The Best Weapon

by David Pilling

  "You and I are going to have a look inside," she said, jerking her thumb at the temple as he reined in, "for it seems that none of these cowards are so keen to explore after all."

  The men hung their heads or looked away, ashamed. "Right, then," Toeni said contemptuously, "you lot can stay out here and wet yourselves, or ride back to the army. I don't give a damn."

  The doors were made of iron, heavily corroded, and they collapsed inwards at a single kick from Toeni's boot. They hit the floor with an almighty clang that echoed and reverberated around the inside of the temple before dying away in the shadows of the roof.

  Toeni and Fulk stepped inside. The interior was dark and musty, rotten with the stench of damp and something else.

  The Master wrinkled her hatchet of a nose. "Gods above," she exclaimed, "this place smells of old shit. Animals must shelter in here."

  Fulk doubted it. He couldn't imagine anything choosing to live in such an awful place. The cold that had attacked him in the gardens still lingered.

  "We could do with a light," muttered Toeni, her voice echoing in the darkness, "I can't see a damn thing."

  Fulk ignored her and, not knowing why, knelt beside the wall and pressed his ear against the damp stone.

  He sensed a rhythm, like the echo of his heartbeat, coming from deep inside the roots of the temple. No, deeper than that. Far, far below the foundation stones, in the bowels of the earth, something was alive.

  Fulk imagined cold grey fingers tapping against the stone of some darkened vault miles below the earth. "Can you not hear it?" he asked, peering through the gloom at Toeni, who shook her head.

  Tap-tap. Tap-tap. He took his ear from the wall and the noise stopped, but he could still sense it, as though the ground was gently pulsing under his feet.

  He stood up. "There is something here," he said, "something bad. We should not have come."

  The Master half-drew her sword, as if expecting an enemy to leap at her from the shadows. "I agree completely. This place is a bloody tomb. Let's get out, and quickly."

  They hurried outside, to find that the rest of their party had disappeared. Strangely, they had left their horses behind, and the beasts stood about gently cropping the grass or staring into space.

  Fulk was seized by a limb-freezing chill, and there was a taste of copper in his mouth. Something unspeakable seemed to lurk on the edge of his vision.

  Toeni swore and pointed at the nearest row of statues lying on their sides in one of the ancient gardens.

  They had acquired new faces: familiar faces, male, bearded and contorted in shock.

  "We have to get out," croaked Fulk, now close to fainting. He buckled, and would have fallen if Toeni hadn't caught him under the arm.

  She helped him down the steps and onto his horse, before scrambling aboard her own. Fulk lay across his horse's saddle like a sack of potatoes, so Toeni grabbed his reins. She mumbled prayers to her uncaring god as she urged her horse and Fulk's through the deserted shadow-haunted streets.

  Fulk remained slumped in his saddle, gritting his teeth against the pain of the cold that threatened to consume him. Somehow he made it to the gates without sliding off, and almost as soon as he was through his mind began to clear.

  The two knights galloped away as fast as their horses could carry them. Neither spoke until they reached the safety of the army. Of the cursed city of Mont le Daron and the fate of their companions, they would say nothing until liberal doses of brandy had restored their shattered nerves.

  Grand Master Sibrand heard them out, and then gave his orders. The army would take a detour and give the city a wide berth.

  4.

  Beetal stumbled up the stairs to Kelta's veranda, exhausted after five nights following the river.

  He had lost his pack on the riverbank the night after he and his four companions had finally caught up with Naiyar. He woke to find hyenas prowling nearby and had only escaped because they were distracted by his supply of smoked meat. Since then he had not slept for fear of closing his eyes in the dark and being devoured.

  He was half-starved and weak, barely able to stand, but he had pressed on, believing his chief would expect news of how his hunting party had fared. He even entertained hopes that he might be rewarded for making it home and reporting to Kelta.

  He imagined how Kelta would give him mead and fruit and sympathy. How he would tell him he had done his best and was right to flee so that he could bring news to his chief.

  He might even be a hero.

  He thought about telling some of the young Djanki girls of his plight. How he had travelled back alone, the sole survivor of a violent battle, besides the treacherous Colken. It couldn't hurt to embellish his story a bit, make a bit of an adventure out of it.

  He certainly couldn't tell them he had watched the fight with Naiyar, and then fled in fear of his life after seeing his companions slaughtered. A Djanki should be fearless. A Djanki would rather die than run away. The story he told Kelta would have to be a good one. And it certainly couldn't contain too much of the truth, if he valued his life.

  So Beetal climbed the steps to Kelta's veranda with aching muscles, an empty belly, and a head full of fear and lies. It was early morning and the smell of barbecuing meat made his stomach grumble. He felt dizzy with hunger.

  As he approached Kelta's hut he called out to the two guards posted at the door. "Sellak! Brootal! Please, I must speak with Kelta. I have returned. I am the only survivor."

  "Naiyar is dead?" Sellak stepped forward, a hopeful look on his face.

  "No, he killed Viepa, Gildran and Aramesh."

  Brootal was wide eyed. "And Colken? Surely not Colken."

  Beetal hung his head. "Colken has betrayed the Djanki. He protects Naiyar."

  The guards gasped. "Protects him?"

  "Naiyar seems to be ...powerful. He called down a storm from the heavens, he has become something else."

  Brootal turned to Sellak. "So it is true," he said in a hushed voice. "Naiyar is fated to be a prophet."

  "What?" Beetal was perplexed. "Where did you hear that?"

  "Grizzal killed Naiyar's family—"

  "What? All of them?" Beetal felt very sick now. "Why?"

  "No one is sure. Grizzal claimed it was self-defence. Though I didn't know that Evva was so vicious a fighter a man would have to kill her to protect himself."

  Sellak grunted in agreement. "Grizzal is a pathetic worm. Perhaps Evva was getting the better of him."

  Brootal continued. "Just before he died, Lokee said Naiyar was not a god, but a prophet. Now everyone is debating the matter. Some believe it is nonsense. Some are not so sure. Since then, Kelta has only stopped drinking to shit and sleep. He has made Grizzal his second-in-command and told him to gather the entire Djanki horde."

  "Only thing is," Sellak put in, "he has no idea where to take it."

  Beetal smiled. He was sure Kelta would be pleased to see him. "I can tell him where."

  "He is still asleep," said Brootal.

  "And he doesn't like people waking him up." Sellak shook his head slowly, rubbing at a bump on his temple. "He doesn't like it at all."

  "This is important. I know where Naiyar is. I must tell Kelta where to lead his army. We can march there in six days."

  The two guards looked at each other.

  "Look," said Beetal, "if you don't wake him he'll be twice as angry for delaying urgent information. It'll be your skins if I don't see him now."

  Sellak and Brootal looked back toward Kelta's door. The muffled sound of snoring could be heard from behind it.

  "All right," Brootal relented, "follow us."

  They lead Beetal through Kelta's dark doorway. The great mound of seething blubber lay in his creaking hammock, snoring and farting. He seemed to have swollen in the past few days. He had been a wobbling mass before, but now he seemed to be pushing the limits of human girth.

  His enormous mug lay on its side on the floor beneath his dangling hand, and a puddle of mead seeped t
hrough the floor. Assorted bits of fruit were scattered beneath him.

  Brootal tapped his spear on the floor and cleared his throat. "Ahem. Chief?"

  Kelta snorted, but continued to snore.

  "Chief, Beetal has returned!" Sellak said a little louder, wincing as the big chief stirred in his hammock. The snoring had stopped. A single beady eye regarded the three figures standing in the gloom of the hut. The two guards took a step back.

  "Who interrupts my sleep?" Kelta whispered.

  "Chief, it's me. Beetal. I have returned with news." Beetal stepped forward as the guards shrank towards the door.

  "News?" Kelta grunted. "What news? You have Naiyar's body?"

  "No, chief, but I know where he is and can lead you there."

  Kelta's breathing become more rapid. "Where are the others?" he croaked.

  "Dead, except Colken. Naiyar killed the others. Colken has betrayed us and joined him. I had no choice but to come back, lord. There were too many of them to fight." Beetal began to embellish his story, desperately hoping to win Kelta's favour. "They came from all angles, hundreds of them, I killed many but I could not take all of them. Eventually I was forced to flee, to bring news to you. Naiyar has an army! Otherwise I would have killed him and brought his body back."

  "Where are they?" Kelta was now breathing very heavily. His fingers twitched and his lips began to pull away from his teeth in a silent snarl.

  "Five days march west along the river, Lord. There are some ruins. A day's march from there, north into the desert, there is a rock. That is where I left them."

  "Come here, Beetal."

  "I—I came straight back to tell you..."

  "Come here, Beetal." Kelta's voice was almost soothing, but Beetal could feel the anger it masked.

  Beetal inched forward as Kelta glared at him, the only sound Kelta's rapid, ragged breathing. Suddenly Kelta's hand shot out from the hammock and gripped Beetal's throat. Beetal cried out, but the chief's grip was unbreakable.

  Kelta worked his chubby fingers around Beetal's windpipe as the young warrior hung there, gasping for breath, whimpering and helplessly flailing his arms.

  "I told you, Beetal, not to come back without my god." Kelta's voice sounded eerily calm. "I told you not to fail me."

  Beetal's face slowly drained of its colour as his life ebbed away. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he fought for breath. Piss streamed down his legs and mixed with the mead on the floor. Finally, his arms dropped away from Kelta's and he gave a last, dying spasm and stopped moving.

  Kelta squeezed with all his might until he heard a wet crunch. Then he gave Beetal's corpse a final shake and let go. Beetal dropped limp to the floor.

  "Brootal!" Kelta bellowed from his hammock.

  Brootal appeared in the doorway immediately, and stared at Beetal's lifeless body.

  "Chief?"

  "I crushed a Beetal." Kelta smiled for the first time since the five warriors had first returned empty-handed from their hunt. "Tell Grizzal we march at dawn."

  * * * *

  The next morning Kelta stood on the temple platform and looked out over an army. Behind him Grizzal stood with the elders, while the shamans pranced and gibbered around them.

  Before him, stretched out as far as he could see, was the Djanki horde. The front ranks were made up of five thousand of the most intimidating warriors. The Djanki spearmen.

  While most Djanki were lithe and wiry, the spearmen were built for power. Standing a head taller than most, they had experienced a different upbringing. Identified at a young age as being bulkier and more powerful, they were groomed to become lethal mounds of muscle. In battle they acted as the first wave of any attack, smashing their way through the front ranks of the enemy.

  As part of the ritualised existence of the spearmen, their heads and bodies were shaved completely bald and they were painted a bright red. White glaring eyes were painted on their foreheads. They each carried an oblong shield that reached from chin to ankle, made of a lightweight wooden frame with tough, red hide stretched across it. For weapons they held mighty spears, nearly twice the height of a man and adorned with strips of human skin.

  At their waists they carried heavy curved clubs. One end was hollowed out and had a spherical rock set into it and stuck fast with resin. The clubs were carved to resemble a muscular arm clutching a stone in its hand, ready to break enemy skulls at close quarters when their spears were ineffective.

  Their grim faces, unlike the rest of the Djanki warriors, showed no battle joy—just a grim, workman like determination to destroy anything in their path. And they did it with notorious efficiency. From the temple platform where Kelta stood, they looked like a sea of blood, ready to wash away his enemies.

  Behind the motionless ranks of spearmen were three thousand archers, perhaps a less impressive sight than the hulking battering rams in front, but no less deadly. They wore caps made of skulls and hide, with crude visors to prevent the sun from dazzling them as they took aim with their bows to rain poison-tipped arrows on their opponents.

  At the rear was the greatest spectacle of all—the infamous Djanki mounts. Five hundred war-elephants, each a giant bull in its prime. Nearly three times the height of a man and with giant tusks sharpened into ever more vicious looking shapes. Some just tapered into a needle tip, some had a curved, razor sharp edge on the outside, and others had serrated edges which could saw into an enemy's flesh.

  Painted to look like rotting corpses with putrefying flesh and protruding bones, they carried four similarly decorated warriors on their backs in bone howdahs—a singularly eerie and terrifying sight, an army of the living dead marching to trample their enemies into oblivion.

  Kelta raised one arm, holding his spear above his head. Like the spearmen, he was painted red from head to foot but had a grotesque, white grin with nightmarish jagged teeth painted ear to ear across his broad face.

  "Djanki!" He roared out over the masses below him. The temple was built in such a way that his voice echoed around the clearing. It sounded like ten people had shouted the word in unison.

  His warriors screamed back him, banging drums, waving various weapons and clattering spears on shields.

  Eventually he raised his other hand and the clamour died down. He continued.

  "Something has been stolen from us! Something precious! The most precious thing that there is! Our god!"

  There was a murmur of jeers and shouts through the ranks. Kelta shouted them down.

  "We are Djanki! We are the mightiest warriors the world has ever seen! We live to fight! We die to fight!" The horde roared its approval again.

  "I know where our god is! He raises an army as we speak, in the desert! He tests us! We will do as the Djanki have done since the dawn of time! We will strike terror into the hearts of our enemies before we snatch them from their chests and devour them like figs! We will pass his test, and we will take back our god!" The noise of the army was deafening, the faces of the warriors contorted as they howled for blood.

  "We are Djanki! We march! We fight! We kill!"

  The shamans approached the steps which led down from the temple and descended in single file, followed by Kelta, then Grizzal and the elders.

  Kelta stopped short of the bottom and sidled along a ledge. His mount was brought level with him by two of his servants. The beast was gargantuan, even by the standards of Djanki elephants. His tusks almost reached the floor before curving up high in front of his eyes, carved into vicious, jagged edges ending in sharp hooks. His flanks were painted to look as though the rib cage had no flesh, and was a prison in which corpses rotted, while his head was adorned with the skulls of Kelta's vanquished foes.

  The elephant pissed copiously into the mud while Kelta heaved himself into his howdah. A gaudily painted warrior sat on the giant animal's neck and nudged him into motion.

  The elephant obediently followed the shamans. Behind Kelta walked the elders, leading three undecorated elephants that carried their supplies. The spearm
en, archers, and mounts followed them.

  The Djanki horde marched to take back their god.

  5.

  The Rat was a man who had fallen by degrees. He had been an honest tradesman once, a butcher in the poor district in Hope, but the various street gangs had many uses for a sly, quick man who was good with a cleaver. They paid him good money to do some underhand work, nothing heavy at first, just a spot of debt collection and intimidation, but gradually he had slid further into their twilight world.

  By the age of thirty he had a long string of violent larcenies and seven messy homicides to his name, and was only spared the gallows thanks to the intervention of Archpriest Flambard's agents.

  Had The Rat been just another thug they would have let him swing, but from the city watch they heard that he was a clever, slippery customer, as charming as he was murderous, capable of smooth-talking his way through the gates of Hell.

  Intrigued, the Archpriest's agents plucked him from his cell and interrogated him for several hours. Next day the watch was ordered to forget his real name, to forget his very existence, and find someone else to hang.

  Calling him 'The Rat' had been the Archpriest's little joke. "Because he's vicious, poisonous and very good at hiding in holes," Flambard had laughed, "and he looks like one to boot."

  All of Flambard's field agents had a codename, usually derived from some animal. This was his way of reminding them that compared to him they were mere beasts, trained to do their master's bidding.

  The Rat's career since had been as secretive as it was successful, and it was in no small part thanks to him that Flambard was so well-informed of events in the North. The Archpriest had other agents in the region, but The Rat was his key man, his eyes and ears and, when occasion demanded it, his hand wielding a knife or bottle of poison.

  The Rat had agents of his own, local men and women he bribed to keep him informed of anything interesting or unusual they might have witnessed.

  One such, an innkeeper, sent him word of three exhausted riders arriving at the town of Holdfast in the early hours of the morning and demanding admittance.