The Best Weapon

by David Pilling

  Her bedchamber was a specially constructed apartment in the highest floor of the palace keep. The only door was guarded night and day by two of The Queen's Own, hard-bitten veteran knights whose loyalty to their monarch was unquestionable. Beyond her chamber was an empty room, split down the middle by a wall with a portcullis in the centre. The portcullis was guarded by two more knights, and there was a gallery above in which an archer kept careful watch on anyone entering or leaving the room.

  Beyond that was a narrow corridor leading to a guard-room, where The Queen's Own ate, diced, drank and slept. Even in their sleep, these men guarded the child. Rollo had thought this a nice touch.

  Archpriest Flambard waddled into the guard-room and treated its occupants to the briefest of scowls. He didn't like soldiers at the best of times, and especially didn't like them during their leisure hours.

  Half a dozen knights sat at rough benches or sprawled on their pallets on the grubby floor, stuffing their coarse faces with stew and beer and talking in crude soldier-speak: dirty jokes, extravagant lies about their fighting prowess, the quantity and quality of women they had recently pleasured. The Archpriest had heard it all before, and would rather stick forks in his eyes than listen to any of it again.

  He tried to hurry through, but the knights were not so lax or tipsy as they pretended. Two of them rose and barred his way as Flambard approached the door leading into the corridor.

  "What can we do you for, lordship?" one grinned, wiping mutton stew from his mouth.

  Flambard clenched his fists and quelled his temper at the man's insolent attitude. As the Queen's guardians, the knights enjoyed a privileged position and could be sarcastic to anyone they pleased.

  Within reason, thought the Cardinal. Just let this one overstep the mark and I'll have him cleaning out privies for a year.

  "I am here to see the Queen," he replied in his most autocratic tone. "As you well know, since I visit her regularly. Let me pass."

  The knights stayed fixed in place, as did their grins.

  "Past form is irrelevant," said the stew-eater, "as you well know. Tell us the password and you can go through."

  "Password? Do you know who I am, young man?"

  "Of course, my lord Archpriest, but these are uncertain times. We trust no one."

  The Archpriest swelled with anger, increasing his resemblance to a furious overgrown toad. "Trust?" he roared. "What the fuck are you talking about? Do you dare imply that I am capable of treason?"

  The knight tried to make conciliatory noises, and his companion edged away from him. Flambard was having none of it.

  "On your knees, little man!" he howled, jabbing his forefinger at the floor, "on your knees before your master!"

  His luckless victim looked around for aid, but all his brother knights were studiously examining their fingernails, the walls, the ceiling, anything but him. He gulped and slowly dropped to his knees.

  Flambard glared down at him with loathing. The clergyman's heavy face was white with rage and there was a speck of foam at the corner of his chopped-liver lips.

  He drew his jewelled dagger and slashed the kneeling man across the cheek.

  The knight yelped and clapped a hand to his face. Flambard watched in sudden horror as dark red blood welled from between his victim's fingers and trickled across the back of his hand.

  What have I done?

  Flambard knew that he dared not lose his composure. Taking a deep breath, he calmly wiped the bloody dagger on his robe and slid it back into its sheath.

  "Now I shall go and visit the Queen," he declared, fighting to keep his voice level. "You sir, will go and clean yourself up, and not cross me again."

  He stepped around the knight, who was still kneeling with a glazed expression on his bleeding face. Flambard was acutely aware of the silence in the guard-room behind him as he made his way down the corridor.

  * * * *

  Shocked at his own behaviour, Flambard received another unwelcome surprise when he entered the Queen's bedchamber to find the Queen Mother sitting by her daughter's cradle.

  The Queen Mother's name was Eleanor Clifford, and she was just fifteen years old, She didn't even glance up when he came in. The room's other occupants, three aged noblewomen who served as nursemaids to the infant Queen, rose from their stools and curtseyed with proper respect. Flambard acknowledged their curtsey and waved at them to sit down.

  "Lady Clifford," he said, "you show a proper concern for your daughter."

  Eleanor still didn't acknowledge him. She was pale and skinny, with greasy ginger hair and a plain slice of a face drowning in acne and freckles. The Archpriest never knew how to cope with her.

  She never loved her late husband, he thought, which is understandable. Not even his dogs loved our Henri.

  The royal widow's continued presence in the palace irritated him. She had no real purpose anymore and wafted uselessly about the corridors like a sullen ghost. In an ideal world Flambard would have married her off to some lord in a suitably distant territory by now, but she refused to leave her baby. Compelling her to leave was out of the question, for House Clifford was too powerful to offend.

  Flambard cleared his throat. "Madam, I am speaking to you."

  Still Eleanor didn't look up, all her attention fixed on the fledgling life inside the cradle. "My daughter will soon wake up and demand her supper," she said in her whining voice. "You can watch me feed her if you like."

  Flambard did his best to do what she wanted and look uncomfortable. He knew she thought that the Archpriest was a devout religious man and strictly celibate, so the sight of a woman's naked breast being suckled on by a child was bound to embarrass him. In fact he enjoyed sex as and when he felt like it. Usually with peasant girls, since they could be bribed to keep their mouths shut after he was done with them. One or two had threatened to expose him even after he had given them money, but a man of Flambard's resources had little difficulty silencing them.

  "Thank you, but no," he replied. "I merely came to check on Her Majesty's health. She is growing stronger by the day, I trust?"

  "Yes, lordship," chorused the three nursemaids, rising to curtsey again. They looked frightened; as well they might, since their lives were forfeit if any harm came to their sickly charge. Every unexpected cough or hiccup, every mild attack of wind, was treated by them as a herald of doom. Their lives dangled by the same fragile thread as the Queen's, which was the sort of neat arrangement Flambard approved of.

  He shuffled closer to the cradle to look down at his queen.

  Such a little thing. Such a helpless, vulnerable little thing.

  Queen Heloise, monarch of the Winter Realm and last of the Founders' Line, looked as inert and lifeless as a porcelain doll. She had been born prematurely, a red-faced shrieking fragment of blood and flesh, and was still, in the Archpriest's opinion, far too small.

  Flambard knew that she got her lack of strength and size from her mother. Clifford women were notoriously fragile. For the umpteenth time he cursed himself for allowing Prince Henri to marry the girl.

  "Let me find you a fat-hipped mare from the hills, some country Count's daughter," he had urged the late prince, "you'll get never a cross word from her and half a dozen fine sons."

  But no, the fool had insisted. It had to be Eleanor, his rose, his darling, the light of his life. Barely a week after the wedding he had complained that she bored him and ordered the Archpriest to find a way of dissolving the marriage. Henri had growled and snapped in his fat way, like a royal pig, when Flambard told him that dissolving it was impossible without risking civil war.

  The Archpriest peered closer at the peacefully sleeping child, carefully wrapped up in soft white linen. It was too early to be sure, but he fancied he could already detect a resemblance to her father.

  "She will be your ruler one day," murmured Eleanor, "you will have to bow and scrape before her. I am determined to live that long, just to witness it."

  Flambard sighed. He was aware that t
he Queen Mother hated him, though why he was not sure. Her marriage to a cruel idiot had been none of his doing, and since her husband's death he had ignored her as much as possible. Perhaps she resented her loss of prestige, now she was no longer wife to a future king. Flambard shrugged. He didn't give a damn about her problems or desires.

  "I pray, of course, that you enjoy a long and fulfilling life," he replied, determined to be polite. "And it will be no hardship for me to genuflect before my Queen."

  Eleanor's response was an unladylike snort. She thrust her thin pale arms into the cradle and gathered up her daughter, clasping the baby jealously to her flat chest.

  "You can go now, Flambard," she said dismissively, "you're no use here. There is no one you can manipulate, no one you can bribe, no one you can threaten or deceive. Just a mother and her child, and what would you know about that?"

  For the second time in a few minutes Flambard was forced to control himself. He was used to being shown cringing respect and deference, but today both were in short supply.

  An image flashed through his mind. Of the Queen Mother lying dead at his feet, her skull crushed like an egg, and his hands greasy with blood and brain matter. Of Eleanor's baby, her precious daughter, a pathetic bundle of gory linen lying beside the dead mother.

  Gods above, what is wrong with me?

  Flambard coughed and took a step backwards, wiping his eyes as though to clear them of dust. He opened them to see Eleanor smiling in sheer delight, convinced that her words had had such an effect on him.

  "Are you sick, lord Archpriest?" she asked with mock concern.

  "It will pass, thank you."

  Flambard had to get out before he showed any more signs of weakness. That would mean leaving Eleanor in possession of the field, but he could get even with her later. Right now he needed a stiff drink and the cool peace of his chambers.

  "Good day, madam, and long life to your daughter. She carries the hopes of us all."

  Flambard bowed and hurried out of the room. He could feel a migraine coming on.

  6.

  Kelta sat in his hut, brooding over Naiyar's escape. His anger had not cooled.

  Now all he could do was sit and wait and hope his rage had given the young warriors sufficient motivation to finish the job they had been honoured with. But that had been two days ago and he had not seen them since.

  Grizzal appeared in the doorway, creeping into view like a bashful ferret.

  "What are you doing here at this hour?" Kelta was in no mood for visitors. Ever since Naiyar's escape he had just sat in his hut and pickled his brain with mead.

  "I have some information which I think you would find interesting, Chief."

  "Can it not wait until the morning?"

  "I thought I should tell you immediately."

  "Very well, out with it. It had better be worth your disturbing my rest. I have barely slept in the last two days and I am not accustomed to receiving visitors this late in the night."

  "It is about Lokee, Chief. I overheard a conversation between him and his wife."

  Kelta sat up in his hammock, his interest roused.

  "It seems Naiyar's escape was not entirely accidental. He received some help."

  "He received what?" Kelta began to visibly shake, straining to control his anger long enough to hear the full story.

  "Lokee did not give him the tunka."

  "I saw him snort the tunka with my own eyes, Grizzal! Do not waste my time with your stories!"

  "What you saw him snort was not tunka, Chief—it was flight bark."

  Kelta flushed red and a thick vein throbbed on his forehead. His eyes burned with impotent rage. "What?"

  "Lokee switched it. And that's not all. Lokee does not believe Naiyar is a god. He believes Naiyar talks to the dead, and that they too helped him escape."

  Kelta smashed his mug on the floor. "Bring him to me! Now! I'll pound his brains to mush! I'll feed him to the worms!"

  "Yes, Chief!" Grizzal bowed and fled the hut.

  "And you!" Kelta pointed a stubby finger at his servant, who was cowering in the corner. "Fetch me another fucking mug!"

  * * * *

  All was quiet in Lokee's hut. Lokee and Salla slept together in their hammock, while Evva lay in a smaller hammock on the other side of the room. The only sound other than the frogs and insects in the jungle outside was Lokee's loud snoring.

  It was almost completely dark, and only the faintest glimmer of moonlight shone through the doorway. Grizzal's shadow fell across the dimly lit room, followed by that of two warriors. He had awoken Appiah and another young warrior named Kaiyal and insisted they accompany him, on Kelta's orders.

  The warriors each carried a spear and Grizzal wore a knife at his belt.

  Suddenly Salla screamed. She had awoken and seen the three figures in the doorway. Lokee was on his feet in an instant. Evva ran to her mother, crying.

  Without warning, Grizzal snatched Appiah's spear from him and launched it at Lokee, missing him by inches. The spear passed under Lokee's raised arm and a wet thud silenced everyone present, even Grizzal.

  Almost imperceptibly, a faint choking gurgle came from behind Lokee. Grizzal's poor attempt to spear him had taken Evva in the throat. She lay in her mother's arms, staring up at her with wide eyes as her life drained away.

  "No! Evva! No! Please, no. Please, my baby. No, no, no, no—" Salla cradled her little girl, rocking back forth, pleading for it not to be so.

  Lokee watched as Evva's final breaths bubbled from the ragged gash in her throat. Salla continued to rock back and forth with Evva's lifeless body, her face buried in the little girl's bloody neck.

  Grizzal pointed at Lokee. "You saw him, he was about to attack me. I had no choice but to defend myself!"

  Lokee turned to Grizzal, his face grey, a searing anger in his eyes threatening to burst into flame at any moment. But before Lokee could act, Salla dropped Evva's still warm corpse and launched herself at Grizzal.

  She had the spear which she had pulled from her daughter's throat, its tip still slick with her blood. She leaped at Grizzal with an anguished cry. As he attempted to evade the spear, the tip caught him in the left eye.

  Grizzal howled as his eyeball was punctured. Salla swung the spear again, her aim wild and inaccurate, Grizzal's ruined eyeball still staring into space from the tip.

  Salla's cry was cut short as she bore down on Grizzal, throwing her weight against him. He had drawn his knife and allowed her momentum to sink the blade into her chest. She gasped, stared into his eyes, and sank slowly to the floor with his knife embedded in her heart.

  It had all happened in an instant. In a matter of seconds, both Evva and Salla were dead.

  Kaiyal looked confused. Appiah stood motionless, a tear running down his left cheek.

  Lokee suddenly came to his senses. He uttered a wild roar of bitter pain and grief and advanced towards Grizzal, who backed out of the doorway onto the veranda. Lokee crouched down, spun on his hands, and swept Grizzal's legs out from under him. As Grizzal's head hit the veranda Lokee was on him, his hands closed around his throat, squeezing and hammering his head against the floor.

  Grizzal croaked at Kaiyal. "Kill him! Kill him! He will kill us all!"

  Kaiyal looked at Appiah who stared back at him wide eyed, slowly shaking his head.

  "Kill him! Kelta ordered it!" Grizzal's voice was a raspy breath now as Lokee squeezed tighter, shaking him and bouncing his head off the floor.

  Lokee sobbed as he shook and battered Grizzal, whimpering and mewing in his mad grief.

  More afraid of his chief than of Lokee, Kaiyal stepped forward and ran his spear through Lokee's back. The spear burst from his chest, inches from Grizzal's bleeding face.

  Lokee's fingers eased their grip on Grizzal's throat. He sat back, wheezing, a blank expression on his face. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

  Grizzal sucked in a lungful of air, gasping and spluttering, then heaved Lokee off him and spat in hi
s face. "You," he said between gasps, "helped our god…to escape!"

  A crowd had gathered outside Lokee's hut, illuminating the bloody scene with their torches. Half the tribe seemed to have come to find out what the noise was about. Now Grizzal, standing victorious, realised there were people behind him and addressed Lokee loudly, in order to complete his shame before he died.

  "Yes, Kelta knows you gave Naiyar flight bark instead of tunka!"

  The crowd gasped.

  "He knows how you think Naiyar speaks to the dead! How you believe the spirits helped him escape!"

  Now Grizzal's little show became more serious, it was as though he had rehearsed the whole monologue a hundred times.

  "Kelta knows you tried to doom the Djanki people!" He turned to the crowd triumphantly. "But my son Viepa will find our god! He will bring him back here and save us all!"

  Suddenly Grizzal was gripped from behind. Lokee held his neck, Kaiyal's spear still sticking from his back. He had somehow hauled himself up, his breath raking loudly in his throat as he dribbled a thick stream of blood.

  "Naiyar is not a god!" he said with draining energy. "He is the Prophet! He is the future!" He glared into Grizzal's terrified eye, then sank to the floor and was gone.

  7.

  After ten days at sea the shore of the Old Kingdom was sighted. At first it was barely visible, a thin black line splicing the grey horizon in two, but the mere sight triggered celebrations aboard every ship in the fleet. Even the iron discipline of the Templars was relaxed a little, and every knight permitted one cup of watered brandy each to toast the landfall. In the privacy of his cabin, the Grand Master permitted himself and his Masters rather more.

  The line expanded as the fleet raced south, every ship crowding sail to be the first to get their troops ashore. Soon a rugged coastline similar to that of the Winter Realm was visible, gnarled cliffs and sheer bluffs rearing out of the foaming seas. Here and there the cliffs were adorned by the crumbling grey stump of a tower. These were all that remained of the line of watchtowers that used to guard the coasts during the high days of the Old Kingdom. Now gulls nested in desolate wind-haunted ruins that had once echoed to the tread of men-at-arms in silver armour.