The Best Weapon

by David Pilling

  "Enemy in sight! Beware, enemy in sight, on the cliffs there!"

  The raw urgent cries of the look-outs dampened the celebrations on deck. Aboard the Heloise, Captain Dephix leaned against the rail on the foredeck and shaded his eyes as he studied the coast. The Grand Master and Comrade Malet stood behind him.

  "There," said Dephix, pointing directly south, "there's only one place we can land along the whole of this stretch of coast, and it's stuffed with troops. See their banners?"

  The Grand Master squinted at the cliffs, now barely a mile away. "Curse these decrepit eyes of mine," he muttered, "Malet, what can you see?"

  Malet could see all too clearly. The spot Dephix pointed at was a wide cove flanked by looming bluffs, like a doorway hacked into the black stone. Inside the cove was a shingle beach, and on the beach, like so many regiments of ants, he counted five groups of warriors arranged into squares. Each group stood beneath huge banners shaped like inverted triangles. More warriors and banners were visible on the cliffs.

  "Well?" Sibrand demanded impatiently.

  "The captain is right, Comrade Master," said Malet, "the cliffs and the beach are crammed with troops. We're too far away for me to judge their weapons and armour, but they seem to be in good order."

  "I thought the Godless Ones were supposed to be mindless savages," remarked Dephix, scratching his whiskery chin.

  "The last Reconquest was a hundred years ago," said Sibrand, "and we've been relying on accounts of the Godless Ones from that time. So far as I know, no one from the Winter Realm has studied the peoples of the Old Kingdom since then, or even set foot in the place. But I suppose even savages can progress."

  "They must have been forewarned of the invasion," said Malet urgently, "otherwise how they could be here in such numbers, waiting for us? We have to turn back and reconsider. Trying to force a landing here could lead to disaster."

  The old knight plucked at the ends of his wispy moustaches. "Forewarned," he echoed, looking grim, "by whom, I wonder? I can think of only one man who would do such a thing. Perhaps agents of the Winter Realm have been here more recently than I thought."

  It was Malet's turn to be impatient. "We have to raise a signal to the rest of the fleet," he urged, "order every ship to reduce sail, at once."

  Sibrand smiled, and his faded blue eyes lit up with rekindled fires.

  "Captain Dephix," he said in a voice of unusual confidence, "you will hold the Heloise on course for the beach, do you hear me?"

  The captain gaped at him. "But she'll run aground in the shallows. We have to break out the boats if you want to attempt a landing."

  "Thank you, but I keep my own counsel. Do as I say."

  He touched the hilt of his sword. Captain Dephix took a step back, hesitated, and then threw up his hands. "As you command," he said in a hopeless voice.

  Malet had heard enough. "What are you doing?" he demanded of the Grand Master, all his deference forgotten. "Do you mean to get us all killed? We must turn back!"

  "Comrade Malet. You appear to have mislaid your testicles. Find a spare set and strap them on tight, because we are going to attack. I intend to be the first Templar to set foot in the Old Kingdom for a hundred years, and expect you to be the second. Don't disappoint."

  The Grand Master turned smartly on his heel and marched away, shouting for his helmet and shield.

  Malet was left speechless. He knew that his master had been a great knight once, reputedly one of the bravest and most reckless warriors the Temple had ever produced, but that was a lifetime ago. The old bastard had chosen a dreadful moment to relive his youth.

  He had to be stopped. Malet looked around for the other Masters, ,but it was already too late. Brandiles, Sturling and Toeni were standing in the main deck along with the other knights and squires, all gazing up at Sibrand in awe as he harangued them.

  "Comrades! Brothers and sisters in arms! I know you love to fight. All warriors of the Temple love the sting and clash of battle. You love to fight, and you fight to win. I wouldn't give a fart in Hell for a Templar who lost and laughed. That's why we have never lost nor will ever lose a battle!"

  Wild cheering greeted this. Sibrand paused to grin and draw in breath, and went on:

  "You see that beach in front of you, those high cliffs, crammed with savages who hate us and want us to die? Well, you are not all going to die. Death must not be feared. The last I heard, Death was frightened of us!"

  More cheers and laughter.

  "Remember that the enemy is just as frightened as you, and they have good reason to be. Because they know we're coming. I pity those poor bastards, I really do. Because they know we're coming to tear up their bellies, to spill their blood by the bucketload and paint our faces with it. Listen. We are going to drive this ship right onto the rocks, just to let those godless savages know we mean business. Then we are going to storm ashore and kick the living shit out of them, because we are servants of the War God, and anyone who stands in our way gets trampled! Blood for the War God! Hail Occido! Hail the Temple! Hail the fighters!"

  "Blood for the War God! Hail Occido! Hail the Temple! Hail the fighters!"

  The roar was uttered from the throat of every warrior aboard ship, with the exception of Malet. Fulk waved his sword and shouted with the rest, his heart ripped out and thrown down before his chief. Never before had the dour old man impressed him so much, or done so much to live up the reputation of his youth.

  Captain Dephix could do little in the face of such ardour, and reluctantly ordered his steersman to head straight for the beach. His crew stood by and watched, horrified by the sight of the looming coast but too mindful of their captain's authority to protest.

  The Templars crowded eagerly at the prow, eyes fixed on the enemy on the beach. The devices on the banners could be made out now. Each one bore a pair of red-rimmed blue ovals, like a pair of reptilian eyes, on a black field. The five groups of warriors were drawn up in neat squares and showed no sign of wavering at the approach of the fleet.

  "Captain Dephix," said the Grand Master, "you will oblige me one last time by raising a signal to the rest of the fleet. Every ship is to attempt a landing, and every soldier is expected to do their duty."

  "You are a mad old fool, and you are going to get us all killed," Dephix informed him, before hurrying away to do as he was told.

  The Heloise ploughed on under full sail, powerful breakers tossing the vessel up and down like a twig flung onto a fast-flowing river. Those men crowded on the foredeck were drenched in spray, but the salt tang did nothing to dampen their eagerness to get at the enemy. Cries of "Blood for the War God!" and "The Gods aid the Temple!" echoed above the roar of the churning sea.

  And then the catapults began to sing. Three of them rumbled into view on the cliffs above the beach, heaved into position by teams of men in working clothes and steel caps. Comrade Malet cried out in dismay as he saw the war machines appear, but it was too late for the Heloise to turn back now. He watched, mouthing curses, as the arms of the catapults were winched back and loaded with rocks.

  The missiles were launched just as the Heloise plunged into the shallows and her keel ground along the bottom, causing the ship to jerk and shudder violently with a crunch of splintering timber. Everyone aboard was hurled to the deck and the world exploded in a fury of white foam as the rocks smashed into the sea, only narrowly missing their target.

  Fulk was one of the first to struggle upright, but was beaten to it by the Grand Master. "Follow me, follow me!" roared Sibrand, waving his sword as he clambered over the rail and dropped into the sea.

  With unthinking loyalty to a man he had served and disliked for twenty years, Comrade Malet was next to jump. His massive frame crashed into the water, his feet slipped on the shingle and he disappeared under the waves. He emerged, spluttering, to discover that the water only came up to his chest. Sibrand was already forging ahead towards the beach, white head poking above the waves as he yelled war-chants and brandished his sword..


  Where the Grand Master went, the Templars followed, and his knights and squires scrambled to follow him into the sea. Fulk was among them, forgetting his helmet and shield in his excitement as he dived feet first over the rail.

  Seeing that the madmen aboard the grounded ship meant to press their attack, the Godless Ones on the cliffs brought their archers forward and the sky darkened with flights of arrows.

  * * * *

  The black shafts hissed into the sea around Fulk. Behind him someone screamed as one found its mark. He pressed on, wading through the shoulder-high surf, almost out of his mind with exhilaration and terror.

  He could see the enemy on the beach clearly now, and it was obvious that the Godless Ones were no horde of wild savages, but disciplined soldiers, well armed and prepared for war. They were protected by coats of ring mail, round shields and pointed steel helmets with visors and dangling cheek-pieces. Every warrior was armed with a throwing javelin and a wide-bladed short sword.

  Fulk cared little for their weapons, their armour or their calm discipline. The red rage, dormant since he destroyed Etienne Beaumont in the Test, had him in its grip. He wanted to tear the Godless Ones apart, with his teeth if necessary, to burst apart their ordered ranks and drink their hot blood. An arrow thudded into his shoulder, lodging in the links of his mail and puncturing his flesh, but he ignored the pain and stumbled on.

  He saw that the Grand Master had almost gained the beach, closely followed by Comrade Malet and a handful of other knights. Horns rang out, a weird ululating drone, and the central squares of Godless Ones tramped forward to meet them. A hundred men against eight, and that hundred stopped as the horns blew again. The front ranks drew back their javelins.

  At a shouted command, the javelins flew. The Grand Master seemed to lead a charmed life, for none touched him, but seven of the eight knights behind him went down, slender missiles sprouting from their bodies. Three javelins stuck into Malet's body. The big knight bellowed in pain like a wounded bull, raised his sword and charged.

  Fulk lost sight of what happened next, for the sea erupted under another cargo of rocks lobbed from the cliffs above. Blinded by spray, he heard men scream around him and tasted someone else's blood in his mouth. He emerged to see bodies floating about him, comrades he had known all his life, crushed to pulp.

  The water was only knee-deep now. Fulk splashed towards the beach, whimpering with rage. More knights were charging alongside him. Desperate to protect their Grand Master, a score or so had already gained the beach and flung themselves into battle against the overwhelming numbers of Godless Ones.

  Heedless of danger, Sibrand was doing tremendous execution with his broadsword, long white hair flying about him as he bellowed ancient war–chants and hacked to right and left. Comrade Malet had used his great bulk to smash a path deep into the enemy ranks, where Fulk could see the huge knight laying about him like a berserk farmer scything wheat.

  Two Godless Ones spotted Fulk broke ranks to confront him. He had just enough time to notice how short they were, barely reaching his chest, and that the faces beneath the pointed helmets were dark-skinned with black slanting eyes and long drooping moustaches, before they were on him.

  Fulk went for the nearest man with a savage cry, swinging his broadsword at his head. His opponent caught the full force of the heavy blade on his shield, which cleaved through the timber and broke his arm. He was driven to his knees, groaning in pain, but before Fulk could finish him off his companion charged in, snarling as he thrust his short sword at the Templar's belly.

  Fulk caught the thrust on his cross-hilt, turned it away and unleashed a terrific cut at the man's head. It would have taken his head off, but the Godless One ducked and punched Fulk in the face with the boss of his shield. Fulk felt a blinding pain in his mouth and the world span in front of him as he lost his footing and toppled backwards into the water.

  He cried out in panic as he fell, waiting to feel the kiss of iron in his flesh..

  A shadow fell across him as he grovelled in the ankle-deep water. There was a brief clash of steel, a scream dying away into a wet gurgle, and a splash.

  Fulk was still alive and whole. He wiped the stinging seawater from his eyes and looked at the shadow looming over him.

  He saw a large knight in black armour with a snarling white wolf's head on his breastplate. Fulk recognised the wolf's head as the insignia of House Flambard, and that the knight must be Count Flambard, the Archpriest's younger brother.

  The Count was the spitting image of his notorious sibling, but a few years younger and with short reddish hair where the Archpriest's was thin and white. Otherwise he had the same heavy jaw, flat toad-like features and intimidating physique. He held a dripping battle-axe in his mailed hands. The Godless One who had struck Fulk lay dead in the water, his head split in half.

  "Up, boy!" cried the Count, his broad face flushed with excitement, "we have barbarians to kill!"

  He waddled away, roaring incoherently and waving his axe. Fulk got to his hands and knees and glanced back towards the sea. More knights and squires, stragglers from the Heloise, were wading towards the beach under a constant rain of missiles from the cliffs. Some went down, pierced by arrows or hit by flying rocks, but their comrades kept coming.

  Further out, the foremost ships of the fleet were crowding into the bay and hurriedly lowering boatloads of warriors into the water. One or two had already come close enough for the men inside to tumble out into the surf.

  Fulk took a deep breath and clambered to his feet. He was in the calm at the heart of a storm, and had leisure to look around him.

  The world was blood. It oozed from the shattered arrow-riddled bodies of the dead and dying men in the water. It caked the slippery shingle of the beach, where hundreds of men hacked and grappled with each other. It soaked the white tunics of the Templars, making them look more like fighting devils than men.

  Fulk felt the rage swelling up again inside the pit of his stomach. He kissed the hilt of his sword and went to rejoin the fight.

  * * * *

  The sun descended in the west, casting a deep red shadow across the sea, the abandoned shell of the Heloise, and the scene of carnage on the beach.

  They had gained the beach. Fulk knew he should feel happy about that, but was too exhausted to feel anything very much. He lay with his back against some rocks, watching through heavy-lidded eyes as a kettle slowly came to the boil. One of the Temple servants, Tomas, had built the fire and set the kettle over it. Now he was sitting cross-legged at a respectful distance from his master and cleaning his sword with a greasy cloth.

  It was a miracle that Tomas had survived the battle, Fulk reflected. Despite wearing no armour except a steel cap and a buckler, the boy had come through with nothing worse than cuts and bruises.

  "It's a miracle any of us survived," he murmured. Tomas looked up at him quizzically, and went back to his task. As a mere squire, he knew better than to speak without being invited.

  Fulk's mouth throbbed. He had lost a couple of teeth in the fighting and there was nothing to dull the pain. A sharp insistent pain throbbed in his shoulder from the arrowhead that had pierced it when he jumped from the Heloise, and a dull ache above his right knee where someone—possibly from his own side—had clubbed it during the melee. The useful Tomas had washed and bandaged both shoulder and knee.

  The beach was strewn with wounded soldiers lying on blankets. Surgeons and priests moved among them, dispensing whatever comfort they could. Screams echoed around the bay as the surgeons attempted to perform crude operations by torchlight, mingling with the prayers of the priests and the sound of drunken singing from those who had come through the battle unscathed.

  Count Flambard was leading the singing, standing in front of a roaring camp fire and waving a bottle in time to someone banging a drum. His full-throated version of an ancient martial hymn was going down a storm with the laughing, clapping men-at-arms sitting around the fire.

  "Let the sh
ield wall be unbroken, let our banners wave above the storm...let my sword swing free in my hand, let me march to war!"

  The idiot words seemed to echo in Fulk's tired mind as he studied the rest of the beach. He spotted Comrade Malet's giant form sprawled on a blanket among the wounded. The big knight was a mass of wounds.. Much as he disliked Malet, Fulk had to admire his courage. Nothing but the occasional grunt escaped from the drill instructor as a team of surgeons clumsily sewed up the many holes in his flesh.

  "Weight of numbers, Comrade, that's what saved us in the end."

  The Grand Master's voice was as sudden as it was unexpected. He walked stiffly into the glow of the firelight, looking every one of his seventy-five years. His cloak was ripped and smeared with blood and his long yellow face was disfigured by a vicious purple bruise on one cheek.

  Tomas laid down Fulk's sword and bent a knee, but Sibrand waved him away. "Leave us," he commanded, and Tomas gratefully ran away into the night.

  "Make space, boy, my hip's killing me."

  Fulk did as he was told and shuffled aside for his lord, who poured himself a cup of tea from the kettle before carefully sitting down against the rocks.

  "Gods above, that's better," the old knight puffed as he carefully sat down and rested his back against the rocks. "As I was saying, weight of numbers won us the battle in the end. Would you agree?"

  "Yes, Comrade Master." Fulk could not help but agree: he had been in the thickest of the fight towards the end, his face pressed up against the snarling features of a Godless One. To lose one's footing in that close-packed scrum would have been fatal, but inch by bloody inch the enemy had been shoved back along the beach as more eager warriors came off the ships and threw their weight into the press.

  At last the enemy horns had sounded a panicked retreat and their ranks disintegrated. The expression of the man opposite Fulk changed from anger to fear, and he turned to run. Without thinking, Fulk gave chase and chopped him down.