The Best Weapon

by David Pilling

  "It has a bitter taste," Naiyar croaked.

  "You'll get used to it my friend, there's plenty more where that came from."

  "What's the Donkey's Back?" asked Naiyar when he had finally composed himself.

  "This is." Jarrod spread his arms and looked around the room.

  "What is?" he asked, none the wiser.

  "This place," Jarrod grinned. "Don't they have inns where you come from?"

  "Inns?" Naiyar was struggling to catch on. Jarrod was laughing and shaking his head.

  "A place where you go to drink, to eat, to sleep. Somewhere to get your head down when you're far from home."

  Naiyar frowned. "I've never been far from home before. And now I don't have a home. Why is it called the Donkey's Back?"

  "Because this is the ass-end of the world!"

  Naiyar was still confused. "What's a donkey?"

  Now it was Jarrod's turn to choke on his ale, his face bright red with mirth. Naiyar thought the man's head might explode if he laughed any more.

  "I think we've got a lot to talk about, don't you?" Jarrod beamed at him again as the mysterious girl dropped two more mugs of ale on the table and transfixed Naiyar with a her smile.

  Something caught his eye from the far corner of the room. He turned and saw a figure, staring straight at him.

  He suddenly experienced tunnel vision and could focus clearly on the image before him, despite the fact it was some distance away in a dim room. The smoke, the noise, the fire were all gone, replaced by a roaring in Naiyar's head, as though he was back in the river which had swept him away from his hunters.

  He could see every detail of the grim figure now. The fine weave of the man's stained white robe, an image of a black sword embroidered on his breast, a gold, five-pointed star on his shoulder, his chiselled, square jaw. Water poured from him and puddled at his feet. He had a great, open gash in his head, but it wasn't bleeding, it looked as though it had been washed clean. As though there was no blood left to leak from it.

  The strange dripping man held Naiyar's gaze, then his mouth opened, a pleading expression spread across his grey face, but Naiyar could not hear him over the roaring in his head.

  Naiyar jumped as a hand touched his arm. The barmaid. She looked at him, with that intense smile on her face, as though he were the only other person in the room. He glanced around. Everything was back to normal; the chatter of the people, the music, the heat. Then he looked back to the corner, where the dripping man had stood, but he was gone. The floor where he had been standing was bone dry.

  "Are you all right?" asked the barmaid. Naiyar felt his cheeks redden as he smiled back at her, dumb struck.

  "I'm Kayla," she said. She held out her hand, pale and delicate, the complete opposite to Jarrod's lumpen paw. Her eyes penetrated him, a strange expression on her face, as though she already knew him. He felt childish and shy under her forthright, unabashed gaze.

  "Naiyar," he said, eventually remembering his name. With a sudden recollection of the last piece of advice the voices had given him, he grabbed her hand and shook it. It was cool and smooth and he tingled at the feel of it. She blushed and he heard Jarrod laughing again.

  "I think you're supposed to kiss it," she suggested.

  "If you shook it any harder you'd have had the fucker off!" Jarrod wheezed as he tried to stifle his choking and control his laughter, contriving to express pain and mirth simultaneously on his craggy face.

  Kayla's face became serious and she frowned at him. "You're hungry. I'll fetch you something to eat." Before Naiyar had time to answer, she was gone.

  "Seems to me she knows you better than you know yourself, my boy. Now, that ale isn't going to drink itself!" Jarrod grinned and nodded at the two mugs Kayla had set on the table.

  Naiyar was still catching up with events. So many things seemed to be happening all at once, he had been bombarded with sights, sounds, smells, and emotions. Before he could process one, another was on him. First the unexplained vision of the dripping wet man, making him afraid and bewildered, hijacking his senses, and then the intoxicating presence of Kayla. He felt dazed.

  Naiyar resolved to allow events to take their course. He handed Jarrod a mug and took one for himself. He drank as Jarrod watched with a look of profound approval.

  "So, what brought you to the Donkey's Back, Naiyar?"

  "A rushing river." Naiyar wasn't trying to be philosophical. He really didn't know what else to say.

  Jarrod grunted as though he understood perfectly. "Me too, my boy, me too. But what prompted you to jump in?"

  "I fell."

  At that moment Kayla appeared with a joint of meat on a platter and placed it in front of Naiyar. He suddenly realised he hadn't eaten since that morning. He had no idea how far he had walked, the whole day had seemed to pass in a very short space of time, as though he had inadvertently fallen asleep for a few hours.

  He fell upon the beef ravenously. It was tender and juicy; he had only eaten fish for days and the taste of good meat made his head whirl with delight.

  While he ate, Kayla fetched two more mugs of ale. By the time she got back he had eaten half the meat and looked up at her, sated, his face and hands smeared with grease. He grinned, catching his breath, as she placed the mugs on the table. He grabbed one and took a few gulps, washing down the beef.

  "Thank you."

  "You need meat inside you when you've had nothing but fish for days. And you're going to need your strength." Kayla smiled at him matter-of-factly. Jarrod was busy draining his mug. Pausing as a thought struck him, Naiyar frowned at Kayla.

  "How did you know I've been living on fish?"

  "You just said so, do you not remember? You must be tired. The ale makes your mind sluggish when you've been walking all day without food."

  "Oh. No. I don't remember." The ale he had drunk was beginning to catch up with him. "Wait, what will I need my strength for?" But Kayla was already standing and heading back to the bar. He began to sway gently in his chair, bobbing as a hiccup escaped from his chest.

  Jarrod drained the last dregs of his mug and belched, patting his pot belly with one meaty hand and winking at Naiyar.

  Kayla brought back another two mugs and set them down. She smiled at Naiyar and went back to the bar where increasingly drunken men demanded more ale.

  Naiyar and Jarrod clanked their mugs together.

  * * * *

  Naiyar woke with a throbbing head and a parched mouth. He peeled his eyes open with considerable effort and was rewarded with a blinding flash of sunlight. He immediately screwed them tight shut.

  He lay face down on sand. He could feel cool water lapping at his toes. The riverbank.

  He drew in a breath, inhaling a few grains of sand with it, and coughed, every retch making an intense, pounding pain explode in his head. He felt as though his brain was swelling and would soon dribble from his ears. He peeled his tongue from the roof of his mouth, making a sound in his head like someone tearing an animal hide.

  Desperate for water, he steeled himself for the movement that he knew would be both strenuous and painful. He hitched himself up on his elbows, wincing, and slowly shuffled his head round to reach the water he could feel tantalisingly close behind him.

  He dunked his head in the water and gulped down mouthfuls of it. The relief was immense. His throat was so dry, and his gulping so frantic, that he began to choke. Pulling his head back out of the water, he coughed and spluttered, then dipped his head for another gulp.

  Eventually, his thirst quenched, Naiyar rolled over on his back, panting and thanking whatever gods might be listening for the life-giving river.

  He lay there for a while on his back, dozing, his eyelids shutting out the bright sun, feeling the cool river bathing the back of his head. Enjoying the feeling of the water creeping down into his guts, soothing his aching body.

  Gradually, images of the previous night began to form in his mind.

  The musicians.

  Jarrod's big
, friendly face.

  Kayla.

  He felt his heartbeat speed up as he remembered her smile, her forthright manner. Her searching eyes.

  He sat up, steadying himself with one hand, the other holding his head. He could remember going into the Donkey's Back and drinking the bitter ale. But he couldn't quite piece together the events which followed the third or fourth mug. After that it was all very hazy. He could remember nothing.

  He began to consider the possibility that is was all a dream, which gave him a pang of crushing disappointment. If Kayla was a dream he wished he had never woken up. Then he considered his thumping head, his dry mouth, and his sour stomach. The ale was certainly not a dream, and Kayla had served it to him. A lot of it.

  Relieved at ruling out the possibility that he had dreamed the events in the Donkey's Back, he decided to go back and thank Kayla for the ale, if only for an excuse to see her again. He turned and walked groggily, straining to see the buildings in the distance as the glare of the desert sands stung his eyes and blotted out any details. After he had walked for a short while he came across what looked like the tumbledown remains of a wall. As he approached it he realised it was more than just a wall. It seemed to be the ruins of an ancient building. He looked back at the river, then back along the way he had come. Was he walking the wrong way? He knew by the position of the sun he was not. And yet he could not see the great stone buildings he had come across the night before.

  He inspected the rubble, scratching his head, going over his memories of the previous night. He walked around the wall, brushing his hand along what remained of the piles of stone. As he came around the corner of the wall he noticed something which startled him. A piece of wood, half buried in the sand. He crouched next to it, brushing the sand away, revealing the faint outline of some kind of animal, the colours faded by the sun.

  He felt a cold sweat break out over his body, his heart pounding in his chest so that he could hear it in his ears. He refused to believe the realisation that was dawning on him.

  Naiyar stood quickly and scanned the rest of the scene. He could see the sun-bleached, windswept ruins of an entire settlement, the stones worn smooth by hundreds of years of being blasted by sand blowing in the wind. He knew that he was looking at the ruins of the inn called the Donkey's Back.

  As he stood there, contemplating the truth that he could not dismiss, no matter how many times he told himself it was impossible, he could see a figure in the distance.

  A woman, her golden hair glowing like a beacon in the sun, slowly walked towards him from further west along the river. She was dressed all in white, dazzling him. Yet he recognised her instantly. Kayla.

  The sight of her threw his mind into confusion. She was the only tangible thing remaining from his memories of the previous night. He stood there, frowning. How could everything have been a dream except her? As she got closer, a breeze started to blow from the north, pushing a long, shimmering lock of hair across her face. Naiyar squinted as the sun reflected from her burnished hair, making his tired eyes ache even more.

  "Kayla?"

  He watched, his breath held, his mind void of answers, and wondered if he was still asleep.

  "Hello Naiyar. Did you sleep well?"

  "I slept on the river bank. I mean, I don't know. What happened?"

  "You drank a lot of ale and then passed out."

  "No, I mean what happened," he spread his arms to encompass all that was before him, "to all this?"

  "The same thing that happens to everything in life, Naiyar: time erodes it. In one way or another."

  "But were we not here last night?"

  "We were here."

  "Then where is the inn?"

  She gestured towards the ruin.

  "But last night—"

  "Not last night, Naiyar, three hundred years ago."

  Naiyar's blood ran cold. "What about Jarrod, and the musicians, all the people in the inn?"

  "All long dead."

  Naiyar looked around him, he felt as though he was looking into his own mind, and he could see a glimmer of understanding in there. But he could not grasp it. It was the thing he had been seeking, the knowledge, the answers to all his questions. Beyond the horizon.

  It frustrated him more than ever, to feel its presence, almost like a sentient being, and yet still not be able to grasp it. It was like catching a fleeting glimpse of some sure-footed beast in the jungle, but when you turned to see the thing, it was gone.

  Kayla put a hand on his shoulder. "It will take time to learn everything you wish to know. Everything you must know."

  "But, why are you still here? Are you a ghost too?"

  "No, I am something else. And I am here for you."

  "Me?"

  She began to walk away from the river. Naiyar watched her walk north into the desert.

  Go with her Naiyar, she is the source of all the knowledge you seek.

  As the voices spoke to Naiyar, she turned and looked at him, her eyebrows raised, one hand held out.

  Naiyar suddenly realised something. He gasped, rushing towards her, grabbing her hand. "You can hear them too, can't you?"

  "Yes. I can hear them."

  Naiyar did not know how relieved he would be to hear those words. He threw his arms around her and kissed her. Then he drew back, his hands gripping her shoulders, and frowned at her. "What are they?"

  "They are the dead, Naiyar, they watch over you. They have always watched over you."

  "Why did they not speak to me before?"

  "You did not need them before."

  So he was right, the voices would only speak when they were needed.

  "Why did they lead me here?"

  "Because this is where I was waiting for you." She turned again and began walking away.

  This time Naiyar followed.

  5.

  Archpriest Flambard was happy. Leaning back in his overstuffed armchair in the dark coolness of his office, he contentedly sipped from a glass of precious brandy and ticked off in his mind all the enemies he had recently disposed of.

  The Templars and their vile Grand Master; his idiot brother; the demagogues and revolutionaries that had stirred up so much hate against him in the city: all gone, dead or effectively exiled. And he had achieved this with, he liked to think, remarkable cleverness.

  I am in my sixtieth year, he thought smugly, and my mind is sharper than it has ever been. It must be all the fish I eat. Or else my opponents have declined in quality. Grand Master Sibrand, for instance, had most definitely lost his touch.

  The Archpriest was supreme in his position. Regent of the Winter Realm, free to rule alone and unchallenged until Queen Heloise came of age. That would not come to pass for another eighteen years, by which time he would be an old, old man: positively ancient by the standards of the Winter Realm, where sickness and the general harshness of life carried off most men before they were fifty.

  And perhaps, even in my old age, I will not be so willing to hand over power to a mere slip of a girl.

  This treacherous thought flashed through his mind. Archpriest Flambard frowned, genuinely disturbed. He regarded himself as the most loyal of men, always putting the best interests of the realm before his own. That was how he justified his grasping of power. There was only one man fit to rule the Winter Realm, and that man was him. There was no arrogance or idle vanity in his belief, just a cold and clear-eyed assessment of the facts.

  He tipped back the rest of his brandy and laid aside the glass. Work. That was what his mind needed. The gods knew there was enough of it, a great heap of reports and dispatches on his desk, sent by his agents from every point in the realm.

  The Archpriest's stubby fingers lifted a bundle of scrolls from the top of the heap and spread them out. Most were crumpled and travel-stained. One or two were marked by spots of dried blood. He ignored the imperfections and focused on the content, squinting to make out the handwriting. Much of it was crabbed and rushed, the work of people in a hurry.

>   What he read made him shake his head. There was war brewing in the north again, as dumb and avoidable as ever. It seemed that House Gisburne had provoked another turf war with House D'Auney, despite D'Auney being richer and more powerful. Baron Gisburne cared little for that, being an empty-headed lout who reckoned his wild reivers to be more than a match for any number of men-at-arms.

  Archpriest Flambard pulled at his lower lip and calculated. The reivers were hard men, to be sure, the best light horse in the Winter Realm, but Baron D'Auney would not put up with any more of their raiding and burning. Last time it had taken all of Flambard's diplomatic skill to broker a peace between the two Houses. His field agents reported that D'Auney was itching for an excuse to summon all his armed tenants and wipe House Gisburne off the map.

  Well. Baron Gisburne could roast in his own gravy. The Archpriest had saved him last time because he could afford to pay for assistance. The latest reports indicated that he was sadly impoverished, thanks to slim pickings in recent raids and a murrain striking his cattle.

  All in all, Archpriest Flambard decided, the realm would be better off without the Gisburnes. And Baron D'Auney was a reasonably intelligent man who appreciated the benefits of paying his taxes on time. He scribbled a note and put it to one side.

  There was much more in this vein. Local disputes, cross-House politicking and sporadic warfare, raids, counter-raids, blackmail, a couple of juicy murders and enough petty crime to make one's head ache. The Archpriest grinned as he worked through it all. He was absolutely in his element.

  Later on, he decided as he reached for a fresh quill, he would visit the Queen.

  * * * *

  Queen Heloise's bedchamber was the safest place in the entire Winter Realm. Her late grandfather, King Rollo, had laboured. to make it so, having grown paranoid about security after the loss of his two sons. The eldest, Crown Prince Henri, had fallen off a castle wall while drunk. The second son (and Heloise's father), Edouard, had overheated while out hunting and died of a heart attack. Robbed of his immediate heirs by sheer mischance, Rollo had determined that no humanly avoidable accidents would occur to his granddaughter.