpriest Flambard was exhausted. He always was these days, ever since the old king had died and left him in charge of affairs. He went to bed late and rose early, hi
s days an endless blur of politics and paperwork.

  It was mid-afternoon, the time of day when he usually tried to snatch a couple of hours' rest in his private chambers. He had retired to his study early, drawn the heavy curtains and sat in cool darkness behind his desk, hands pressed to his eyes and a damp cloth draped across his forehead.

  His eyes stung. His back ached. His head throbbed. I am too old, he thought, all my life I have craved power, and now I am too old to bear its weight.

  Not that he expected sympathy. The Archpriest was unpopular with the people, who blamed him for everything from government corruption to the price of beef, and he was hated by the noble Houses, who regarded him as an upstart. As a priest he was naturally a bachelor and childless (though there were one or two bastard boys running around whose parentage wouldn't bear close inspection), and his closest living relative was his younger brother, Count Flambard, a brainless bravo who could be relied upon for nothing except bad advice.

  No matter how he tried to push them out, the cares of State proliferated in his mind, shouting and shoving one another for his attention. Would the noble Houses accept fresh tax proposals, or throw them out? Did the Winter Realm's coastal defences need strengthening against the seasonal pirate raids, and if so, where would the money and men come from? How many people were plotting against him? Would the fragile health of the infant Queen Heloise improve, and should the court move again to avoid the Chill? All these and many more, revolving over and over until he felt like screaming.

  Flambard did not scream, or do anything half so exciting. He contrived to appear calm, dignified, slightly mysterious and mildly threatening. One quiet word of rebuke from him could drive an underling to tears, and if he ever needed to raise his voice it was talked about in hushed whispers for weeks afterwards.

  He had spent decades developing and refining this persona, and now, in his sixtieth year, he was so feared and respected that no man in their right mind would even dream of barging into his study and bellowing for Archpriest Flambard in a voice fit to wake the dead.