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

by Wilf Jones

  They had fairly flown along the earlier stretches of the road into the north, passing through dozens of villages at a gallop, but within two days the landscape had changed. No longer could the road weave a path through the valleys: long escarpments that stretched for miles, east to west, replaced the drumlins. One wearisome, winding climb after another slackened their pace. They shared this road with sheep drovers and with slow moving ox-carts that travelled from market to market across the region; they stayed for the first three nights at inns along the way, each full of the noise and bustle of the travellers and their livestock. With all this activity around him Tregar found it hard to believe that anything in the country could be wrong. It was only as the miles lengthened and the villages and markets and inns became fewer that the reality of his journey began to sink in. He was leaving behind the mild airs, the quiet beauty and the comfort of Par’s heartland, leaving behind the commerce and the energy and the feeling of being at the centre of things while ahead lay only days of toil, the promise of harder times to come and inevitable peril. The populous south was a blessed land, impregnable without the need for walls, sovereign without any need for caution or fear; the far-flung north with its sparse population, harsh weather and unforgiving terrain seemed anything but. The juxtaposition began to eat away at his sense of adventure. He saw little hope of it recovering.

  By the sixth day Tregar was having to rely on what food he carried with him as the fields gave way to a high acid moorland. He travelled the Black Hills, a lonely landscape given over to the shrill of the grasshopper and the eerie call of the curlew, an awkward and often dangerous land. Sirrah struggled on through impossibly springy tussock grass and half-dry peat bogs; Tregar struggled with his route, confused by the twisting, ill-defined track. In a wetter season a wise man would have avoided the area entirely.

  Marked by the maps, not far into this inhospitable country was a small valley, and in the valley a solitary farm called Small Cuttings. It stood close to where a little used road from Riverport joined up with Tregar’s route, offering a range of options for the onward journey. Mador had made it the point of rendezvous with Anparas and Temor. According to Ayer’s Hall of Records, one Owen Cookson owned the farm. Tregar hoped he was a patriotic sort: the arrival of three thousand soldiers, even with the best of intentions, was bound to create havoc and the requisitioning of food to feed them was likely to test any man’s loyalty. The more Tregar thought about it, the less he liked the idea of bringing him the news. Still, that was the least of his worries: by rights he should have reached the farm by early evening on this sixth day and so far there was not a sign of it.

  Tregar, or rather Sirrah, plodded on. It was too treacherous underfoot to risk any great speed – the last thing he wanted was a lame horse. The wizard grinned wryly as he considered how maps tended to make things look so straightforward. The ‘roads’ marked as crossing the Black Hills were nothing other than slightly more trodden earth than the ground surrounding them. On the maps the gradual curve of the road suggested an easy journey but close up the path was so convoluted he suspected he was going round in circles. He couldn’t count the times he had lost the track completely.

  At least it was a fine evening. The clouds were out only for decoration in the reddening west. The breeze that seemed to increase moment by moment was warm after travelling over leagues of summer-kissed grassland and added music to the closing day as it whistled, hummed and plucked its way through the dry clattering stems. It blew up blizzards of fluffy grass seeds that sparkled in the sun’s last rays. It rummaged in Tregar’s swept back cloak, tickling life into his weary muscles. And the scent it carried of wild flowers, warm earth and distant trees almost entranced him out of his saddle. How pleasant it would be to snuggle down for the night, deep in the grass: to give himself up to the nature around him.

  ‘Blast!’ he swore aloud as he realized that once again he had lost his way. ‘I don’t know, Sirrah. Why do I bother? I’d probably do better with my eyes closed. Come on, laddie, let’s try one more time. We’re bound to get there eventually. I’m almost positive we are.’

  The light was nearly gone by the time he saw the farm ahead. He could only vaguely make out that there were three buildings and, at this distance, it was hard to tell which was for living in, as the lights had not yet been lit. Nevertheless he took the liberty of promising his horse good stabling and something to chew on as a reward for the day’s efforts. To say he was relieved to be somewhere, anywhere at last was the least of it.

  It was twilight when he reached the outfields, the young moon had yet to rise. Finding the gate in the prickle fence was not easy and when found it took a lot of opening. Still no light shone, no dog barked warning.

  ‘Hello’, Tregar yelled, and the wind that grew ever stronger took the word from his lips and carried it off into the hills. ‘Hello, is anybody at home?’

  There was no reply.

  Tregar dismounted to leave Sirrah in the yard while he walked over to the nearest building. Opening the door he decided it was a barn. He created a light with his crystal to make sure, and in doing so found a torch in a bracket just inside the door. Returning to his horse, he searched his bags for the tinderbox and used that to light the torch.

  ‘Well, Sirrah, there’s no need for ye to stand about in this wind. Let’s get ye settled in here, then I can have a good look round. You never know, ye might find me sharin’ with you tonight.’

  Inside, Tregar did not bother to tether the horse but allowed him free range. There were a number of green sheaves scattered about, as though they had been tossed in out of the rain, and so he broke open a couple of them. Sirrah was duly thankful. The wizard, not long out of feather beds, was pleased to note the large quantity of straw strewn about. Though it was old and probably full of mice it might well be the nearest thing to comfort he would find. He found a stack of cut turves, dry and ready to burn, in one corner of the barn but what he could not find was water. There seemed to be neither well nor tank. Sirrah, at this stage, was too tired to bother much but Tregar had been looking forward to hot tea and was niggled that he might not get any. Leaving the horse and saddle bags where they were, and taking the torch with him, he went to explore the other buildings.

  The second he tried was an open ended shed with nothing inside bar a few rusty rakes and spades and what may once have been a plough, though it was so collapsed it was hard to be sure.

  The third building was much smaller than the others and Tregar was right to presume it had once served as a dwelling. The badly fitting door needed to be forced but when closed again its swollen timbers kept out much of the draught. The windows were shuttered and, considering the general dilapidation of the farm, they were still surprisingly sturdy, though one rattled in the wind. There was only one room with a fireplace and chimney at one end, a low roof and a few odd bits of furniture: namely a table, three chairs and a pallet bed with no mattress. The floor was made of wooden planks that groaned with every step.

  Next to the fire was a kettle, blackened and battered but still whole and next to that, as if in answer to Tregar’s unspoken prayer, a bucket of water. It did not smell badly. The scowl he had been scowling became a grin and he went to retrieve his bags in a happier mood. Gathering up the straw for his bed, he wondered who could possibly be responsible for leaving the water. Perhaps some sheep farmer caught away from home.

  His good mood didn’t last long.

  The wind, a robust friend earlier in the evening, was now beginning to outstay its welcome. It whined in the chimney as if to emphasise how lonely and uncomfortable the place was. It steadfastly refused to make way for the fire he was trying to make. The peat proved difficult to light after all and he ended up using some straw and the broken seat of one of the chairs before he could get the flame to take. He had no bellows and they would have had little effect anyway as the wind was determined to go the wrong way. Just as the tur
ves were beginning to catch a great gust threw itself down the chimney, scattering burning straw around the room. At this rate he was more likely to burn down the house than achieve anything more useful. Nevertheless, he tried again and eventually managed to produce a pathetic excuse for a fire that smoked heavily, as peat fires should not, and created little heat. And then the chimney had a coughing fit and the smoke started to puff and billow into the room.

  Tregar choked and had to put his head outside the door for fresh air. He was surprised that the wind didn’t seem half as strong in the yard as it did in the chimney. Inside the smoke gasped and sputtered and giggled into the rafters. Somewhere there was a blockage. Suddenly Tregar was very annoyed and he marched back to confront his tormentor. Poised to summon the power necessary to blast through the blockage, he was surprised by a loud knocking. Someone was hammering at the door!

  With his eyes streaming from the smoke he turned to look at the door in amazement. He could have been no more stupefied if the door had spoken to him. Who could possibly have turned up at such a desolate place; and where had they been a few moments ago when Tregar had looked out into the yard? The knocker knocked again very insistently and so Tregar called out:

  ‘Come on in. The door is not locked.’

  The door flew open.

  A strange man entered. Somehow he managed to give the impression that he had nothing to do with the way the door had opened. He was such a small, frail old man with something of a limp, rather stooped and he had, as far as Tregar could make out in the smoke hazed torchlight, a withered arm. He wore a voluminous cloak, which he held back with the better appendage, and a broad-brimmed floppy hat with a starling’s feather in the band. It was hard to see his face but a grey beard straggled down his chest.

  ‘Tut, tut,’ he muttered, or something similar, ‘A little less violent next time, if you please.’

  He looked up and transfixed Tregar with a single piercing eye. The left eye wore a patch, a black one patched itself with a piece of red check where it pressed against his nose. He looked faintly ludicrous. Tregar would not let himself be fooled by that. He wondered how the old man had come here and who he might have been talking to, as there was patently no one else with him. Here was a person of some power.

  ‘So Master Tregar, and how are you?’ His voice was high pitched and cracked but there was nothing frail in the challenge of the question. Tregar could think of nothing to say beyond the obvious and decided not to bother.

  ‘C’mon. I am there somewhere in that poor memory of yours. But anyway, let’s not concern ourselves over whoever I might be or why I know you. Master Tregar, I am here to find out who or what you are. You seem to have become quite important.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Tregar ventured, ‘How do—’

  The old man cackled. ‘What you are at the moment, I think, is a child moving from rage to fear. Why let a little smoke upset you? Are you so afraid to use magic that it becomes an angry last resort?’ He paused and looked harshly at the fireplace. ‘Up! Up and out the chimney Boggart. You have played your tricks too long in this place. Get out before I blow you to the Leagues of Utter Death, out! Before I send you to the Wastes of Time, out I say!’

  A nervous chittering came from the black hole and then with a mighty rush and wail something was gone. Then the fire glowed red and the room emptied of smoke.

  Tregar laughed aloud. Whether in amusement or embarrassment he wouldn’t have liked to say.

  ‘A Boggart? Is that all it was? Not even as argumentative as some I’ve dealt with.’

  ‘No? Oh I think he was, but he was not stupet. Few creatures would argue with me, Mester Wiezart.’ Tregar thought the old man’s tone rather haughty and would have commented on it but the old man didn’t give him the chance. ‘Right! It’s you and it is magic I have come to talk about, but before that we need some supper. Put on the kettle and make us some tea; I shall see to these.’

  Like a conjuror he produced from under his cloak a pair of fat rabbits. Saying no more he set to skinning and cleaning them as expertly as a butcher. Tregar shrugged and went to see to the kettle.

  As they chewed on sizzling pieces of tender flesh and shared tea from Tregar’s tin mug the wizard studied his companion. He struggled to identify him from any part of his past life. He was of such startling appearance and overbearing personality that Tregar was certain they had never met. No one could forget such a misfit. And yet the old man had insisted that Tregar knew him. Was he from Errensea perhaps, an old tutor, an elder of the Collegium? It seemed impossible.

  And why was he here? Why seek him out in these dreary northlands? Why come to him in the dark of night? The greybeard, for his part, seemed content to eat and drink, warm his feet and chatter but Tregar had to suspect a deep purpose to this meeting.

  And yet the old man was full of trivialities. He talked about the weather and compared it to the climate in other parts of the World. He talked about places the much-travelled Tregar had never even heard of. He would not explain, though Tregar asked, how he had known about the boggart, or anything at all about his powers; instead he began to talk about food and drink. But as he talked, the old man’s gaze never wandered from Tregar’s face. It was most uncomfortable. The wizard felt as if all his secrets were laid bare and that nothing he thought could be kept hidden.

  As soon as he had finished his meal the greybeard said:

  ‘Now. It is time we got us down to business. I brought you here because—’

  ‘You brought me here?’

  ‘Why yes. Don’t be surprised. That’s part of what I wanted to tell you. There are many more beings in this world that have much more power than you. Or, to say it right, they have much different sorts of power than your own. Oh, I don’t just mean people like Beltomé, though they are worth remembering; there are other powers – like me.’

  ‘Like you?’

  ‘Why do you repeat me? You’re a wiezart aren’t you? You have been taught your Powers. All these idle years have done you no good: you have lost memory and you have lost respect. You have forgotten even me! How can you expect to fight the evil ahead if you can’t remember your allies? Eh?’

  Tregar was nettled by the criticism. So what if he did have a lazy memory? It was no great problem and even if it was, no stranger had any right to chide him for it. And the man definitely was a stranger. Hackles raised he said:

  ‘I’m not going to remember allies I’ve never met. And I count on my allies for truth but everything ye’ve said for all I know could be lies.’

  ‘Lies is it?’ said One Eye, and he seemed angry, ‘Well perhaps that brings me to my second point: I don’t like your attitude to all this. And I didn’t like the way you spoke to Seama either. Is there no one you believe?’

  ‘What’s it to you whit I believe or not?’

  ‘It is everything to me. What do you think this war is all about? This is not your average squabble, you know. Now, just you shut up your mouth and listen to me for a bit. I will put it as simple as I can.’

  Tregar harrumphed: he wasn’t much used to being told to shut up. However he decided to listen first and quarrel after. The old man waited for his attention and then continued.

  ‘To make a start,’ he said, ‘I am not supposed to be here. It is not allowed. In the Middle Order we have obligations both ways. We are not humankind and cannot fight as humans do. Talking and advice are human ways. There is a limit to what I can tell you. You are in a war of good against evil and though that is a description fitting many a war it is none the less true for that. Some will say that this war is extraordinarily so and many will believe it and it may be true. But I say to you, Tregar MacNabaer, the enemy you fight has many minds and not all are all bad. That is the key. That is the key to the whole sorry mess. Remember, though you will scarce believe me when you see them, evil’s warriors are human with s
ouls the same as yours. You will ever see things in black or white despite the evidence all around you. You must learn to see grey. And with mankind most greys are closer to white than black. Understand why that is true and it will save us all a lot of trouble.

  ‘You are in a war of strange power. You will be Earnor’s answer to that power, you and some others. Yes you! It seems an unsuitable choice to me: a so-called wiezart who’s scared to use magic. Let the warriors fight, Tregar, you must learn to use your skill – and not only when you lose your temper. If you are a wiezart, behave like one!

  ‘I cannot tell you how to fight them. I cannot tell you their weapons or even their names. There is much you have to discover for yourself but if you think about what I have said you may find your way to victory. A victory that armies cannot win, that rejects dour deeds and glory. You may even understand what that victory means. There are no prophecies to tell us who will prevail in this dispute or indeed whether it is possible to prevail and so you must generate your own reasons to hope.’

  What thoughts were in his mind Tregar could not guess but the old man gave a long and weary sigh. ‘Ay, ay. Maybe it has gone on too long. We must end it. You must do your best and know, before I go, that the fate of the gods is, most surprisingly, in your hands.’ He shrugged to indicate his confusion and then got to his feet and walked toward the door.

  Tregar was bemused. What was all the nonsense about the Middle Order and obligations? What did he mean by claiming not to be human? He certainly looked human. And his message: what did that mean? Had this funny old greybeard told him anything at all? Some of what he said about magic Tregar surely recognized in himself but he had always thought that restraint in the use of his power a good thing. The rest of it meant nothing to him. And yet, the old man had spoken with such authority and such knowledge. How could he have known what Tregar had said to Seama? How could have known that Tregar would find his way to this ruin? And how could he know anything about the coming conflict?