The Best of Men - an epic fantasy (Song of Ages Book 1)

by Wilf Jones

‘It’s the spell, Tregar, not the domestics,’ he snapped, ‘Just save your grumbles for the enemy – if we can ever find him.’ He bashed through the final servant’s door separating them from the Throneway, the ceremonial approach to The Presence, but then stopped in his tracks. ‘Tregar,’ he said without turning, ‘I think you’d better you prepare yourself for a shock.’

  Once bright with the light of a hundred lanterns but now gloomier than the worst winter’s day, the Throneway troubled their eyes and sapped their spirits. Tregar was dumbfounded. Only one lantern in ten was lit but even in the poor light they could see hangings crumpled to the floor, tables on a kilter, suits of armour – the physical history of a strong and proud people – collapsed in pieces and turned red with rust; the carpets looked as if they’d been dragged through a farmyard, the chairs were rickety and the crumbling paint on the walls carried great dark patches that spoke of water getting in somewhere high above: it was as if the castle was diseased.

  ‘Neath’s Sake, Seama, ye could’ve told me it’d be so… so bladdie awful.’

  ‘Actually I couldn’t Tregar. It’s ten times worse now than earlier. Now watch yourself. It’s not just the castle it attacks: this thing gets at your head too. That’s why we’re so irritable.’

  Tregar scowled. ‘Ye think so? And I thought that was how you were normally.’ He rummaged about in his trouser pocket. ‘Anyway, let me tell ye, this spell’s not getting at me – not this time.’ He pulled out an amber coloured crystal the size of a duck egg and proceeded to wave it in a pattern before his heart and before his forehead. ‘There ye go: that’s me protected for a little while at least.’

  ‘Lucky you. Don’t suppose it would help the rest of us?’

  ‘No, you’re right; sorry about that. It was given to me by our Seer before I left Spurl for Errensea, years ago. Only works for me, I’m afraid. So, the question is: what else can we do – for the castle and for everyone in it? Is there a cure to be had? Ye know it’d take days to trace the root of the spell and even then…’

  Seama smiled wryly.

  ‘And even then we might not have the ability to kill it. What we need, Tregar, is a different approach. It all depends on the Presence and the Throne but I do have the makings of a plan. C’mon, let’s see what we can do.’

  The Door-ward of the Presence was still in his place, his black garb and silver regalia as smart as it should be. The orbed staff he carried was of polished ebony, shod with steel. The heel of it hammered into the brass foot-plate three times and then once more as the Presence doors swung inwards. Seama sighed with profound relief.

  In contrast to the Throneway, the Presence had lost none of its glory. It was as if the doors had opened upon a raging fire, the red and gold blaze of it bursting out into the darkling corridor as if it could re-ignite the torches and bring vigour to the mordant stone. Seama could feel the energy and the desire rushing past him. This was much more than he could have expected.

  He glanced at Tregar, standing red-faced in the glow of it. Mador’s wizard was equally impressed.

  ‘Gods’o’Number, Seama. I’ve been in the Presence a thousand times – two thousand – but this? I’ve never known anything like it.’

  Seama nodded enthusiastically. It was like standing free in strong sunlight after an age of wandering lost in darkness and misery. Doubts that clung to him like shadows as they had passed along the Throneway dissolved into nothing and hope bloomed in every thought.

  ‘It is just amazing,’ he breathed, ‘Do you feel her Tregar? Ayer – she’s beginning the fight back!’

  FEEDING THE FISHES

  Riverport 3057.7.19

  The man in the broad brimmed hat and dark cloak leaned closer in to the sidewall of the building. Just around the corner the front door slammed shut, a key was turned in the lock producing a nerve-raking shriek for want of oil. He heard the steel bar drawn across the face of the door, slammed home and then padlocked. There would be no entry that way. A moment’s panic came over him when he heard heavy steps approaching but then Rixbur shouted ‘No! Not down there, Dog. We’re heading into town tonight. The cock-fight, remember?’ Dog grunted in reply and the others laughed for some reason – perhaps the Dog had made a gesture behind Rixbur’s back. How often had he seen that over the last couple of months? Nothing else was said.

  He waited until the sound of the iron-shod boots of the hill-men disappeared into the general murmur of Low Docks Street and when he was sure they had all gone he slid out of the shadows and peered down the length of Red-dock Passage. Empty. There was nothing here but warehousing: no shops, no houses and consequently no one around to spy him out. The only merchant at all worried about theft in this generally safe City of Riverport had just left and taken his guards with him.

  Angren smirked his ‘got you’ smirk for a few seconds, savouring the victory even before it was achieved.

  ‘Right Rixbur, you asked for it.’

  On the left-hand side of the house was a narrow cobbled alleyway sloping down to the river. This particular storehouse was one of the more mouldered affairs that stood with their feet in the water with no pier between to keep out the damp. Towards the bottom end of the alley the cobbles were slimed from years of regular flooding and Angren found he had to step very carefully indeed. It would be ludicrous to sprain an ankle at this stage. Close up against the water the battered remains of a wooden jetty were more of a liability than a help and he decided not to trust the rotting timbers: the waters of the Hypodedicus here were cold and fast flowing and while Angren was a good swimmer he didn’t want to lose either his cloak or his hat as he’d only just bought them and rather liked the style. The harbour beacons lit up the main docks away to his left but they were not bright enough to be of much use at this remove and so Angren had to wait a few minutes until there was a largish gap in the cloud cover. Luckily for Angren the moon was at slightly more than a half.

  When the light came he purred in satisfaction. A single glance told him he’d remembered it all aright. A few days before he had leant out of that door high up, the one with the derrick and pulley above it, and seen down below what seemed to be a course of bricks standing proud of the wall: a ledge just about the line of the first floor windows. He’d marked it because he couldn’t understand why it was there. Not for decoration surely? Now with the same course at the level of his waist he could see that the whole building below the line was by way of being a sturdy foundation, an extra support against the force of the river. And it had been well thought on, Angren decided, as he studied the hollowed bricks down around the watermark.

  Angren was well aware that the first floor windows were shuttered and bolted from the inside. The door on the second floor was not. He had made sure of it. The curious thing was he had pulled the bolt free from its housing and tossed it into the river at least two days before he’d seen any real need to do so. He’d still been working for Rixbur then.

  He had with him a bail hook with a cross-piece handle. Driven into the mortar it gave him just enough leverage to haul himself up onto the ledge. Carefully he sidled along until he reached the first inset window embrasure and there he rested. The second section was less easy: the bricks were in places crumbled away and he was lucky that none of them broke beneath his weight. The hardest part was when he realised the wall he was clinging to had begun to slope outwards as it bowed with age. His fingertips were soon raw from having to dig them into the mortar layers above him. He reached the safety of the second window just as clouds hid the moon once more. He bided his time, sitting on the sill with his feet dangling over the waters. Presently he began to rummage in the bag he had slung under his cloak. What came out was a coil of rope. Angren was very handy with rope. It took only three attempts to loop the line over the derrick just in the correct place. He took the precaution of tying together the lower ends in three large knots to the handles on the shutters. It would m
ean leaving the rope behind but it made the ascent so much easier. He virtually walked up the wall to reach the door.

  Things were going well. The bolt had not been replaced, the door pulled open nice and easy, he swung himself inside. Then he tripped over something in the dark, fell with a thud, crashed through the poorly fastened trapdoor, plummeted twelve feet and landed shoulders first on a table covered with lots of hard metallic things. The thickness of his cloak saved him many a cut from the daggers he had now scattered all over the floor.

  The clangour woke something up. Two somethings. As he gasped for breath, wondering whether he had broken anything, a clattering of paws and a snarling, vicious barking came hurtling through the building to greet him. If the lanterns had not been lit he’d have been no better than dead meat. Two wolfhounds bounded onto the table as he rolled off it. The first weapon to hand was a small knife that he threw at the nearest dog but missed. He ducked under the table as they came for him, kicked at their heads and missed, rolled out on the other side and came up holding one of the pikes that had been laid beneath the table. At last he had an advantage. With his first swing he managed to whack the nearest dog with the pointy end, lopping off an ear. The dog howled in pain but the other snatched at the heel end of the pike and nearly pulled it out of Angren’s grip. The wounded hound came on again as he struggled to wrestle the pike free. It went for his throat. Angren ducked beneath the dog as it leapt, thrust hard with the pike at the other and then pushed upwards all in one flowing movement sending the wounded hound tumbling through the air. The audible snap as it crashed into the corner of the table gave Angren some hope. He looked for the second hound. It was rolling on the floor clawing at the pike-staff Angren had forced down its throat. The gurgling noise was horrible to hear. With as much kindness as he could muster, Angren used one of the daggers at hand to break the dog’s neck before removing the shaft. The other dog was already dead.

  ‘Well you two beauties were a bit of a surprise. Wonder where he got you.’ He gave the dog’s mane a rough stroke. ‘Fine dogs you were too. Pity you were his.’

  The next hour or so was the hard work he’d come for. The store of weapons in the place was considerable. Rixbur had everything: halberd, pike, lance, pig-stick; swords of every style and size; mace and hammer and spike, bows and crossbows and several very unorthodox weapons. Angren had a plan for them all. He opened the two shuttered windows overlooking the bay, peered out briefly at the full and roiling waters below and then began the laborious task of consigning the stock to the bottom of the river. He kept only a few pieces for himself: a couple of secret affairs for emergencies and a beautiful diamond and ruby hilted stiletto because it was far too pretty a toy to decorate a fish’s gullet.

  In the course of his labours Angren found the safe. He thought about it for a while and then went back to test its weight. There was no way he would be able to open it. The lock was a two key affair, probably Slaney made, very complicated and Angren was no lock-pick. But could he shift it? A straight lift? Not four hundred pounds of Dreffield cast iron. Could he tip it? He pushed hard at the back end and after a lot of effort he rocked it forwards and it fell and smashed the slate floor beneath. That was as much as he could do: try as he might he couldn’t shift it any more. Still, Rixbur would have the devil of a job righting it and with luck the lock would be damaged and hard to break through.

  Rixbur’s desk was nearby. When he’d done all he could, Angren returned to the desk, took a quill pen and a sheet of Rixbur’s best Rivelline writing paper, wrote a few words and left it there for Rixbur to find next day. It read: ‘Payment in full; received with thanks!’ He didn’t indicate what the payment was for; he didn’t sign it. There was no point in leaving any proof he’d been there but he knew Rixbur would understand.

  LIVING LEGEND

  Medean Part, 3057.7.19

  A racket of crashing and snapping and plunging through years of mounded leaves gave away his chaotic approach. The wizards were standing on a bank at the edge of a beech-wood. There was a solid looking path through the wood over to the left that would have made for much easier progress. Tregar shook his head, annoyed by the idiocy.

  ‘Ye’d have thought he’d go round.’

  Seama grinned. ‘Easy to tell you’ve never met. Mule doesn’t ‘go round’ anything. It’s not his style.’

  ‘Good gods, a beast with style now is it?’

  ‘Well, a style anyway. Look out!’

  Erupting from a catastrophe of twigs and broken branches at reckless speed the Mule charged at them. Tregar jumped to one side but Seama stood his ground. It was a game they had played before. Mule stopped short inches from Seama’s nose and then began to spin in circles like a dog trying to catch his tail. It needed catching too: not much more than a stump it whirled like a sling, only faster. He wasn’t as tall as Bellus but had a straight, strong back and broad shoulders. His ears were huge; his white-whiskered face grinned incessantly; his mane was bristly as a scrubbing brush. A ludicrously comical appearance, people chuckled at the sight of him. He was a jester on four legs, his braying uproarious laughter.

  ‘So, this is the Mule,’ said Tregar, dizzied by the antics, ‘A formidable companion though I wouldn’t think he was much use if he carries on like that.’

  The braying and spinning stopped abruptly. The grin seemed sinister as the Mule stalked towards him.

  ‘Whoa, boy. Steady now. Gods Seama, can he understand me? Is he safe?’

  Seama laughed at Tregar’s discomfort. ‘Now Mule, let’s leave the nice wizard alone, shall we? I’m sure he meant no disrespect.’ He walked between them, ruffled the scruffy mane, and the Mule backed off, braying a few times as if excusing himself. ‘Honestly Tregar, I don’t exactly know what he understands. He’s an unusual creature. I can get into the minds of most animals, not that it’s normally worth it given how little most of them think, but Mule’s different. Trying to read him is like trying to read a boulder; probably to do with how stubborn he is. But I’ll warn you now, he really does not like criticism. I’d apologize if I were you.’

  ‘Apologize? Te a Mule?’

  ‘The Mule. I would.’

  Tregar shrugged at Seama and then bowed to the Mule. ‘I’m sorry if my comment offended, Sir Mule; I ask your forgiveness.’ He foraged in his pockets, ‘Can I give ye a carrot? I’m sure Sirrah can spare one.’

  Mule took the carrot more or less graciously. Such apologies were most acceptable.

  It didn’t take long to sort out the packing with the Mule helpfully content to chew grass and stand still. Bellus stood a little way off, watching the proceedings. Tregar tried to help things along, passing up packages, holding things steady while the straps were tightened.

  ‘Looks like he’s a fine addition to the team,’ he said, picking his words to avoid any possible offence, ‘Quite the personality. How did ye meet up?’

  ‘Just plain luck. I got him at the Stralli market. I wasn’t looking for an animal – just there with a friend of mine – but he started braying like a mad thing whenever I walked past. Just about destroyed the corral trying to follow after me and wouldn’t let up. To be honest, I think the dealer was desperate to get rid of him. He gave me such a good price I couldn’t resist. It was all a bit odd really. The man said Mule’d walked into his camp the night before they got to Astoril, no harness, no ostler’s mark, no way of knowing where he belonged.’

  ‘You’re lucky no one’s tried to claim him then. How long ago was this?’

  ‘Two years, or thereabout.’

  ‘Never! It can’t be so long since ye were last in Ayer.’

  ‘Longer, it’s more like three years. They keep me busy, Tregar.’

  ‘Aye, I ken, sorting out the world’s woes no doubt.’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘No need to deny it. There’s never an end to the troubles of man, Seama, an
d I for one am thankful you’re always around to help out.’

  ‘It’s a job, Tregar.’

  ‘But one you’re very good at. Always have been.’ Tregar paused for a moment, his forehead wrinkling as he tried to nail down a new thought, or an old one. ‘When was it we first met, Seama? That was all to do with some kerfuffle out eastaways, was it not?’

  Seama had no trouble remembering.

  ‘It was. Cenophon, the Masachean from Polz. He decided the Footings were inside Masachea, demanded rent from the farmers. Mador disagreed. Fifteen years ago I think, not long after you were taken on. No, I’m wrong, it was fourteen: Bellus was a seven-year-old at the start of it.’

  Tregar was amazed at the notion. ‘Fourteen years?’ The frown returned to his face. He looked over at the powerful charger patiently waiting for them to finish their preparations and looking as though she could have carried all the packs herself and both wizards too. ‘She’s doing affey well for a twenty-one year old, Seama,’ he said, ‘I reckon it must be rubbing-off.’

  ‘What must?’

  ‘Braw health. Ye know ye’ve weathered pretty well yoursel’.’

  Seama made no comment.

  Soon they were back on the road, travelling briskly, Tregar on his hunter Sirrah, a horse not much used to long journeys but strong enough, Seama on Bellus towering over them, and Mule trotting along, often some way behind owing to his habit of stopping frequently to sniff a little here, grab a little grass there and mooching about as he pleased. Tregar thought he behaved more like a dog out for a walk than a pack animal. Still, Mule seemed happy in his work and he made sure he never lost too much ground, his packs bouncing and clattering whenever he ran to catch up.

  At first the wizards didn’t talk much, both easing themselves in, letting their limbs and their thoughts fall into the rhythm of their ride. It was Tregar, inevitably, whose thoughts felt they needed an airing.