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

by Wilf Jones

  One of them noticed his movement and, nudging another who lay alongside, he picked himself up and walked over. The other man followed. The first, a swarthy, thick set man, was Bibron Farber, the ship’s captain, and the second, stepping gingerly on the hot earth with bare feet, and massaging a sore left arm, was Garaid.

  ‘Well, my lad,’ said Bibron, ‘should I ask how you’re feeling, or is that a bad question?’

  With his tongue thick from the heat and the lack of water, Angren replied with difficulty, though he tried to raise a smile: ‘I should say I’m feeling with every nerve in my body, and none of it’s good. Ouch!’ A sharp pain in his hand made him jump. Hastily he pressed it into the clay and then flapped at his clothes. ‘Flaming ants!’ he cried: his clothes were crawling with them.

  Bibron chuckled as Angren wriggled and slapped at himself. ‘They give up after an hour or so.’

  ‘Very comforting, I don’t think.’ Luckily, not many had penetrated too far and after a minute more he stopped flapping. It was too hot for the effort required. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any water around?’

  ‘Sorry, you’re out of luck, and so’s everyone else. Those swine won’t bring no water till they’re good and ready. And they ain’t ready yet, scumbags that they are.’

  ‘Steady on, Bibron,’ said Garaid, his voice slightly slurred, no doubt from his attempt to speak without moving his lips: he had a painful looking cut across his chin and lower lip. ‘This lot seem to dislike bad language. I did try them with some last night, and they’re not as liberal as you might think.’ His attempt at a grin looked hideous but it made Angren smile.

  ‘Where are your shoes, Garra? You seem to be bobbing about a bit without them.’

  ‘Now that is not a funny subject. Some smart lad out there took a fancy to them. Little sod. This clay’s baking.’

  Angren nodded towards the furthest wall where a gate made of rough hewn logs provided the only visible means of entry, or of escape. ‘Why not cut a piece of bark from that and strap it on your feet? It’ll look odd, but it’s better than burning your toes.’ Angren was often impressed by his own intelligence and didn’t mind sharing it.

  ‘What an original and brilliant idea, Angren.’ Garaid wasn’t impressed. ‘Perhaps you could lend me your knife, I’ll see to it right now.’

  Angren grimaced. ‘Hmm. Not really with it yet, am I. Suppose they’ve taken all the weapons? Obviously. Pity about my dagger.’ Regretful but not concerned, Angren was busy feeling at his collar and belt. Satisfied he grinned broadly.

  ‘Well, Garaid, I can’t help you now but I do have a few pieces you could try later.’

  ‘I don’t see no weapons,’ said Bibron.

  ‘They’re well hidden, Captain. I have a nice long coil of wire in this band about my throat and if I use two toggles from my jacket it can be very nasty. Better still, there’s a thin length of metal in my belt. It’s sharp along one side and the belt buckle is the handle. It’s a bit wobbly but it makes a reasonable sword in an emergency. And…’ he bent to examine his leg, ‘Yes! And I have a dirk hidden in the side of my boot. I’m surprised they didn’t notice that. Good job they didn’t take a fancy to my shoes! Mind you, I can’t see a couple of blades getting us out of here.’

  ‘No, but it all helps,’ said the Captain.

  Garaid was amazed by the hidden weapons. Partians in general found it hard to be devious. ‘Where did you find them? I’ve never seen the like.’

  ‘You’d be surprised what you can get. Even in Pars you can find most things if you know where to look. No, it’s a hobby of mine. I collect weapons; use them too. Mind you, the sword’s pretty new: my last boss was a dealer, and a sharp one. He did a lot of trade with all sorts of treacherous scum.’

  ‘Can you walk, Angren?’ Garaid asked, seeming to lose interest in Angren’s toys, ‘because, if you can, I’d appreciate it if we could get back to our spot by the wall before my feet are singed.’

  ‘That’s nice. I appreciate your concern,’ Angren replied with a grin, ‘for yourself that is. Anyway, I’ll never know unless I try.’ He pulled himself, wincing a little, to his feet and wasn’t pleased to discover the many cuts and bruises that made each step painful. Luckily none of the cuts were deep enough to cause a real problem, they just hurt.

  They had nothing to do but talk and keep as still as possible. Gradually they became used to the revolting pig-pen smell and that was some relief, but in a very short time the sun reached its height and talking with shrivelled, parched tongues became uncomfortable. They all took the best course and settled back to wait for the cool of the evening. The hours stretched. The sun glared at them as though angered by their presence while the baked surface of the compound bounced back and intensified the heat. The only things that moved were the ants and, occasionally, the flicking fingers that crushed them. Evening was a long time coming.

  Their captors left them alone all day, and the captives had no idea what was happening outside the compound. Nobody could be seen through the various odd chinks in the gate and it occurred to Angren, as he lay, that the natives themselves must have retired to somewhere shady. He eyed the walls that hemmed them in. Ruined though the building was, the remaining close-set stonework made for a difficult climb, but if they were imprisoned for another day he might just risk it. Of course his thoughts were not precise, he had no plans as yet, but already Angren was thinking about the inevitable escape and, despite Seama’s reproving lectures on the subject, already he was contemplating revenge.

  As the sun began to fall westward the prisoners were pleased to feel a cooling breeze climb over the walls, though not so pleased at the dust it blew into their faces. With no word of warning, two men appeared above and a little to one side of the gateway. They lowered a large bucket of water to the dusty floor, taking little care to prevent spillage. From where Angren lay the men seemed to be suspended in mid-air but they must have been standing on some sort of raised platform, or perhaps it was the remnant of a stair or tower. The prisoners could be viewed safely without the risk of opening the gate.

  Angren and Bibron were slow from the heat and couldn’t prevent those nearest the bucket from drinking more than their share but they were in time, at least, to make sure everyone got some. Bibron was the last to drink and the men respected him for it. Some time later another bucket was lowered and this contained a mushy, millet-like porridge. Partians were mostly meat eaters and proud of it and they looked upon this grey stuff with disgust. But no one refused a portion: it might just keep them alive for a little while longer.

  Evening came on and moving about, under the watchfull eyes of three of their captors up on their perch, became more bearable. Garaid, Angren and the Captain circulated among the prisoners, gathering whatever information they could. The first obvious point, quickly confirmed, was a tragedy for Bibron. Everyone had gruesome tales of the night before and everyone had heard the screams of unknown victims; apparently all the victims were members of the ship’s crew. There were no sailors in the compound: all were spies and soldiers with their private missions in jeopardy. Most of them had been picked up out of the water as they came ashore by the same strange men that Angren had met. Others had been caught during the hunt, after they had escaped to the trees. A few of them banded together with six of the sailors and, with only a few weapons between them, they’d fought a desperate battle as they tried to leave the beach. When captured, all the sailors were mutilated or murdered before the rest were herded away. Bibron cursed the day he decided the crew would wear uniform for this trip.

  ‘Why only my men? Bastards!’ he shouted at the men on their tower. They were unmoved and said nothing.

  Bibron cursed the savages to damnation; and he cursed the gods for their lack of protection; and he cursed the King for having set them on their journey; and he cursed himself for having brought them to this place. He stopped wh
en he heard himself curse even the wizard for having left them.

  ‘Bibron, don’t think your men had the worst of it.’ The quiet words came from Garaid. ‘If we’re still alive it’s because we’re at war and you must know why we’re wanted. We all know something of the King’s plans and I don’t imagine we’ll benefit by it. Brutality and our friends up there seem like old partners.’

  Angren hadn’t thought it through but it was clearly the truth. Some time soon the screaming would begin. But was all this planned? Had their enemies been expecting the Cottle? Had they engineered its destruction? Not the savages who had hunted them down of course: someone else, someone more intelligent and more powerful. But who? Angren had no clue, because, as yet, Seama hadn’t told him anything about this lot. The Black Company was on the other side of Gothery, wasn’t it? His worst thought was that the whole episode had been an attempt to take Seama himself. He sought news of the wizard, but no one had seen him, not since they were all cast into the water. Was he to believe Seama had drowned? Wizards were only men after all. But then, Seama was Seama, not just any old wizard. The thought that he might be dead was incredible to him.

  The situation was not good. By the look of it they were securely penned in, overlooked by cautious guards, they were mostly weaponless, and more than half of them horror struck. Angren, even though he struggled with his own worries, didn’t really understand the plain terror that held some of his gaol mates in thrall. Deep in shock from what they had already seen, they were all but immobilised by the fear of what would happen next. Angren ignored them. There were others, less affected, he could work with. Despite the seeming hopelessness of the situation there were options. There were always options, and together with Garaid and Bibron, the weapon-master began the debate, appraising their strengths, sizing up the height of the wall and making speculation on what lay beyond it. Their first task seemed clear: before they attempted any escape they would need some very basic information about their enemy. Reconnaissance was the key.

  Angren studied the face of the wall furthest from the gate. Most of the climb was open to view.

  ‘You’ll never do it,’ said Garaid, ‘Face it, if you tried the climb now they’ll see what you’re up to, and if you wait until dark you won’t be able to find your footing. And you wouldn’t find out much in the dark either.’

  ‘There’ll be some moon.’

  ‘A thumbnail. You’d need the eyes of Queen Bethel.’

  ‘Who?’

  Garaid shook his head in amazement. ‘Did you have no stories at all when you were young?’

  ‘Never mind the cat queen,’ put in another voice, ‘The pointing is too fine: you would need the Lizard’s Toes.’ The speaker was a small man Garaid had identified as Ruspa. This was the first time Angren had heard him speak. The weapon master looked him up and down: a thin, rat of a man, but obviously as fit as the rest of them; not handsome, his sharp features and the hard look in his eyes told against him.

  ‘Any particular lizard?’

  Ruspa almost answered and then changed his mind. ‘Try it if you want to. That lot out there will no doubt find a use for your broken bones.’

  ‘So what do you suggest?’

  ‘Perhaps that you learn to listen more and talk less.’

  Angren’s smile became rather thin. Bibron stepped up between them.

  ‘The man has a point, Angren.’

  ‘Has he?’

  ‘Well, I reckon the stories we have as kids are a lesson to us, and—’

  ‘And if only I’d listened up when I was a lad I’d be a better man now? Or maybe I’d have a better idea of how to get out of here?’

  Now it was Bibron’s turn to bridle. ‘Think you’re clever don’t you. Some stories are worth remembering. How is it, d’you think, that everyone here except you knows exactly where they are, and who those bastards are, and has a good idea of the kind of trouble we’re in? You tell me that.’

  Angren pursed his lips but found nothing to say. Bibron continued:

  ‘We all know what sort of jackals our gaolers are. We all had the tale of The Halfi when we were children. Not you seemingly. But I dare say none of us here ever thought they’d find out any more, and I know none of us ever wanted to. It’s not a nice story.’

  Several people around them nodded or gave the ‘aye’ to that. Angren considered for a few seconds. ‘Alright, alright! So I never listened. Well, I don’t suppose we’re going anywhere now a while, so why don’t you tell me all about it? Then maybe I’ll understand what you’re all gassing on about. That do you?’

  Bibron grinned. ‘I reckon. Never to late to learn, as they say!’ He planted himself on top of a low remnant of the inner wall and settled himself with a deep breath. ‘Right then, this is the Story of the Kingdom of Halfi, and it’s Bibron Farber as is doing the talking, so shut up and listen!’

  THE KINGDOM OF HALFI

  Tumboll 3057.7.24

  ‘It all began years ago. Some say four hundred, some say it was more like five; but no one knows for sure, leastways nobody I know knows. And it all happened in Riverport, strangely enough, where they had a run in with some tinkers. They were a people like the travellers we know today ‘cept that, as the story goes, this lot were originally from Masachea. Now they’d moved to Pars because of some trouble they’d been having as a separate tribe in Northern Masachee, and they came over the Hurgals all together and settled down wherever they could. For some reason people didn’t like ‘em: wherever they settled they weren’t welcome. So, eventually, after a lot of what we’d call criminal doings, they set up as travelling traders and seasonal workers. Anyone, strong enough or daft enough to trust ‘em, would give ‘em whatever rough work they had and pay them a pittance.

  ‘I don’t suppose they had a good life. We weren’t any kinder to them than the Masachee were, and nat’rally enough they’d no thought of being kind in return. And they certainly didn’t see why they should follow our laws, given as they had their own. You see, though they didn’t all travel together much, they counted themselves as part of one kingdom, and that not Pars but the Kingdom of Halfi.’

  ‘This all seems tame doings to me, Bibron,’ Angren protested. He was not a good listener, nor ever had been or he would already have known the story as told by his father many years ago. ‘What’s the Kingdom of Halfi to do with Tumboll?’

  ‘Well, I’ll be coming to that. I always think a tale makes best sense if you listen to all of it.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  ‘Well then. The reason they were unpop’lar may have been because they were very good at cheating, and they were very bad at losing face. By cheating I mean for example, they’d sell a man a horse with its fetlocks darkened up, but the horse would run right back to the Halfi and they’d have the darkening off before the idiot who bought it could come round to demand his horse back. ‘Lost your horse mate? Run away has it? You ought to be more careful.’ You know the kind of thing. Maybe they’d deal in gems but, because they were quick with their hands, they’d be selling glass for the price of diamonds. That’s how they lived: each deal was a game, but they had to be the winners.

  ‘Now, their downfall was because of this way they had. I don’t know if you know but at that time the Masachee had only but a few pigs, and, as a result, pigs were worth gold to ‘em. The Halfi shared that passion, though they’d rather get the pigs for nuthin’. Now, Pars isn’t the place for pigs neither, not like The Fat Thousands. We’ve plenty of cattle and sheep so we’ve never bothered that much about ‘em, but in Riverport all sorts of people come and go and this story’s mostly about an Aegardean merchant who stopped there reg’lar on his journey to Masachea. And his trade, a’course, was in pigs.

  ‘What all the fuss was for I don’t know. I’ve had a good bit of pork in my life and I say it’s nothing special. But these Halfi were crazy for i
t. Their problem was they were crazy anyway, worse than the average Masachee. And if they were normally crazy, they were twice as crazy about pigs, and four times as wicked in their plans for getting hold a’ some.

  ‘Now, this trader’s name was Porlick and he was the biggest man in pigs there ever was. He made a stay in Riverport because that was the route, but he made it longer than most so’s his wife could do her shoppin’. Rillia was her name, and she ruled him like a man rules a cur. He was no more than her fool, clever though he was at making money.

  ‘She had this habit of setting herself up in a big house where she could have all the traders come to her, rather than the other way ‘bout. Make no mistake, this pigman was one of the richest men who came through the city, and his wife was known for spending his money like water. Nat’rally, the Halfi got to hear about this Rillia and it weren’t long before they came up with a scheme that would gain ‘em the pigs they so treasured.

  ‘Well, they acted like sweet innocents at first. They went along to one of her buying sessions, not to sell her anything mind, but to sing her a song or two. They had a minstrel with ‘em. He was Halfi too but the thing was, this fella, well there was something magical about him. He could sing you songs that made you forget where you were or what you were doing, that thrilled you and frightened you, that made you happy and made you sad, as though everything sung was more important to you than anything else in the world. You wouldn’t call him a wizard but he had some strange power that’s never been heard since. Rillia was most taken with him and his songs and she had him come to see her every day. The fee he demanded was modest and she didn’t hesitate to pay it. Every day he walked away with a pig, he did, but always had to promise to come back one more time.

  ‘Old Porlick wanted to be getting a move on, and he complained and moaned about how long she was taking in Riverport, but she just tut-tutted him and told him to keep his peace. And stay they did.