The Best Weapon

by David Pilling

  "I killed my first man today, Comrade Master," Fulk ventured. He needed to speak to someone about it, even if that someone almost paralysed him with fear. The Grand Master had always been a distant god-like figure to him, and to have the man sitting next to him chatting amiably as though they were old comrades was horribly unnerving.

  "Well done. How did you get him?"

  Fulk hesitated. "I...it was not an honourable killing, lord. I cut him down as he tried to flee."

  Sibrand shrugged. "Good. I don't care how the bastards die, just so long as they do."

  He took a sip of tea, wincing at the tepid taste. "Damned weak stuff," he said. "Now, listen. I want to talk about that storm in the Channel. Captain Dephix told me that the Heloise would have sunk if the storm hadn't blown itself out so quickly. He said that in thirty years at sea he had never seen the like. One moment the storm was there, the next—clear skies and barely a puff of wind. I'm no sailor, but even I can tell that is extremely odd."

  He took another sip, while Fulk hardly dared to breathe.

  "You were found on deck, just after the storm had gone," the Grand Master continued, "lying flat on your face with a piece of tarpaulin in your hand. What were you doing there? Why didn't you stay below?"

  Fulk improvised. "It was chaos below. I had to get out for some air."

  "Into the open, in the middle of a storm? That scarcely seems wise. There is something unusual about you, Comrade. I have looked into your record. You were one of our orphans, given to the Temple when you were still a baby. Your mother died of the Chill. Have you any idea who your father was?"

  "No, Comrade Master."

  Sibrand nodded, and then appeared to change the subject. "I was manipulated into this war," he said, "by the brother of that fat pig over there."

  He referred to Count Flambard, red-faced and still bawling his head off, though his repertoire had changed from martial anthems to obscene ballads. He was too drunk to remember most of the words, but that didn't stop the other drunks around him from laughing and egging him on.

  "The Godless Ones surprised me today, surprised all of us. How did they know we were coming, and when did they learn such discipline and war-skill? They even had war machines. War machines! They used to be painted savages, more like animals than people. Today they fought like soldiers, while we fought like animals."

  "We still won, lord."

  "At a cost. Malet was right. We should have sailed around the coast and found somewhere else to land. Instead I had to go charging in, like some deranged knight-errant instead of the responsible commander I am supposed to be. I just checked the casualty list. We lost a hundred and sixty-seven people today, and another eighty-three wounded and crippled will have to be shipped back to the Winter Realm. More will die on the beach tonight. All my fault."

  He swallowed the last of his tea and tossed away the cup. "You may be wondering why I am confiding in you. The truth is we have to march across an entire continent, fighting our way past an enemy that is much stronger than we thought. If we are to have any chance, then we must use every weapon at our disposal, even less conventional ones. I'm not a superstitious man, but I can recognise the truth of something when it stares me in the face. Nor do I share the prejudices of our forebears. Take this. It's from my private library back home."

  The Grand Master dug in the leather bag hanging from his waist, pulled out a small book with a battered leather cover, and dropped it on Fulk's lap. Then he slowly got to his feet, cursing as his joints protested.

  "Now I really must go and see how Malet is getting on," he said, massaging his back, "he got fearfully cut up during the battle, trying to play the hero. Bloody fool. Good-night, Comrade."

  "Good-night, Comrade Master."

  The Grand Master limped away into the night, leaving Fulk to contemplate the book resting in his lap. He picked it up, licked his thumb, and carefully opened the crackling leather sleeve.

  8.

  The charge sheet was a long one, and did not make for pretty reading. Robbery with violence, cattle-rustling, house-breaking, assault, extortion...the list went on, until Flambard got tired of reading it and slapped the parchment down on the table.

  "Well, Sir Walter, you have a great deal to answer for," he said, gazing severely at the man standing before him.

  They were in the Council Chamber in the Founders' Palace. Sitting beside Flambard at the long table were the six senior Aldermen of the city, while the Archpriest was seated in his high chair of office. Every so often he shifted uncomfortably and massaged his bad leg, which was swathed in bandages.

  The reason for this assembly was Sir Walter Deyville. A tall, well-built man in early middle age, Sir Walter wore the white and blue of The Queen's Own over his gleaming mail. His slightly fading good looks were spoiled by a livid scar slicing diagonally across his left cheek, and he returned the Archpriest's gaze with undisguised contempt.

  "I have nothing to answer for," the knight replied scornfully, "I am guilty of none of the crimes on your bit of parchment."

  "You may not be personally, but every one of them was allegedly committed by your family or their adherents. Shall I read out a few, just so you can get a taste of what your relatives have been up to?"

  Sir Walter shrugged. Flambard smiled and retrieved the charge sheet.

  "On this day after the Feast of Ashanti last, that is to say, two weeks ago," he recited, "one Joscelin Deyville, knight, did come to the town of Riverhold with a mounted and armed company of fifteen men, all dressed in hoods and cloaks, and did assault the Queen's servants and strip the Mayor's house of goods and furniture, leaving nothing but empty cellars and bare walls. Five days previously one Jean Deyville, who has served as a bailiff and justice of the peace, did along with two other men waylay a royal messenger on the road and beat him most shamefully, before robbing and leaving him for dead. Two days before that one Piers Deyville, knight, did come with a company of twelve armed men to the manor-house of Master Robert of Harshlaw, a royal tax-collector. They broke into the house, murdered Robert and three of his servants with swords, axes and halberds, ravished his wife and carried off all the jewels and plate they could find. Oh, and for good measure they set fire to the house."

  Flambard puffed out his heavy cheeks and laid the sheet down again. "I would go on, for there is much more in that vein," he said, "but I don't care to. What I require from you, Sir Walter, is an explanation as to why so many of your relatives in the North have suddenly taken to crime."

  The knight responded with another shrug. "Times are hard up there," he replied carelessly, "the land is ravaged by war, and no man dares trust his neighbour."

  "No indeed, if his neighbour happens to be a Deyville," retorted Flambard, though privately he had to admit that Sir Walter had a point.

  Flambard's decision to do nothing to prevent the war between House Gisburne and House D'Auney had turned out to be a grave error. He had calculated that the hopelessly one-sided war would be over quickly, but instead of wiping out his less powerful rival Count D'Auney had taken the opportunity to rob and plunder his neighbours. They had responded in kind, and now the whole of the North was tumbling into bloody chaos as gangs of armed men roamed about at will, slaughtering each other and preying on the vulnerable. Royal authority in the region, fragile enough to begin with, had more or less collapsed.

  Chief among the bands of wild reivers and knightly ruffians that now plagued the North were the Deyvilles, but unlike most of the others there was a definite pattern to their activities. All their crimes had been committed against Royal officials and their property.

  "Thanks to the usual nepotism and corruption, our justices in the north face an almost impossible task in trying to arrest any of your cursed family," said Flambard, "but the one or two that have been apprehended divulged some interesting comments before going to the gallows. For instance, your cousin Anselm Deyville claimed that the three murders he committed were done in revenge for something he called 'the foul wound'. T
ell us, Sir Walter, what is the foul wound?"

  Flambard suppressed a smile at the look of pain that flashed across Sir Walter's face as he heard of his kinsmen being hanged.

  The knight said nothing for a moment, and then his anger boiled to the surface. "What else do you call a wound given for no reason?" he shouted, pointing at the livid scar on his cheek, "a wound that will mark a man for life? What else do you call that?"

  An uncomfortable silence fell. Everyone in the room knew how Sir Walter had come by the scar. The story had spread like wildfire all over the palace. Flambard was acutely aware that people were beginning to look at him with outright fear, instead of the awed respect he preferred.

  He took a deep breath. The trick here was to acknowledge his guilt without making much of it, and then swiftly move on. "So you know what Anselm was referring to, which in turn implies you know why your family are targeting our officials. They are doing it out of revenge for that trifling mark on your cheek."

  Flambard leafed through the papers on his desk, until he found a certain letter. "This is a copy of a letter you wrote and dispatched to the North a month ago," he said, holding it up for all to see. "My agents found it when they searched through Anselm Deyville's corpse after he was cut down from the gallows. I'm told that copies of your original letter are being circulated among your family and their allies. It certainly makes for interesting reading."

  He handed the letter to the Alderman sitting to his right. "I suggest everyone reads it," Flambard continued, "for it contains clear proof that Sir Walter is guilty of inciting his family to crime. He writes of how I supposedly attacked him with a knife, and urges his relatives to avenge him."

  "Forgive me for interrupting," said Alderman Festas, a yellow-skinned old politico with a face like a scheming ferret, "but you did attack him with a knife, did you not?"

  Flambard waved the matter aside. "Now is not the time to rake over old grievances. Rather, we should concentrate on resolving the problems in the North. I have an elegant solution."

  He winced as another bolt of agony shot through his leg. Pus was seeping down his calf, and he knew the bandages would have to be changed again after the meeting. He was changing them almost daily now.

  "Sir Walter," he said, pointing his cane at the knight, "you will write another letter. In it you will recant your accusation against me, and say that the wound on your face was received in a duel with another knight. The cause of the duel was an argument over a prostitute you were both courting, which you were too embarrassed to admit in your first letter. You will order your family to cease their criminal activities."

  Sir Walter chuckled and shook his head. "I will do no such thing."

  "Be warned, Sir Walter, my patience is not infinite. I am giving you an opportunity to slip out of the noose you have placed around your own neck."

  "Shove it up your prodigious backside, priest."

  Flambard sighed, like a tired parent having to deal with a wayward child, and placed the palms of his hands flat on the desk.

  This was the signal for the five Palace Guards standing by the door to draw their swords and advance purposefully towards Sir Walter, spreading out as they did so.

  "A moment ago I mentioned a noose, Sir Walter," Flambard said calmly, "but there is no need to waste good rope on you. A few lengths of steel in your body will do just as well."

  Sir Walter spun around to face the armed men converging on him. "You treacherous fat hog!" he roared, reaching instinctively for the sword that usually hung from his hip. But he had been ordered to attend the meeting unarmed, and his sword was lying peacefully in its scabbard back in his quarters.

  He rushed the closest guard and grappled with him, grabbing his sword arm with one hand and trying to snatch the dagger from his belt with the other. The other guards closed in, getting in each other's way in their eagerness, and one of them thrust his sword at Sir Walter's exposed back.

  The blade failed to penetrate his mail and slid away just as he managed to wrench the dagger free. Now the knight had a weapon, but it did him little good as four swords hacked and chopped at him. A glancing blow struck his temple, opening a deep gash just above his eye. Another bit into his thigh. He roared in pain and lashed out with his stolen dagger, slicing through the bridge of the nearest guard's nose.

  "Gods above, there are five of you against one!" screamed Flambard as the bloody, farcical brawl staggered across the length of the chamber. Ignoring the outraged noises coming from the Aldermen, he struggled out of his chair and limped round the table.

  Sir Walter's face was a mask of blood, and more was running from rents in his mail as the guards hacked at his body. The dagger clattered to the floor as a blade slashed into his wrist, virtually severing his hand, and he buckled to his knees under a hail of blows..

  "Get back, you fools!" snarled Flambard. Surprised, the guards stepped back to make room for him.

  "Where are your proud words now, eh?" Flambard sneered at the shuddering, bleeding man on the floor.

  Sir Walter worked up some bloody phlegm and spat it, along with a couple of his teeth, at the Archpriest's feet.

  Flambard lifted his cane and with all his strength, which was still considerable, brought the silver-topped end down onto Sir Walter's skull. There was a crunch and the knight toppled onto his face with dark red blood leaking from his shattered scalp.

  The Archpriest had never personally killed a man before, though he had sent countless men to the gallows or arranged for them to be quietly disposed of. He had always suspected that it might be enjoyable, but not half as enjoyable as this. A kind of savage glee filled him as he brought his cane down again and again onto Sir Walter's head with a series of wet thumps and squelching noises. Gobbets of blood and bits of skull splattered Flambard's cloak.

  Gradually it dawned on him that Sir Walter was dead. He ceased battering the man's ruined skull and would have tossed away his cane, since it was now slimy with gore, but remembered that he needed it to support his weight.

  Breathing hard and with sweat pouring down his face, he turned to the guards. "Cut the traitor's head off," he panted. "We'll send it to his family in a bag. That should make them hesitate the next time they think of burning a farmstead or making off with someone else's cattle."

  "Might be a problem there, lordship," remarked one of the guards, gazing dispassionately at the corpse. "I doubt his own mother would recognise him now."

  "Then fetch me parchment, a quill, a hammer and a stout nail. I'll write a note and attach it to what's left of his head."

  The guard bowed and ran off to do his bidding. Flambard turned to face the Aldermen, who were sitting rooted to their chairs. Each was a hardened politician and had witnessed some dirty work in their time, but the brazen murder of Sir Walter had left them speechless.

  "What's the matter, gentlemen?" demanded Flambard, "there's only one way to deal with traitors like Sir Walter Deyville. You heard the man defy me to my face. He defied the law!"

  Alderman Chapuys worked up the courage to speak. "You call that lawful? A man murdered without trial in the Council Chamber?"

  "It will mean blood feud," whimpered Alderman Hugo, "the Deyvilles will never forgive Sir Walter's death. What if the other Northern Counts unite behind them?"

  Flambard limped forward and banged his cane on the floor. "Cease your vapouring, you cowards! So what if the Deyvilles declare blood feud? They are a minor House, hardly a House at all, a rabble of hedge-knights, farmers, bailiffs and other such rubbish! They can't put more than fifty men in the field! Are we to tremble before such a mighty host?"

  "They are also tenants of House Clifford. What if they appeal to their lords? What if Count Clifford takes up their cause? The rest of the Northerners could unite under his banner!"

  "If they frighten you so much, then feel free to hide behind my skirts, as usual. I will answer for the traitor's death, and the gods help any Northern rabble that comes looking for vengeance! I am regent of this land, the supre
me ruler, and I will have total and unquestioning obedience!"

  His words rang around the chamber and went unanswered. His toad-like face was yellow and sweating, a thin line of pus was leaking from under his blood-spattered robes, and a reddish patch of eczema had appeared on the folds of his neck.

  Flambard took the silence of the Aldermen for submission. "Very well, then," he said, wiping his streaming face with the back of his hand, "Sir Walter's head, with my little note attached, shall go North."

  PART III: STORMBRINGERS

  1.

  "We have been walking along this cursed river for days, and we have found no sign of Naiyar. He must have drowned. Let us go back."

  Viepa was trying Colken's patience. He had been moaning all morning, trying to convince the other four warriors to give up the hunt. They had walked west along the river from the point where Naiyar had been washed away, hoping to pick up his trail.

  "No," Colken replied. "Kelta will kill us. If Naiyar has drowned, surely we would have found his body. Besides, we have found the remains of several fires. He must be moving west along the river. Naiyar would be a fool to go back, he knows we'll hunt him, and he would have had no choice but to follow the river, especially now that the land has practically become desert."

  The other three hunters didn't argue with Colken. Viepa, on the other hand, challenged his judgement constantly.

  He continued to protest. "We don't know they were Naiyar's fires. They could have been made by anybody travelling on the river."

  "It is the only lead we have, Viepa. We are following the trail of a lone traveller, which begins at the first point on the river where Naiyar would have been able to climb out. I am sure it is him. And he is only a day ahead of us."

  It was early afternoon, the hottest part of the day, and even Colken's unshakable temper was wearing thin.

  Just as Viepa was about to argue some more, Colken noticed a clue on the river bank and stopped, holding out his hand to stop Viepa from blundering into it. "Wait," he said. "There is a sign here."