The Best Weapon

by David Pilling

  "We outnumber the Djanki two to one," said Kayla.

  "That's what worries me." Colken replied, still frowning down at the vast desert army.

  Husan al Din emerged from a clump of his advisers and spurred his horse toward the Tear Drop. He came to a halt beneath it and his round face squinted up, beads of sweat glistening on his beard.

  "How many?" he shouted up to Kayla.

  "About ten thousand," she shouted back, "with five hundred elephants."

  He turned his horse and dug his heels in. Galloping back through the lines, he shouted, "Form up! Form up!"

  Moving with practised discipline, the front lines of spearmen flowed into three huge triangles, like arrows pointed at the enemy. The Fifth army formed the central arrow.

  The roar of the Djanki warriors could be heard clearly now as they chanted and beat their drums. An incoherent wall of feverish noise rose and fell in time to the beat.

  Suddenly, in perfect unison, all the Djanki warriors and their drums fell silent. Then the otherworldly wail of the Djanki war horns rang out across the desert.

  The Djanki shamans came first, their naked, emaciated bodies writhed and twisted as they chanted, shrieked and made obscene gestures at the Sharib. Some of them crouched and drew strange runes in the sand, foam trickling from their gibbering mouths.

  The forward lines of the Djanki spearmen broke into a run and they streamed past their shamans, who were quickly lost in the crowd.

  In response, the Sharib spearmen chanted their war cry and steadily marched forward to meet the enemy. Flights of Djanki arrows sailed over their heads and rained down on the Sharib cavalry.

  Screams rang out as men were struck and horses shrieked and panicked as Djanki arrows pierced their unprotected flesh. But the cavalry held their position, waiting for Husan al Din's command.

  The three great fires behind the Sharib cavalry were burning furiously, sending great columns of thick black smoke high into the sky.

  The opposing tides met with an ear-splitting crash, and the desert echoed to the clash of weapons, war cries and agonized screams as the dense blocks of spearmen shoved and stabbed at each other.

  Colken ran to the edge of the Tear Drop and leaped into the swirling melee, spear in hand. He laid about him with terrible efficiency, whirling his spear like a staff, slicing flesh and breaking bones.

  Suddenly the Djanki horns rang out again and the mass of their spearmen split in two, leaving a gap in the middle. Into the gap stormed hundreds of Djanki elephants, with Kelta's beast at their head. They ploughed into the Sharib lines as their riders hailed down arrows and poison darts. Men screamed in pain as they were impaled on tusks or trampled underfoot, and the organized ranks of the Sharib dissolved into a terrified mob.

  At this moment Husan al Din raised his scimitar a second time, and hundreds of Sharib archers hurried into formation behind the cavalry. The bowmen formed into three groups, each lighting their arrows in the fires. Two groups of archers ran to the flanks of the army, and the third remained in place.

  At a word from their captains the archers sent up a hellish volley of burning arrows, filling the already smoke-blackened sky with fire. A second volley of flame followed seconds later .

  The arrows fell like burning rain among the elephants, striking their riders, igniting and piercing the flesh of the beasts themselves. They panicked and stampeded in all directions, ignoring the desperate shouts and blows of the men riding them.

  Now Husan al Din raised his scimitar for the third and last time. He bellowed as he spurred his horse into a gallop, and five thousand desert horsemen plunged in his wake. The ground shook with the rumble of hooves as they thundered into the chaos of the battle.

  * * * *

  As Colken fought wildly in the midst of the chaos, he looked up and saw an elephant hurtling towards him, bristling with burning arrows, the thick paint on its flanks igniting and producing an acrid smoke which burned his throat. He saw the swollen, painted figure of Kelta sitting astride its back, shouting as he desperately tried to regain control of the terrified beast. Colken darted to one side as the hooked tusks sliced past him.

  Kelta lost his grip and fell, sliding over the elephant's head. The elephant lifted its head, trumpeting, and Kelta released a blood curdling scream as its tusk ripped through his belly and out through his back. The shape of the tusk had been designed to hook and hold an enemy impaled on it, and so Kelta hung there, a great string of red spit trailing from his contorted face as his mount dragged him away into the desert.

  * * * *

  The Sharib cavalry burst into the scattered mass of the Djanki horde. Husan al Din roared as he swung his scimitar, chopping into flesh and bone like a demented butcher. The Djanki battle frenzy was like nothing he had ever witnessed, they showed no fear, and their faces wore expressions of ecstasy as they threw themselves on their enemies. He was happy to oblige them, and gleefully bellowed an old hunting song as he hacked to right and left.

  * * * *

  Naiyar gazed down on the scene as though he were dreaming.

  "All this, because of me," he whispered.

  "This is not over you, Naiyar," replied Kayla. "It is far greater than that. You must survive. The world depends on it."

  "It is senseless. All these lives ending as I sit here and watch."

  "Then make it stop."

  "How?"

  Kayla turned to Naiyar, fixing him with a piercing stare.

  "Demonstrate your power. The Djanki will follow you. You must unite these people."

  Naiyar took a deep breath, looking up into the dark sky. Smoke blotted out much of the sunlight. He tried to block out the cacophony of the battle beneath him and concentrate.

  Slowly the smoke above him began to twist and spiral. The wind swirled about him, tugging at his hair. Dark grey clouds formed.

  The fighting died down as men turned to look at the Tear Drop. The wind was roaring about them now, making them sway and fight against it to remain upright.

  Naiyar held his hands out, palms to the sky. A fork of lightning shot down from the thickening clouds, struck Naiyar and held him there as the ground shook. Torrential rain burst from the clouds, hammering down on the battle, extinguishing the fires and causing men to slip and stagger.

  The ground around the Tear Drop began to split and rupture. Bit by bit, a line drew itself across the desert. The shuddering earth made men topple over, flinging them onto the drenched sand. Brightly coloured war-paint ran from the bodies of elephants and warriors and swirled around in the quagmire, mixing with blood and creating layered spirals of blue, red and yellow on the surface.

  Naiyar raised his hands above his head.

  "I am the prophet Naiyar!" As he spoke his voice seemed to boom from the clouds. The rain pulsed and the timbre of his voice surged through the wall of water.

  "Djanki! My people, my kin! Today you came to fight, to kill men who you should regard as your brothers! Why? Because of your beliefs! Because you believed I was a god, chosen by your shamans! I am no such thing!"

  There was a murmur amongst the Djanki. The Sharib warriors just stood or lay where they were, looking bemused as the water streamed through their beards and wrinkled their skin.

  "And neither were any of our so-called Chosen Sons! I know because I have seen them! Their spirits haunt our jungle home! They talk to me, they aid me! And they will aid us if you follow me! Do not be deceived. I am Naiyar, and I am no god at all. I am your Prophet, and you shall have no others but me!"

  As Naiyar stopped speaking, the earth ceased vibrating, the rain stopped, the clouds dissipated and he was left standing in the bright sun, looking down on a silent battlefield. The warriors and horses froze where they were, staring up at him. The only sounds which could be heard were the groans of the wounded and dying.

  Colken raised his spear, which had been washed clean by the downpour.

  "Naiyar!" he shouted. "Naiyar!"

  A few of the Djanki near him raised their sp
ears and shouted with him. "Naiyar!"

  Steam rose from the sand in the heat of the afternoon sun, glaring down upon a surreal landscape of soaked, exhausted warriors and charred, bloody corpses.

  One by one, the Djanki warriors stood and joined in, until every Djanki chanted Naiyar's name.

  ***

  Naiyar, Kayla, Colken and Husan al Din walked through the camp. What remained of the Djanki army and its elders had moved south toward the river. Many of the surviving shamans had been slaughtered by the Djanki warriors, their fear of them seeming to have dissolved in Naiyar's downpour.

  The Sharib army was camped adjacent to the Djanki on the riverbank. Men and women who had strained every sinew to kill each other a few hours before now swapped stories, shared their ale and played at dice. This unlikely spirit of harmony may have only been induced by fear of Naiyar, but harmony it was, for the time being.

  The Djanki elders were camped at the western end. Grizzal was among them but he had not been seen since the Djanki horde arrived for battle at the Tear Drop. Since Naiyar had stopped the fighting, he had stayed with the elders and tried to remain inconspicuous.

  In truth, Naiyar was not sure what he should do with Grizzal. Killing him might seem like a petty act of vengeance, but he had to make some example of him. The character of the Prophet that he had created could not afford to appear weak. He secretly hoped that Grizzal had somehow been killed in the battle or perhaps fled afterwards and would die alone in the wilderness. At least then Naiyar could put on a show of wanting Grizzal alive or dead, safe in the knowledge that he would actually never have to deal with him.

  The four of them walked in silence, Naiyar deep in thought, with his shadow Kayla beside him.

  "Quite a fight, eh?" Husan al Din grinned at Colken, smoke from his pipe pouring out between his brown teeth. Colken grunted non-committally.

  Husan al Din looked around him, pulling on his pipe. "The way you use that spear is very impressive! You'll have to teach me."

  Another grunt.

  "What about the fire, though? Weren't expecting that, were you? I know how to deal with elephants!"

  "I couldn't see. The smoke stung my eyes and choked me. I've never liked fire as a tactic in battle." Colken was brutally honest.

  "Oh." Husan al Din, looked away, as if hoping to see someone on his other side to support him, but there was no one. He quietly refilled his pipe.

  When they reached the elders' encampment the crowd of old men stood to face Naiyar, and then carefully dropped to their knees.

  Naiyar stopped and waited with Kayla and Husan al Din while Colken stalked up and down the lines.

  "Please," asked Naiyar, "rise, you have no need to kneel to me."

  The elders glanced at one another, then stood with their heads bowed.

  "I am sure you all know my family were killed. And I am sure you all know who killed them, and what he said as he slew my father."

  Still nobody moved. Colken continued to walk back and forth, working his way towards the back.

  "Now you know why Lokee did what he did. My mother and sister were innocent." Naiyar felt anger rising in his chest, making his voice hoarse.

  "A Djanki is a warrior!" he suddenly bellowed, making the elders at the front flinch.

  "Even you, old wrecks that you are, live by the same code!" Naiyar pointed at them with a shaking hand.

  "A warrior does not kill women and children, especially when they are sleeping, defenceless!" He spat the last word with such venom even Husan al Din jumped.

  "The person who killed my family is no warrior." Naiyar's voice grew calm again, although it did not hide the rage that still flared behind it.

  "And therefore he is no Djanki." The anger he had briefly allowed to show itself was replaced with a cold finality.

  At this point there was movement. Having spotted Grizzal, Colken grabbed him by his dreadlocks and marched him towards the front where Naiyar waited.

  "It wasn't me! I had no choice!" he screamed.

  Colken stood him in front of Naiyar and stared intently into his terrified face.

  "Naiyar, I am sorry. I had nothing to do with it! I just went to summon them on Kelta's orders! They attacked me! I did nothing wrong! It was Kaiyal! It was Appiah!" Grizzal was babbling now, tears streamed down his face, his mouth foamed and he spat and shook as he spoke.

  Husan al Din winced as Grizzal pissed down his legs.

  "Please! Naiyar! It was them! Not me! It was Kaiyal! Appiah-"

  Colken punched Grizzal in the stomach and he sank to his knees, grovelling but no longer making any sense. He pulled out his belt knife, grabbed Grizzal's hair and turned him toward the elders so they could all see. Then he pulled Grizzal's dreadlocks aside and exposed his throat.

  Colken gazed out across the Djanki elders and dragged his blade across Grizzal's throat.

  His victim gasped and his eyes widened as blood poured from the gash. It gaped, like a second toothless mouth yawning at the sun.

  3.

  My Lord Archpriest,

  I received your message six days ago. My humblest apologies for the delayed reply, but I am experiencing the greatest difficulty in maintaining my cover. Feelings are running extremely high against your lordship here, and your agents are being exposed and denounced by the same people who were, just a short time ago, accepting bribes to work for us.

  It is rebellion, my lord. I have seen for myself the gallows at Riverrun and Split-Helm Pass loaded with the bodies of your servants. Only by extreme caution and luck have I survived, and I am by no means confident of retaining a whole skin...

  "Yes, yes," rasped the Archpriest, "skip to the important bit."

  The young scribe reading out the letter bowed and coughed nervously before continuing. He felt light-headed from the stench of rotting flesh that permeated the Archpriest's bedchamber, and did his best to avoid glancing at the contents of the bed.

  Archpriest Flambard could no longer walk. His body was a rotting hulk, covered from neck to toes in weeping sores and pulsing black buboes. His hands and feet were hideously swollen and swathed in bandages, which was why he couldn't hold the letter for himself. Every part of him itched and stung, as though he had been dipped in a tub of stinging nettles, and his flesh seeped with pus like sweat on a hot day.

  And yet Flambard would not die. The indomitable part of his spirit, the best part of him, laughed his physical torture to scorn, just as he had laughed at the cries of all those he had put to the torture. There was no pity in Flambard, least of all for himself.

  The scribe continued:

  I can confirm that ten days ago Baron Clifford marched from Clifford's Mount, armed and arrayed for war with his banners flying and five hundred men at his back. I shadowed the column for a day and a night, and was able to identify that the Deyvilles were among Clifford's followers. The chief of that family, Sir Jean Deyville, carries a piece of skull garlanded with flowers on the end of his lance. I believe it to be a remnant of the head of his cousin, Sir Walter Deyville.

  There was a bubbling noise from the bed that might have been a laugh.

  I tracked the Baron's force for three days. He continued to march south, gathering more men and supplies on the way. Every town and village he passed through greeted him as a hero, and cried out - my apologies for having to relate this - 'death to the traitor Flambard, death to the regicide' and the like.

  I would have followed him further, but at Riverrun my presence was detected and I was obliged to flee for my life. By this time the Baron's followers had swelled to some twelve hundred men, and I have little doubt that more will join him. There can be no doubt, from the speeches that I heard him make, that he intends to march on Hope and depose your lordship.

  Having come to the end of the relevant part of the letter, the scribe paused. Silence reigned for a few moments, save for Flambard's wheezing breath.

  "Does he make any reference to The Rat?" the Archpriest asked eventually.

  "No, my lord, "
replied the scribe, "the letter ends with a line saying that the writer has taken shelter in one of his many bolt-holes, and will abide there until the storm passes. It is signed 'Your faithful Pig.' I presume that is not the writer's true name."

  "You presume correct. No spy worth his salt signs letters with his real name. Very well, you may leave."

  The scribe bowed, and hesitated. "Is there anything I can do to make your lordship more comfortable?" he ventured.

  Flambard's chopped-liver lips twitched into something resembling a smile. "My comforts in this world are ended," he hissed, wincing as another jolt of pain shot through his guts, "but you can do me a small service. Go and inform Captain Trajan that I wish to speak to him."

  "Yes, my lord," The young man gave another bow, more a nervous bob, and bustled out of the room with the spy's letter clutched to his chest.

  Flambard tried to ignore his pain and think. He knew that his time was fast dwindling, and was contemplating suicide rather than wait for the end. However, there were three things left that he wished to achieve in this life before his voluntary leaving of it.

  One, secure a worthy successor to rule the Winter Realm.

  Two, take revenge on The Rat, who had so catastrophically overstepped his orders.

  Three, witness the grisly execution of the Baron Clifford and his allies.

  There seemed no ready way of achieving any of these. No worthy successor existed who could rule the land, or none that he was aware of. Just a pack of squabbling nobles with no thought to anything except furthering their own ambitions. Baron Clifford was possibly the best of them, which spoke volumes about the rest. It caused Flambard much distress, exceeded only by the pain in his body, to know that he would die and leave no one who could maintain the Winter Realm's precious long-standing unity.

  Slow tears plodded down his cheeks as he imagined the realm collapsing into civil war and anarchy. For this he blamed The Rat, and would have given much to witness him being roasted over a slow fire or pulled apart by ravening hounds, but he had vanished. Flambard guessed that his agent had quickly realised the enormity of what he had done and fled the country.