The Best Weapon

by David Pilling

  "We have her already," replied Burun, "she is down in the yard below, with one of my men. All my men are saddled up and ready to leave, Majesty. We wait only on you."

  Eleanor stood up, panicked by the thought of her fragile daughter in the arms of some clumsy great oaf of a knight. "I gave no orders for any of this," she protested.

  Burun shook his head impatiently. "There was no time to consult you. A friend of mine in the Palace Guard sent word to us not an hour ago of the Archpriest's treachery. Flambard intends to have you and the Queen taken into his own private custody this very night. Majesty, he can only have the deposition of your daughter in mind, possibly even her death. And yours."

  This time Eleanor did not hesitate. Abandoning her embroidery, she took the spare cloak that Burun offered and followed him outside.

  * * * *

  Thirty horsemen, with one woman and a baby in tow, clattered out of the inner bailey of the palace and under the gates of the outer ward just as a servant discovered that Queen Heloise was missing from her cradle. Alarm bells clanged, echoing across the crumbling battlements of the Founders Palace and through its draughty halls and corridors, summoning the Palace Guard to their duty.

  The din accentuated Archpriest Flambard's migraine. "Go after them! Bring them back!" he roared, his monstrous bulk wrapped in furs as he hobbled through the inner bailey, waving his cane at the Guard as they came tumbling out of barracks, feverishly buckling on helmets and breastplates..

  "Dead or alive, lord?" asked Captain Trajan, successor to the unfortunate Captain Marshall. He was another trim, eager little man, quivering like an excited ferret at the prospect of violence. Flambard reached down and grasped Trajan's arm. "Kill all of The Queen's Own," he snarled, "but fetch the woman and the infant back safe, if you can."

  Trajan quailed at Flambard's expression. The Archpriest's broad face was pale and sweating, disfigured by ugly red blotches on his forehead, and his thick lips were peeled back, making him look like some furious swelling beast.

  In the face of this terrifying apparition, Trajan ripped off the finest salute of his career. "Yes, lord!"

  * * * *

  Flambard got no sleep that night. He hadn't slept properly for weeks. His migraines were a constant presence, making him feel as though a pair of red-hot thumbs were attempting to push his eyeballs out of their sockets. Pain crept across his tormented body, spreading out from his decaying, suppurating leg like plague across a stricken country.

  Since despatching the remnants of Sir Walter Deyville's head to the North, he had hardly slept at all. Lack of rest, fear for his worsening symptoms and a growing, ungovernable anger made his inherent paranoia flare hot, and in a moment of madness he had ordered the Queen and her mother to be taken into custody.

  Nobody questioned the order, since the Palace Guard were biddable thugs and he hadn't even bothered to consult the Council. Flambard had decided that the Aldermen were greedy, weak and selfish and of no use to him. He had expelled them all from the city, bidding them retire to their country estates and not come back to Hope on pain of pain. This left the Archpriest as both regent and sole dictator of the Winter Realm.

  In the darkness of the throne room Flambard sat and brooded, heavy chin resting on his fist. He saw nothing sinister in sitting on the throne, which had had no regular occupant since the death of King Rollo, though he was aware others might not share his view.

  He laboured. to muster his thoughts and force them into some kind of logical pattern.

  Why have I ordered the Queen and her mother to be taken into custody?

  For their own safety.

  What were they threatened by?

  Traitors, traitors everywhere. Lingering revolutionary elements in the streets, agents of the Great Houses, creeping rogues in the palace with knives hidden in their cloaks. The royal family has to be protected.

  Or disposed of? No! I am the most loyal of servants.

  Loyal to what?

  The good of the Winter Realm.

  The good of the Winter Realm. There was no sacrifice he was not prepared to make for his country. No one who threatened it was safe from his justice.

  His mind wandered down twisted paths. In Nature, how did some animals protect their young if they thought they were threatened?

  Usually by devouring them. That was Nature's way, the strong survived at the expense of the weak.

  Long hours passed, and at last the grey light of dawn began to seep through the high windows of the throne room. Flambard's exhausted mind had all but given up and he drowsed, eyelids half-closed, a thin line of drool trickling down one corner of his chin.

  Marching footsteps echoing down the corridor outside jolted him back into life, and the double doors at the far end of the room creaked open. Flambard squinted to make out the figure silhouetted in the door frame, and recognised Captain Trajan. He shifted into a more upright position, wincing at the needles of pain that stabbed through his cramped muscles, and beckoned Trajan to enter. "Make your report," he said in a weary voice.

  Trajan walked stiffly into the room, carrying his helmet underarm. He looked every bit as tired as the Archpriest and had clearly seen action, judging from the spots of blood spattered on his mail and the dints in the helmet. He halted at a respectful distance from the throne, saluted and said nothing, though his lips worked and his Adam's apple bobbed up and down.

  "You may speak," said Flambard.

  The captain coughed, wiped his brow and tried again. "My lord," he managed, "I can tell you that The Queen's Own are no more."

  "Splendid. All dead?"

  "Not quite all, lord. Their captain, Sir William Burun, escaped along with the Queen Mother and Her Majesty."

  Trajan closed his eyes, expecting an explosion of wrath. Instead there was a mildly exasperated sigh and a rustling of heavy cloth as the Archpriest shifted in his seat.

  "Tell me all. Spare no details, and don't try to spin them to your credit."

  "Yes, lord," Trajan swallowed again before plunging on with his tale. "I took two hundred men and pursued the fugitives north. They turned to face us at the ford at King's Crossing, six miles from the city."

  "I know where the ford is. Get on with it."

  "They drew up on the bank opposite the bridge, with the exception of three riders who continued to ride northward. I led my men across the bridge, and The Queen's Own charged us. A sharp action followed."

  "Thirty men against two hundred? Sharp but short, I would imagine."

  "They died hard, lord. By the time we had fought our way across, the remaining fugitives had put too much distance on us. We pursued for some time, but it was fruitless. At first light I gave the order to turn back."

  "I see. I don't suppose it occurred to you to divide your force, sending one half after the fugitives while the other dealt with the men at the ford?"

  Trajan had no answer to that. He pursed his lips, clearly trying to think of something intelligent to say.

  "Away, man," yawned Flambard, waving a mottled hand at the door, "you did your best. Did you suffer many casualties?"

  "Thirty-two dead, lord, and fifteen wounded. We brought the wounded back with us."

  "Go and see to them."

  Trajan saluted and all but ran out of the room. The doors slammed shut behind him.

  * * * *

  Alone once more, Flambard tugged at his lower lip and pondered. The royal family had escaped. The Queen's Own had assisted their escape and killed a number of Palace Guards into the bargain. By doing so they had raised their swords against the State.

  His conclusions were inescapable. The Queen's Own were traitors, and the Queen Mother was a traitor for defying his orders. The Queen herself could not technically be a traitor, since she embodied the State and everything Flambard did was in her name. Besides, she was too young to be held responsible for anything.

  I will publicly denounce Eleanor Clifford as a traitor, and in her absence strip her of her title. She will flee north to her f
amily. They will be enraged at her treatment, and join with the Deyvilles and other disaffected Northerners. An army will come south, with Eleanor and the Baron Clifford at its head, seeking my blood.

  He smiled and gripped the arms of the throne.

  Let them come.

  3.

  Fulk had read stories of the Old Kingdom, listened to countless ballads and legends, but had never formed in his mind a clear picture of what the place might look like. Until he set foot on its soil the land of his ancestors had always seemed unimaginably distant, as though it lay on the opposite side of the world instead of just across the Founders' Channel. The Old Kingdom was a dream, a place where the heroes of old had fought and died in battle against hordes of fantastic monsters and vile barbarians.

  But now he had come home, or so the priests accompanying the army insisted. They had all come home, the men and women of the Winter Realm who had signed up to the Twelfth Reconquest, and the High Gods smiled at their courage. So far Fulk had seen little to smile at.

  * * * *

  After recovering from the battle on the beach, the army had formed up into rough order and marched inland, setting out on its epic trek towards Temple Rock on the southern tip of the continent. Meanwhile the fleet, minus the grounded Heloise, sailed west under Captain Dephix, with orders to work their way round the coast and rendezvous with the army beneath the walls of the ancient Templar fortress.

  West lay the pirate-infested Isles, ruled over by the mysterious Raven Queen, but Dephix claimed to have an understanding with the pirates and that they would not molest him.

  The knights of the Temple made up the vanguard, which their leaders insisted was only fitting, with the squires, men-at-arms and crossbowmen marching in companies behind them. Everyone else, secular knights, footmen, mercenaries, adventurers and the rest of the 'arrow fodder', as Comrade Malet cheerfully referred to them, were left to struggle along in the rear.

  The land immediately beyond the coast was every bit as stark and barren as the Winter Realm, with little sign of human habitation save for a few abandoned hovels. The surviving Godless Ones that opposed them on the beach had scattered to the four winds.

  "I'm beginning to understand why my ancestors left this gods-forsaken dump," grumbled a Templar named FitzOsbern, as the vanguard laboured. across a freezing salt marsh swept by howling winds.

  "And exchanged it for a land every bit as depressing," commented another knight just behind him. That was the end of the conversation, barring a litany of curses from FitzOsbern as his horse stumbled on the broken ground and almost tipped him from the saddle.

  On the third day the army's outriders reported the ruins of a large settlement a few miles ahead. The Masters consulted their maps and identified the settlement as probably the ancient city of Mont le Daron. According to their Histories, this had once been a prosperous slave-trading centre.

  * * * *

  Led by Captain Toeni, the only woman amongst the Lesser Masters, a group of eager volunteers including Fulk was despatched to investigate. They galloped for several miles through the flat mist-shrouded landscape, and soon the outline of towers and battlements rose before them.

  Fulk shaded his eyes to get a better look, ignoring the moisture trickling irritatingly through his mail and down his back. Back in the Winter Realm a tower or keep was usually a crude pile of undressed stone, if it was made of stone at all, but the towers of Mont le Daron were graceful and tapering, reaching for the sky instead of clinging to the earth.

  The city had been built on the summit of a huge limestone hill surrounded by flat lowland, and the remains of large ramparts and elaborate stone defences were scattered all over the steep slopes. Much of the city was crammed into the wide flat plateau at the summit. The roofs of long-abandoned houses and buildings could be seen peering over the tops of the ancient walls.

  "Look at the place," said Comrade Toeni, "our ancestors considered it a minor city at best, and it's almost as big as Hope. How degenerate we have become! Let's have a closer look."

  She led her band of volunteers, sixteen knights and outriders, down a slope that dipped into a shallow valley before rising to meet the northern flanks of the city.

  Closer inspection revealed the defences to be in a sad way. The walls were tumbledown and covered with thick growths of slimy moss, and the towers, the grace of which put Fulk in mind of a lady's fingers, were roofless and open to the elements. Only a few residual streaks of whitewash on the dreary grey stone hinted at what they might have once looked like.

  "Maybe we should take a look inside?" Fulk ventured. Toeni gave him a hard look, but before she could speak another knight butted in.

  "I agree with Fulk. I've not come all this way just to get rained on. I say we go up there and see if our ancestors knew how to build a decent hall. We can stay dry for a while, at least."

  Toeni was not happy with Fulk's suggestion, but there were noises of agreement from the rest of the party. All of them were wet, and getting wetter, and eager to explore the mysterious ruins looming over their heads.

  "Suppose it can't do any harm," muttered Toeni, though the city filled her with a strange disquiet. She glanced at Fulk and gave her reins a shake.

  "On, then," she said, spurring her horse towards the narrow path that wound up the side of the escarpment. The rest formed up in double file and followed her, harness jingling as they approached the city gates.

  * * * *

  There was little left of the gates save the stone archway itself, its mortar slowly crumbling under centuries of neglect and incessant rain, and the collapsed stumps of the watchtowers that had once flanked it. The timber bridge had long since rotted away, obliging the Northerners to dismount and carefully lead their horses into the grass-grown ditch.

  Delayed by the skittishness of his horse, Thunder, Fulk was the last to clamber up the opposite bank. As he did so, perspiring in his heavy leather and mail, he happened to glance up and see a mural carved over the gate.

  The detail of the mural had been weathered and worn away by time, but he could make out long lines of vaguely human shapes. Most were wearing some form of ancient armour, and many were brandished what appeared to be human heads. At the centre of the mural was a tall figure in robes standing in a chariot, a spear in one hand and a laurel wreath on his brow. A great pile of heads was heaped up next to his chariot.

  Fulk reasoned that the man in the chariot was obviously some long-forgotten monarch of the Old Kingdom, and the severed heads those of enemies his army had defeated in battle. He had seen similar carvings in the Church of High Gods back home.

  The streets of Mont le Daron opened out in front of him, neat stone houses and what might once have been shops. The plaster on the walls of the buildings was faded and cracked, exposing the grey stone beneath, but even in their desolate and abandoned state they looked many times more sophisticated than the crude timber huts of the Winter Realm. Some of the larger houses had elegant porches, rows of pillars and arched roofs mounted on wide steps, and the muddy ground was criss-crossed with pathways made from white flagstones, so that pedestrians could avoid the filth and clutter of the streets.

  Fulk blinked, and the city came alive. The buildings were restored to their pristine state and the streets were full of people. Northerners like himself, with pale skin and blue eyes, but dressed in furs and colourful flowing robes. Their conversation was lively and full of baffling allusions, mathematics and philosophy and other subjects he was entirely ignorant of.

  The Northerners happily rubbed shoulders people from other lands, many other lands judging by their appearance. Olive-skinned and dark-skinned, impossibly beautiful women with startling green eyes and haughty expressions; black-bearded merchants, some of them pirates, no doubt, dressed in loose clothing with fearsome cutlasses and daggers thrust into their belts and sashes; holy men from unimaginably distant parts of the world, wizened characters with slanted eyes, their scrawny brown bodies weighed down by charms and trinkets and bearing
the savage marks of self-flagellation.

  Add to these priests of the various High Gods, guardsmen and knights in elaborate silver armour, their graceful helmets topped by nodding white plumes, and everywhere the stench and chatter of a thriving, vigorous city at the height of its power.

  The vision blurred and faded, and was replaced by an image of Hell. Fire swept through the streets of Mont el Daron, a wall of orange flame populated by screaming dark shapes, swords and spears rising and falling. Corpses littered the ground, men, women and children. Cruel warriors in pointed helmets pillaged the bodies and the beautiful houses, smashing windows and staving in doors in their eagerness to get at the riches inside. It was all too reminiscent of the massacre Fulk had witnessed in Hope, and he turned aside, unwilling to see any more.

  He opened his eyes, and the city was once again empty and dead. His companions were ahead of him, picking their way through the streets, and Comrade Toeni was shouting at Fulk to keep up.

  Most towns in the Winter Realm were centred round a castle, but the central plaza of Mont el Daron, next to the wide space that had once been the slave-market, was occupied by a temple. A round tower with a golden dome, like a miniature version of the Church of High Gods. The temple's glory was a thing of the past, its stonework crumbling and the whitewash that would have made it glow like a pale diamond mostly rotted away.

  The temple was surrounded by gardens arranged into neat brick-lined rectangles, but these were sadly overgrown, overwhelmed by weeds and nettles and rank slimy green stuff. Broken statues occupied the gardens, standing at awkward angles or laying forlornly on their sides in the grass, nude figures of men and women in heroic attitudes, many of them missing limbs and other body parts. Centuries of erosion had worn away the detail of their faces, giving them a blank, unsettling look.

  Fulk rode quickly past the statues, trying not to look right or left. A strange cold sensation stole over him, as if icy fingers were digging into his flesh, and he spurred his horse into a canter.

  His companions were gathered at the foot of the steps leading up to the entrance of the temple. Comrade Toeni looked up at Fulk as he approached.