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

by Wilf Jones

  But now look at it: some sort of demon woman attacks and kills an honest mother and her daughter and straightaway the Miss is mixed up in it, and then, wouldn’t you know, Old Master Gerald steps in to take it on. And all this not five miles from where he now stood. It wasn’t common goings on. Not this monster and not the way the Robarns just seemed to attract trouble. The Lyndons wasn’t a normal place, the Robarns weren’t normal people, and yes, without a doubt they gave him the creeps.

  Jeb was used to it, he guessed. When they came back from Riverport Jeb was up with the Master straightaway. Then they all took off to the place where it had happened. Of course they wouldn’t let Roddy come in with them. Told him off to wait for the militia. So he did that: hung about in the road till the soldiers turned up and then sent them down towards the cottage where Jeb and the Master were doing whatever they were doing. They were all grim when they came back, the Master included, but it was only the soldiers who said anything. It gave Roddy the screaming heebie-jeebies whenever he thought about what they’d told him. Roddy thought of his girl, Jilly, and the wedding they had planned for next year. He didn’t want her anywhere near all this. Enough was enough: he needed another job. He brushed vigorously at Sally’s withers and the poor old pony snickered in complaint. Never mind that, he thought at her, there’s some of us here have real problems in this life.

  At that moment the clattering of hooves made old Sally buck in surprise. Charging into the yard on a hired nag came the Miss herself. She bore down on him, reined in hard, leapt from the saddle and already she was talking.

  ‘Right Roddy, where’s my father?’

  As if it was his fault!

  ‘Well?’

  Roddy struggled to hold onto Sally.

  ‘She’s only a pony! Just let her go!’

  He did and the pony shied away, escaping onto the lane.

  ‘Now, where is my father?’

  Roddy panicked for no reason he knew.

  ‘He’s g… gone,’ he said, ‘he’s gone.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Ayer,’ he said.

  ‘Ayer?’

  ‘Well that’s what he said.’ Roddy had never seen her like this: she pushed up close to him, her face right in his. What was happening to them all? First Jeb, and then the Master, and now Isolde – all acting like mad things. It was worse than ever it was.

  ‘To court? You’re saying he went to court?’

  Roddy nodded.

  ‘Right then: get me the best horse we have left. Get it saddled and get it now!’

  ‘Yes. Rightaway. Yes Miss,’ he said and ran off to do as he was told.

  The horse Isolde had been riding, a rangy old thing, looked half dead from running. Shame to do that to a horse, Roddy thought, as he clattered into the tack room. He grabbed the Miss’s best saddle, a good bridle and reins, barged through a door to the first stable and threw the saddle onto Black Whisperer’s back so suddenly the gelding jumped two feet in the air in surprise.

  ‘Now don’t you give me any trouble,’ he said as he struggled with the bridle. But Whisperer, roused from a pleasant afternoon nap, was in no mood to be helpful and Roddy had to lead him out into the yard with the straps still loose. The Mistress was tying up the hireling to a rail but when she turned to face them Black Whisperer began to kick and twist and turn and Roddy was pulled this way and that.

  ‘For the Gods’ sakes, Roddy, get a grip.’

  She stepped up to help him and, whether because the horse was done with his protest or because Isolde had more skill than Roddy, the gelding calmed enough for the lad to sort out and tighten the straps ready for her journey. In the few minutes this took, the Miss looked about her at the spilled bucket of water and the brushes kicked into the mud and, it seemed, she viewed the scene with dissatisfaction.

  ‘This’ll need cleaning up,’ she stated, ‘And the rest of the yard. It’s a mess. And get that horse taken to Morton’s in Makerfield – they’ll have it sent back to Riverport. The bill’s paid.’

  Roddy pulled at the saddle strap furiously and over-tightened it.

  ‘Oh come on, Roddy. I haven’t all day.’

  He was glad when he finally got her up and she turned the horse to go, but she caught his stare as she did so.

  ‘What are you looking at?’

  Roddy was glaring at her with a feeling of utter contempt building in his heart. But he said nothing.

  ‘Oh, never mind,’ she said, ‘I’ve no time for it. I’m off. Get this yard sorted.’

  And with that she kicked up Whisperer and started for the drive. Roddy watched her for no more than ten seconds before he turned and grabbed his pack from a peg by the nearest stable door.

  ‘That’s it!’ he spat out, ‘I’m done with this.’

  He pushed his dirty old work jacket into the pack with his fist, pounding at it as though he would have liked to pound something else entirely.

  ‘I am not,’ he yelled at the empty yard, ‘staying here to be pushed around by those weird bastards anymore!’

  He hadn’t noticed that Isolde had pulled up at the gate to the yard, but when he looked up and saw her approach once more he decided that wasn’t too bad a thing after all.

  ‘Did you want to say something to me, Roddy?’ she asked dangerously sweetly.

  Well she could stuff it.

  ‘Too right I do!’ he said.

  Moreda 3057.7.30

  Trant made a half feint, spun to the left and then swung the blade high in a killing arc aimed at the back of Chaldonie’s unprotected head. It stopped inches before steel met flesh and bone.

  ‘Now that is what you call a well-balanced sword,’ he said.

  Chaldonie, who was busy examining a cabinet of short knives, had failed to notice that Trant was anywhere near him.

  ‘What are you talking about, Trant?’

  ‘Oh, nothing much.’ Trant grinned to himself. ‘There’s a lot of good stuff here and even more to bring in from the field. I’m going to re-arm the lads. You’d better take what you fancy before I let them in.’

  Morgan Trant had given his lads free rein in the house and grounds apart from a few chambers for himself and the sorcerers, and this magnificent armoury. The Masters of Beltez were very rich and very keen on the quality of their weapons. ‘Were’ being the correct tense. To a man, the Masters of Beltez were by now either lying in the mud in the fields around the house or already burning on the pyre Trant had set his men to building, out by the forest’s edge. If they wanted Moreda to be their base for even a few days Trant wanted the place to be free of the stench of rotting meat. Of course the lads weren’t happy about it, more used to cut and run tactics, but Trant told them there’d be no fun until they’d finished. Amazingly they’d accepted his rule on this. He could see they were getting weary. Murder and mayhem took it out of you. And so did surprise attacks. For once Trant had agreed with Semmento on the best next move. It didn’t matter that they’d pretty much taken care of the two wizards and the town was open and ripe for the taking, they both decided that putting some distance between the Black Company and Altiparedo would definitely be a good thing. The eagle had unnerved them both. And it was still out there somewhere.

  ‘Very proud of themselves, these Beltesians,’ said Chaldonie, now looking at the pictures on the wall in front of him, ‘Just look at this: the gentlemanly sport of fox hunting. The caption reads ‘Giorgio Beltez explains his Superiority to the Pretender.’ He’s dangling the poor creature by its tail, draining its blood into a cup. Very noble.’

  ‘They were well known for it. Hunting was as important to them as the quality of their weapons and their skill in arms.’

  ‘Skill in arms? Look how far that got them.’

  Trant swung the long-sword into a practice dummy with more force than he intended
and the thud of it made Chaldonie look up at last. He wore a smirk on his face.

  ‘Is something bothering you, bodymaster?’

  ‘I manage the men. We need the men and they need managing. I can’t see what you find so amusing about that.’

  Chaldonie’s face was scornful. ‘We do not need them. Just as the Beltesians did not need their weapons or their skill at arms. They should have hired a sorcerer.

  ‘Or a wizard, perhaps?’

  ‘It is much the same thing.’

  ‘Never went to Errensea, did you? Or did I get that wrong: you went there and they wouldn’t have you. That it?’

  Chaldonie drew himself up like a snake preparing to strike but then apparently thought the better of it and relaxed. Though he wouldn’t like to admit it, Trant was relieved. He could have had the sorcerer’s head off in a stroke but what could Chaldonie do in half a stroke? That young red-headed wizard had certainly found out.

  ‘You really wouldn’t be wise, Morgan, to provoke me. You may feel safe with your foul little army around you—’

  ‘Foul? That’s rich coming from you. You’re so foul even the rats run when you turn up.’

  Chaldonie actually laughed at that one. ‘The rats, yes they do! But the interesting thing is that you don’t know why.’

  ‘There’s a reason?’

  Chaldonie smiled but did not offer anything. It was an unpleasant smile. Trant decided he’d rather not know and Chaldonie appeared to consider the exchange finished.

  ‘In fact I do have work for a couple of your men, Trant,’ he said. ‘Whatever these Beltesians thought they were, I will admit that their taste in art was not wholly self-obsessed. Look at this hanging.’ He indicated a large tapestry that occupied a portion of the south wall of the chamber. The theme was military, in keeping with the suits of armour that flanked it, but it told an episodic tale of the progression of an ill-made youth, through many trials on the way to knighthood and glory. ‘The Trials of Alsiphar. The craft of the makers would suggest Apian school but the real clue is in the composition of the scenes: the presentation of only the key characters with no chorus or audience, the absence of captions, the sparing treatment of architectural elements so that the action is unhampered by detail.’

  Trant was surprised and a little suspicious. ‘I had no idea you had an interest in such things, but where do my men figure in this?’

  ‘I want them to take it back to Bulidzhan for me. I have a house there.’

  Trant considered the size of the tapestry. It would need a large room to accommodate it, and would take strong men to shift it. Though it billowed slightly as it hung, seemingly delicate enough to catch the slightest draft, when rolled he was sure the weight would be considerable.

  ‘And are we to start stripping every manse we take? I wasn’t aware that finding decorations for your country seat was part of the job in hand.’

  ‘Your men get what they want, Trant. Have they started on the women yet? No, but they soon will. We all need incentive. I see no reason why I may not collect a little along the way. Semmento can have no objections… Is there a problem?’

  Chaldonie had realised that Trant had stopped listening to him. The Captain was in fact studying the tapestry. As Chaldonie spoke it had billowed again. Perhaps there was a door behind it, Trant thought, an open door. He was about to investigate when a commotion at the entrance to the armoury distracted him.

  ‘And I say leave now. What do we have to gain by staying? It’s not as though it pays well. Semmento gives most of the money to Trant here. That right, Morgan: the pair of you splitting the proceeds between you?’

  More trouble. Trant took a deep breath before answering. ‘Look Kelsly, you know full well I have an army to feed and to pay when we’re done. On your side of the equation it’s just the four of you. If you have a problem with the rewards of your work your argument is with Semmento, not me. And if you fancy leaving before the job’s finished then that’s something else you’ll need to discuss with him. If you dare.’

  The two new arrivals exchanged glances. Kelsly, a wrinkle faced, skinny limbed individual of indeterminate old age, carelessly dressed in dirty black trousers and an ancient brown leather jerkin, and Malbur, a corpulent man in loose robes, with a neat turban of purple silk and an immaculately groomed black beard but oddly no form of moustache at all; together they made such a contrast that Trant sometimes laughed to see them. But today he just found them annoying.

  Malbur smiled widely, making his fat cheeks even rounder and his deep-set eyes narrower. ‘Have we, perhaps, been having a little… ah… disagreement, shall we say? You seem a little tense, Morgan.’ His voice was deep but rounded and full of the rich wine he drank in preference to water.

  ‘How could I be tense in such relaxing company?’

  ‘Ha ha! Always a response. That’s why I like you so much Trant. Semmento said I would. What do you think Kelsly: will he favour me one of these days?’

  Kelsly’s dry laugh was almost as irritating as the fat man’s chuckle.

  ‘Not on your life, Malbur,’ Trant said, meaning just that, ‘Remember it. Where’s Semmento?’

  ‘He has another conference to attend first,’ said Kelsly, ‘He’s talking with his betters.’

  ‘Talking? With this Bliss person, you mean – and how is he doing that?’

  ‘Well not talking exactly. We have a connection, a clever little item—’

  ‘And rather secret!’ Malbur put in quickly.

  Chaldonie was scornful. ‘What difference does it make if he knows? He hasn’t the wit to use it.’

  Trant sucked his teeth rather than reply. He was becoming bored with all this and considered the notion of taking his men and leaving these sorcerers to get on without them. They would be hanging by their necks before the month was out.

  ‘You can keep your secrets,’ he said, ‘but we were supposed to be having a meeting. A little difficult without—’

  ‘I will speak for Semmento if there is need,’ Chaldonie cut in, ‘We have had some discussion already.’

  ‘Right then. Let’s get started. Look at this, will you.’

  Trant had liberated a map from the chart case and spread it out on a table, weighted down at the corners with spiked catapult shot.

  ‘As you can see this map covers the Seno del Bosca, the length of the Haçen Cordillera, from there through the feoffments of the Huecca and beyond that down into northern Matagorda, River Hathen in the west and River’s Twist in the East. What interests me is the Huecca.’ He indicated an area of many small rivers trailing away from the mountains to join the Hathen on its way to a confluence with the Fugagrande, the start of it not more than fifty miles from where they stood. ‘I’ve been through the area. These valleys are deep but very fertile. The villages are well separated, mostly undefended and, best of all, wealthy.’

  ‘Oh not more villages! Really! Couldn’t we find something a little more interesting? I’ve heard that River’s Twist has quite the most liberal atmosphere.‘

  ‘Malbur, we’re in the business of stirring up trouble for Gothery, not for ourselves. Even with the four of you working together, taking on the City Militia might just be too much for us.’

  ‘Oh how wrong you are. River’s Twist isn’t a problem. Niplock Sterrett has seen to that.’

  ‘Niplock Sterrett?’

  ‘An old friend of ours from Garassa. Don’t you remember him: he was supposed to be the elected councillor for the Sinks but he was the biggest crook in the place. Not surprising Athoff took a fancy to him. Apparently he’s been sent to River’s Twist to act as King’s Legate. Just peach isn’t it! Last I heard he’d already bankrupted the City Treasury.’

  ‘Bankrupted?’

  ‘Well, shall we say that Athoff and Niplock are a good sight better off now than they were thre
e months ago. Of course he’s worked out some plan to blame it all on the Gotherian trading community.’

  ‘Which means that we’d be completely mad to march openly into River’s Twist.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking of doing anything openly.’

  ‘What do you think of all this Chaldonie? What will Semmento say?’

  Chaldonie had been standing back from the table watching and listening. He regarded Malbur now with a look of deep distaste that was plain to see.

  ‘We will not go to River’s Twist, openly or otherwise. Our task is straightforward and our plan unaltered. And if you are thinking of leaving, Malbur, or you Kelsly, then you had better think again.’ He stepped up to the table to stand between the two of them, resting his palms on the edges of its polished surface. ‘Trust me,’ he said twisting his neck to look venomously into Malbur’s eyes, ‘you would be unwise to try it.’ He favoured Kelsly with the same look and then stepped away. Trant watched him walk to the end of the table where he turned and regarded them all without speaking. The Captain had never seen him threaten any of the others before and he wondered how the pair would react. As it was, they were each motionless, both staring at the table before them. Curious, Trant followed their gaze. Deeply impressed or etched into the surface of the table were the prints of Chaldonie’s thin hands, the dark wood blanched, the polish around the outline turned green as though an acid had been applied.