Bookweirdest by Paul Glennon

emptiness of the room made them both quiet.
    A messenger appeared and whispered something in the steward’s ear. He nodded and turned to address Esme.
    “Cuilean can see you for a moment now, Ambassador Esme.” He cast a wary eye towards Norman. “But, uh”—the master of ceremonial greetings struggled for the right way to address the humanboy—“Sir Strong Arm, I am afraid this room is the only one that can accommodate you. You will have to wait here.”
    The steward held out an arm to point Esme in the direction of Cuilean’s rooms. She hesitated for a moment, casting a glance towards Norman.
    “I’ll be okay,” he told her, not at all confidently. “These are my old stomping grounds.”
    She nodded silently and then reluctantly followed the steward out of the hall. Norman thought how lucky he was that she had stowed away in his backpack. He’d never have got into Lochwarren Keep without her.
    The moment she’d left the room, the guards took up their posts by the courtyard door, and Norman suddenly wondered whether he should be so pleased with himself. He had faith in Esme, but being cooped up in there made him nervous. He needed to find Malcolm and resume their search for the map.
    He scanned the faces of the guards. They watched him without looking him in the eye.
    “Did any of you fight at Tista Kirk?” he asked. He knew they hadn’t—the weasels had not come to help the stoats fight the wolves for their kingdom—but their silence made him nervous.
    That silence was soon broken. Norman heard an order given outside in the courtyard, followed by the clang of metal on the cobblestones. The doors to the Great Hall flung open, letting sunlight pour in and sending Norman staggering back into the shade. More weasel soldiers. For a moment they were only silhouettes in the doorway, dark forms surrounded by bright blue sky, but as Norman’s eyes adjusted, he could see that they had come in their heaviest armour. Covered in steel from head to foot, they looked and moved more like robots than weasels, their limbs rising slowly and clanking down in unison. There was nothing to indicate that these steel machines encased tiny woodland creatures. Even their eyes were hidden by heavy visors. In his arms, each soldier carried a long halberd. Norman eyed the pointed spikes and took another step backwards into the hall.
    The weasel knights marched forward two steps and formed two ranks across the open doorway. The first soldiers kneeled and planted their halberds in the ground. The second ones stood behind them, their weapons at shoulder height.
    Norman raised his empty hands to show that he was unarmed.
    “What’s going on?” he called out, his voice cracking. “I’m not doing anything.”
    There was no answer from the phalanx of armed weasels. It suddenly became very quiet. The only sound was the clank and scrape of plate armour as the knights shifted and swayed. Maybe, Norman thought, they are as scared as I am at this point. People always say that about animals—that they are more afraid of you than you are of them—but did it apply when they were covered in metal and armed to the teeth?
    “Where is Lady Esme?” he asked, a little more bravely.
    “Come out into the courtyard!” a voice bellowed. Norman couldn’t tell who had spoken. The knights stepped back, leaving a path for him to the courtyard, but their weapons stayed drawn and pointed.
    “I gave myself up willingly. I came here to clear my name. King Malcolm will be furious if you hurt me.”
    “Bonnie Prince Malcolm is a scoundrel, not a king!” the voice shouted. It was coming from the parapets out in the courtyard.
    “That’s not what the Mustelid treaty map says!” Norman fired back. Despite the blades pointed in his direction, he stepped into the doorway to see who he was arguing with.
    The knights shifted and growled, but they held their ranks.
    High on the walls above the courtyard stood a large weasel surrounded by archers. He was big,