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

by Wilf Jones

  Seama’s vision took him back to an urgent summons delivered by a deformed serf to a fearing servant: Zaras. Running through ancient corridors, older than old, sadder than sad, the vision became blurred – the incumbent of this summons, disinterested in everyday surroundings, was infinitely more concerned with what awaited at the journey’s end. Seama himself became apprehensive about what would happen, about the identity of the summoner. Perhaps this was when Zaras was given his mission. He would soon know: Zaras approached unguarded doors. They were doors of hell. Unmentionable scenes adorned them – of war, mutilation, torture and all that Seama thought evil. They promised worse revelation to come.

  Zaras stopped. The doors swung outwards… and then darkness descended like death.

  Seama staggered, struggling to pull himself back to reality, his eyes on a frozen tableau of Garaid, stooped, staring in terror at his bloodless knife; of Zaras’ sliced and gaping throat; of ‘Berta’s revulsion as the head lolled back obscenely into her face.

  ‘You, you… imbecile,’ is what he said, ‘Garaid, I had him, I had it all. There was so much to be learned. So much!’ He turned away to hide his anger, and counted up to many more than ten before he spoke again. ‘What made you do this Garaid? Why, by all the Gods in heaven, did you kill him?’

  Angren stepped forward. ‘The Gods had more to do with it than Garaid, Seama. It was all so quick but I reckon the spy pushed himself onto the blade—’

  ‘And cut off his own head? Ridiculous!’ Seama couldn’t believe it. The weapons-man always looked after friends in a tight spot and even though he was in no way their leader, the others always expected his support. But, whatever Angren said, Garaid had done the deed. He need only look at the man’s face to see that: he was wide-eyed and babbling. What was he saying?

  ‘Blood… the blood, where is it?’

  As one the company stared at the corpse. Not a single drop of blood issued from the grey flesh of the neck. No fluid at all. Instead the veins were filled with a noisome jelly, atrophied by time.

  ‘We’ve been talking to a dead man,’ said Sigrid. Despite her normally offhand approach to the death of her enemies she made a sign in the air before her to ward off evil. Some of the others looked as pale as the death before them. Stifling Bibron’s oaths and ‘Berta’s slow questions Seama launched into an explanation:

  ‘It wasn’t a dead man. It was a simulacrum: an imitation man, an image that carried the thoughts of someone far away.’ He wanted to calm their fears and dared not admit to being as horrified as the rest. They would all be happier if the wizard seemed unimpressed. In truth, if it was a simulacrum then it was the best ever made. ‘What you see has been conjured by someone too cowardly to risk his own body. It’s not even worth burying. Leave it. We should consider our next move.’

  ‘But what was he… it showing you, Seama?’ Bibron demanded, ‘I heard you say something ‘bout – I don’t know – Kizalkum was it? And somethin’ about a new kingdom?’

  ‘Did I speak?’ Seama had no recollection. Did he really say Kyzylkum? But what if he did. Perhaps he was responding to what he saw with words he already knew? This wasn’t helpful. ‘Captain, if I knew all the answers I wouldn’t have needed to ask questions. I’ll have to think deeply about what little I heard and saw before I’ll be able to understand what it all means. Now’s not the time. We have a lot to do before morning. This lot’ll take some sorting.’

  As they turned to consider their task Edro let out an angry cry.

  ‘Bastard! The little rat!’ He pointed to where Angren and the brothers had tied the two unconscious thugs. Now there was only one: the twitcher had calmly slipped his ropes and gone. Furious, Edro kicked the other man as though it was his fault.

  ‘Your pal’s left you, eh? He’s a nice bloke, no?’

  The fat man didn’t answer but toppled forward revealing the knife that was embedded in the base of his skull. The Twitcher had ensured that no tales would be told and an old score had been settled.

  ‘That’s all we need,’ Angren looked at Seama, ‘Were these the two De Vere met in Fletton, do you think? He said they were arguing then.’

  ‘They fit his description. Pity he’s not here to confirm it, but I hope to meet him tomorrow in Dreffield.’

  ‘Is that far? It had better be. That Twitcher will be trying to set us up by now. This is a mess. I think we ought to leave straightaway. We need to be twenty miles from here before morning. That’s what I think.’

  ‘The beer must be wearing off then, Angren,’ said the wizard, ‘because that’s what I think myself.’

  LANDMARKS

  Dreffield 3057.7.31

  Terrance was surprised to see them. Angren, tired from the night ride, took great pleasure in rousing him before daybreak: why should the dandy be allowed to sleep-in while others worked? And in such a bed! Angren gazed with naked envy at the pile of soft pillows and the crisp white sheets. Why was it, he wondered, that men like De Vere could always find and afford the best rooms and the best food?

  As Terrance washed the sleep from his eyes Seama and Angren slumped on his sofas. Even the wizard was weary. Angren filched some port for his breakfast. A look of reproach from Seama irritated him.

  ‘You’d begrudge me a drink now?’

  ‘At this time of the day? I just don’t know how you can stomach it.’

  Angren sneered. ‘Guts of cast iron is how.’ He had long forgotten his shameful behaviour in Fletton. ‘I’ll take this with me: I know Sigrid wouldn’t mind a drop.’ The others were waiting outside the Westgate.

  ‘Did he turn up then?’ Terrance asked, confident enough to shave and talk at the same time. Angren snorted.

  ‘You could say so,’ he said, ‘that’s if you’re talking about some spy or other?’

  Angren looked to Seama for some sort of explanation. He wanted to know how Terrance already knew all about it.

  Seama nodded and said: ‘Terrance set up the meeting in the first place. He’s good at that sort of thing.’

  ‘I’ll bet he is. You’d better tell him what happened then.’

  Seama told the tale briefly and without referring to any of the information the spy had provided. Terrance was curious about the mask and the lack of blood but didn’t seem much impressed. Angren supposed that being there had made all the difference.

  ‘It doesn’t sound much like the fellow I tried for, Seama. I’ve never heard of this mask before. Someone obviously thought the information about you very important: too important for subordinates to handle. It’s interesting those two louts turned up again seeing as they weren’t the intermediaries I’d spoken to. We ought to keep our eyes open for the skinny one. He must know more than we thought he did.’

  ‘If he was more than your average bod what was he doing in Fletton?’ Angren voiced a thought common to them all: ‘I don’t like the idea that someone knew you were coming, Seama.’

  Seama didn’t like the idea either but he wasn’t convinced. ‘What if,’ he suggested, stretching himself out on the sofa, ‘what if this twitcher was waiting for someone else? Someone from Tumboll, maybe, one of their’s. I’d like to have questioned him.’

  ‘Well,’ Terrance offered, ‘there is another of their spies in Dreffield. The Twitcher may well come on here to bring him the news. So far my messages haven’t been returned: this one seems more cautious, but I daresay if I try again we might get some response.’

  ‘No. Time’s running out. I cannot wait here another day. We go west. I intend to be in Aegarde by tomorrow, which means we must leave now.’

  Angren groaned theatrically. ‘No rest for the wicked,’ he said.

  Terrance raised his eyebrows at that. ‘Perhaps you should say: ‘No rest for the hunted,’ Angren. Did you know that someone is looking for you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘
Word on the street has it there’s a lot of money riding on you being found.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Have you upset someone, perhaps? Oh yes, there was that Rixbur person wasn’t there?’

  ‘Now just a minute. Are you telling me someone’s paying for information about me?’

  ‘Someone, yes. Can’t tell who just now, or why. I’ve only heard about it at third or fourth hand. I think the money on offer must be keeping those in the know quiet about the detail – of course they wouldn’t want anyone else claiming the reward.’

  Angren was stunned by this news. And a little confused.

  ‘There’s a bounty on my head? What did you tell them?’

  ‘Now Angren, calm down. I haven’t told anyone anything. If I’m going to be travelling with you I really don’t want bounty hunters on our tail.’

  ‘And I don’t want them on mine! The quicker we’re out of here the better… Did you just say you were coming with us?’

  ‘I did. My dear Angren, I would not miss this for the world. I’m ready now if you are. Let’s just pick up the supplies I’ve prepared and then we can be off. We’ll be out of Gothery in no time at—’

  The arched window behind him exploded into rainbow crystals of glass and spinning leads. Both Terrance and Angren flung themselves to the floor, arms shielding their eyes. Luckily the speed of the explosion was slower than the sound of it. Because it wasn’t an explosion as such, it was the result of a sudden, brutal impact.

  Seama, who had chosen to stay where he was, using a pulse of push to protect his face from the flying debris, shook his head in profound annoyance.

  ‘You always have to do something over the top, don’t you,’ he said.

  Cuahtemoc made no reply. He was perched on the chair back nearest the destruction that had been the window. But his look was unfriendly. He shifted his position and dropped from one claw a crumpled envelope of paper onto the chair seat and turned his gaze upon the two men still lying on the floor. Angren peered out from under his arm.

  ‘Gods, but you’re a big bird.’

  Cuahtemoc gave a cry and a beat of wings that rattled the shutters and upended Angren’s glass of port.

  ‘Steady on,’ the sword-master said pulling himself to his feet, ‘That’s a drink you owe me. He a friend of yours, Seama?’

  Seama looked cross. ‘And I just had to be here when he turned up. Terrance, there’s a message for you.’

  Terrance was brushing the glass out of his flouncy shirt sleeves.

  ‘The post is not what it was,’ he breathed but then, as he looked up at the eagle he changed his attitude. ‘My apologies, sir Cuahtemoc. It was the shock that made me flippant. We thank you for your efforts. Our friend Roar has such great trust in you and we know that trust is well placed. May I take the message?’

  Cuahtemoc looked at him carefully, seemed to come to a conclusion and flew to the back of Seama’s sofa to allow Terrance more comfortable access. Seama eased himself away a few feet.

  ‘If he decides to go for you, Seama, a yard isn’t going to help.’

  ‘Thanks Angren.’

  ‘It’s well timed this letter,’ said Terrance, as he opened and smoothed out the sheet, ‘Let’s see. It says the Black Company were last in a place called Altiparedo and… Oh. Wait a moment while I… ah…’

  Cuahtemoc, listening, made a trilling, croaking noise that somehow seemed wrong even to Seama.

  Terrance had stopped reading. He crumpled the letter in his hands and turned his face away from them for a moment. When he looked around there were tears in his eyes.

  It took a long hard day’s ride in fact to reach the border. Angren who had seen no sight of the bed he had been promised twenty hours earlier was feeling more than jaded by the time they stopped for the night. They avoided the smoother, easier main roads in favour of back-lanes and fields: a less public route. Gothery’s constables had an excellent communications system and Seama wouldn’t be delayed by a murder enquiry. Angren was missing his comforts, however. He would have given anything for an alehouse, an easy chair and a good meal. There were no alehouses on the roads they travelled. Alehouses were, for the time being at least, off limits. He was tired, his mood was already fractious, and so when Seama suggested that a cooking fire wasn’t necessary he was not so much disappointed as livid.

  ‘No fire?’ He made the question an accusation but the wizard was undaunted.

  ‘Do we need one? It’s not a cold night.’

  Angren swore under his breath.

  ‘We are allowed to eat, I take it. I thought a little venison might be nice, rabbit even, but obviously I’m out of order.’

  ‘You are. We have no rabbit or venison and we’re certainly not going to start hunting now just to keep your belly happy. Grow up man. We’re probably wanted for murder; we’re hunting a vicious band of cutthroats. Do you really think we should light a fire and go charging through the fields creating hue and cry? Who knows what’ll be waiting for us round the bend or in the next field? No, I’m sorry Angren but you’ll have to put up with bully beef and biscuit from now on. What’s the matter with you anyway?’

  ‘What’s the matter with me? What’s the matter with you, more like. Look I know he was a friend of yours. But you don’t even know he’s dead – the letter didn’t say that. Whoever wrote it out must’ve talked to him to get the story straight, to know where to send it. I guess he—’

  ‘He said it was the end. He said there’d be no fixing him. You know what he meant.’ Seama spoke quietly but with passion and everyone could see his frustration and anger. ‘I told them it would happen. I told them! Waldin and Peveril got it all wrong. I should have been there not Roar McAndre, and definitely not Colm. And now it’s too late.’ Seama bowed his head. ‘Cuahtemoc would never have left him injured.’

  ‘You reckon, do you? So where’s the bird gone now then? Eh? Hasn’t he just gone back to him?’

  ‘Maybe. To sit on his grave a while.’

  Angren shrugged. He didn’t believe it but what did that matter. He was either dead or not dead and there was bugger all they could do about it one way or the other. He’d never met Roar McAndre.

  ‘Well, whatever!’ he said.

  ‘I thank you for your concern.’

  Angren found it hard to leave it alone. Seama had walked off for twenty minutes or so after the last spat and had come back just that little bit calmer, but Angren had continued his grumbles throughout to anyone who couldn’t avoid listening. Seama had the benefit of his thoughts all over again as he struggled with his saddle.

  ‘Look Seama, you think I’m in a bad mood? Well I am. You’ve got Terrance here telling me I’m a hunted man, that Rixbur’s after doing me in. Not a new situation exactly, I know that, but how would you like it? And you’ve got all this secrecy crap going on that we’re having to put up with. You’ve got us chasing about the country – countries I should say – getting our arses kicked from pillar to post, madmen and ghouls all over the place. And then you ask me what’s wrong! Okay, you tell me there’s plenty of fighting to be done, which’d suit me fine, and alright there’s been a few set-tos and whatever, but where are we now? Far as I can tell, all we’re doing is running away. You know what, I wish this Black Company was in the next field, then at least I could get stuck in. But there’s one thing, one thing that really does get to me, Seama. I tell you honest, I hated Rixbur heart and soul but at least he had half-decent camp beds!’

  Angren could see that the others were watching. De Vere and Bibron had wry grins on their faces, both familiar with this sort of behaviour at this sort of time in any expedition, both aware there was nothing much to do about it. ‘Berta, Sigrid and the brothers were dismayed, or even annoyed, to judge by their sour looks. Angren was the last person they expected to gripe. Garaid, Angren found the time to notice,
simply looked sick.

  Seama gave him a withering look.

  ‘Have you finished now?’

  Angren hated that look.

  ‘Oh, forget it!’ he snarled, ‘do what you like, as always.’ And then he stumped away as noisily as he could.

  But Angren’s display of anger was little more than an attempt at disguise. A useless attempt because he knew that Seama wasn’t fooled. They both knew what the matter was: Angren was ‘depressed’. Again. It was that Gwydion who told him about it. Gwydion Hebog, the Foreigner. According to him, not that he should be listening to someone like that, according to Hebog, Hebog meaning Hawk in their language and that should have warned him, Angren was prone to ‘depression’. He didn’t offer any medical cure. Hebog didn’t like pills and potions, and besides, as he explained it, Angren’s depressions though real enough were not very severe. All he had done for Angren was to quietly describe the problem, laying a cool hand upon Angren’s brow as he did so, and then sent him away to think about it. That particular depression had lifted almost immediately. Angren supposed that being made to think it through distracted him in some way from the illness itself. Hebog had told him to remember what he’d said anytime the depression returned and it usually worked. A fine man the Foreigner whatever Angren’s father thought.

  The depressions usually hit in when life was dull. Angren smiled at that. After the past month – Rixbur’s thugs, the sea-monsters, the battles on Tumboll – perhaps all this plodding through Gothery’s backyard really was terribly dull. And while he found it easy enough to accept discomfort when the situation was life-threatening, he was in no mood to accept it now. Where were they going? What next? What if this Black Company had all packed up and gone home now they knew the Council was on to them. And the other stuff. Kyzylkum. What if that was just a just another fairy tale after all? Certainly sounded like it. So, it’d all be down to politics again, and what use was he at politics? No use. If it wasn’t for Seama, Angren could have been wenching in some Aegardean brothel by now. Or making money somehow in Pullonia or Polz, something, anything but not this. It was all down to Seama, of course. He owed Seama a debt: the Wizard had saved his life. Again! Twice in just the past two weeks! And that was a problem because Angren was from Terremark where an honourable man wouldn’t rest until his debts were settled.