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

by Wilf Jones

  Angren paced recklessly, stubbed his toe on a rock, yelped.

  ‘You alright?’ the Captain asked, wondering why Angren was hobbling round and cursing like the fool at a Morris.

  ‘Berta laughed. ‘Stubbed his toe,’ she advised and added somewhat needlessly: ‘Should watch where he’s going.’

  Angren gave her a quick, tight smile before flopping down by his pack. He sat with his back to the others and eased off his boot. Behind him he heard Edro say something he didn’t quite catch and Sigrid chuckled. Getting a bit pally those two, he thought. And then he had to ask himself what was wrong with that.

  Women! And there was another grievance. It was months since his last encounter, and weeks even since his last crude thought about Sorella, Rixbur’s young and compliant wife. There hadn’t been anything between them no matter how much Angren had wished there had. It was a mystery to him why, but throughout his life he’d repeatedly fallen for inaccessible women and invariably ended up in bed with those he didn’t much care for. He refused to analyse this behaviour but it continued to make him miserable every time it happened.

  Oddly enough, by the time Seama came to speak to him again Angren’s depression had begun to lift. It didn’t mean he was ready to chatter. A lonely man despite his scattered battle friends he had never found anyone he could really talk to and even Seama was no exception. The Wizard had nothing original to say and Angren couldn’t bring himself to speak his mind. He was a little cheered at least by Seama’s show of concern and he made the effort to apologize and the Wizard apologized in return but all in all his mood remained on the edge of gloomy. Conversation in the camp was subdued and so he turned his attention to his new blade. He found solace in routine.

  After half an hour or so Sigrid came and sat next to him and together they talked about weapons and technique well into the first watch.

  The night wasn’t long and the sun dawned red behind them as the companions packed their gear. Ahead lay The Saddle, a section of the border country where the cliffs and rough land that marched along the western edge of the Gotherian plateau, for ten miles or so, dipped towards the Valdesian plain offering a more gentle descent than any of the many other, more direct but often precipitous routes into Aegarde. Traders travelling from the Gotherian midlands and northern territories with heavy loads and high hopes preferred this gateway: it was kind on their horses, and their backsides. Western Street, a good metalled road, joined the great Middle-Way at the Wykeford Turnpike, just before the border, and this led them on west into the Hundred Kingdoms or south by the Rine-Way eventually as far as the capital, Garassa, and the many populous towns of the Western seaboard. The land between was mostly barren or undeveloped but well maintained posting stages every thirty miles along the way, offered the weary traveller, at a price, both rest and relative safety. Seama’s company, however, wouldn’t be going that way. They travelled north of Western Street, and would keep to the high ground on the right of the Middle-Way, and then set off north and west. Roar’s letter had placed the Black Company in the villages and towns of the ‘Skirt’, a group of settlements clustered in a scooped out spoon of land nestling under the sharp cliffs to the north of the Saddle. Terrance wasn’t so sure. His contacts claimed that the Black Company had left the Skirt, southwards they thought, but none were certain; nothing of any current atrocity was being voiced abroad in the inns or market places of Gothery but perhaps they would learn more in Altiparedo itself. Seama decided it would be best to find the last place they had been seen and then track them from there.

  Before mid-morning they had crossed the border. The green pastures of Gothery lay behind them and ahead lay a broad country of rolling grassland. They would need to travel some miles out before making north in order to avoid a deep scar in the land. They could see it away on their right whenever they climbed high enough and an unhelpful feature it looked too. Seama’s knowledge of the area was limited but at least he knew that the cut was known as Hammerhand’s Anger, named after the supposed fury of the great storm god Syre, that some of the local population still believed in. Seama had made a study of all the Gods known on Asteranor – he was not sure he believed in all of them, of course, but he didn’t like the idea of ever being caught off his guard – and he recalled that while Syre’s power was supposedly immense his temper was indiscriminate and his aim, with that mighty hammer of his, less than accurate. The gouge in the earth was deep and steep and impossible for horses.

  The swelling plains filled their sight. This land lay below the Gotherian plateau but after leaving that homely, rich country of enterprise and wealth this new terrain seemed to them both vast and unforgiving. Its dull green face had nothing cheerful about it even in the noonday light. Nothing much was visible. The rolling land revealed the occasional small pond or mere and, with the water, clusters of wiry trees and brushwood, but there seemed no evidence of mankind: not a house, nor a fence nor even a track to follow.

  ‘Not much about, Mr Wizard,’ said Bibron, ‘Can’t see this place being worth a robber’s labour.’

  ‘This is just a step along the way, Captain Farber. The villages north of here are quite populous apparently. That right, Angren?’

  They all looked at Angren whose horse was now ambling along in the rear.

  He shrugged. ‘They were,’ he said, ‘some of them.’

  The others waited for him to expand upon this but he didn’t offer anything more.

  ‘Ciudad Valdez is supposed to be quite big, I believe,’ said Terrance, ‘Over thirty thousand people, a standing militia of two thousand and the biggest horse market on the continent.’

  ‘Yes, but where is it?’

  ‘As Seama said, North and West of here, Captain. Thereabouts. I think.’

  ‘Nice to know you’re so sure, Terrance. Let’s hope we don’t get lost then. By the look of it there’s not much chance of asking for directions. This place is as good as deserted.’

  Bibron was not completely wrong. This land they travelled was populated but opportunities to meet people were few. At this end of the plain it was a population on the move, with only a few steady settlements between them. This was horse country and the Valdanas managed the herds. Further North were studs devoted to breeding the best hunters and racing horses known the world over, but on the lower plain the wild herds were maintained as a live bloodstock against the day that the breeds weakened. The Valdanas sold their bred stock the length and breadth of the continent and beyond but, as a matter of honour, they kept the wild horses for themselves. Anyone could see that even though their days might be filled with the regular toil and daily trials that filled lives the world over, the heart and soul of the Valdana was ever at a gallop with the wind in his hair, the raw power of the beast thundering on beneath him and only the stars above to look down.

  Technically these people toiled in the name of Agwis, or whomever the current King in Garassa might be. Horses were supplied by long standing agreements to the court and to any the court favoured, and indeed the profit from all this labour was held to be property of the crown. In return Valdez had become recognized as a Dukedom of Aegarde. This had been the situation for many hundreds of years. This arrangement however couldn’t be taken at face value: the Valdanas were an independent people, scornful of interference. It would go ill with any King in Garassa if he ever thought to demand any of the money due.

  ‘Don’t worry, Captain,’ said Terrance with a smile, ‘I daresay that somewhere here we’ll find a road heading north and then we just need to make sure we take something easterly after ten miles or so.’

  And so they set off across the rolling plain, plodding up the hills and cantering down into the shallows between. And at every crest most of them expected the sudden sight of some road or track but at every crest they were disappointed. Even trying to keep to their route was difficult though the sun rode high in the sky, as the ascents and descents
repeatedly skewed their direction from the true, and the sameness of everything around them offered no clues at all. Two hours had passed before Seama’s patience finally snapped.

  ‘Angren,’ he called, ‘You’ve got to know this country pretty well over the years, haven’t you?’

  ‘I have,’ the swordsman conceded with no evident enthusiasm. He was slumped in his saddle, hands on the pommel, letting the horse decide where to go.

  ‘Then perhaps you could give us some advice. Are there no decent roads in any of this?’

  ‘None you’d really call roads.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Nope. Not proper roads.’

  ‘Trails then?’

  ‘Not so much trails. More like… routes, if you must know: straight lines from one place to another but not definite trails that anyone could follow. Well maybe a few. Not easy to find. Valdez likes it that way.’

  ‘So how do we know which direction to go in with no landmarks and no roads?’

  ‘We don’t.’

  Seama threw up his arms in despair. Angren’s attitude was infuriating. He knew that Angren was being deliberately unhelpful – he knew full well what they needed to get on.

  ‘Angren,’ the wizard said, trying for a conciliatory tone but failing, ‘we need information; we need people to give us that information; we need to find a road to find the people. For The Many Gods’ Sakes will you tell me how to do it?’

  Angren chuckled: it had been a long time since Seama was anywhere near shouting mad. ‘It’s so easy, I thought you’d have seen,’ he said. ‘Look, over there.’

  They all looked in the direction Angren had pointed.

  ‘Where?’ demanded ‘Berta.

  ‘As far as you can see.’

  There seemed to be nothing but the green plain and the clouds above. Then Sigrid laughed. She had a quick brain as well as sharp eyes.

  ‘Of course! I’ve got it now. You can all see it, you just haven’t realised what it means. Shall I explain, Old Angren?’

  ‘Why not,’ Angren agreed, grinning broadly. Seama had no idea what they were supposed to be looking at and it was clear that Angren knew it.

  ‘Well,’ Sigrid began, ‘What you can see is the land and the sky. In the sky there are clouds. The sun is nearly behind us and I’d guess, by the time of day, that we’re looking due west. What counts is the colour of the clouds at that point as compared with the rest.’

  They all looked again and saw now an easily definable though wavering column of yellowing smoke or steam amid the overall greyness.

  ‘And look,’ she continued, ‘Away to the right of that, approximately northwest, another pillar of yellow like the first. Guessed yet? You can’t see them from here but I think we all know what’s at the foot of those clouds.’

  Indeed most of them knew. Seama was annoyed with himself for not having guessed sooner but Bibron, man of the River and the Sea, had not an inkling.

  ‘Well? Someone bloody tell me then, you’re all so clever. Volcanoes or something is it?’

  ‘Not quite, Captain,’ Angren told him amiably, ‘We’re talking about dragons. It’s on all the maps. The dragons have two main lairs that’re connected by tunnels even though they’re a good hundred miles apart. They say the dragon-fire has something to do with sulphur and that’s why all those yellow fumes rise from the entrances to the pits. Whether that’s the truth or not, I don’t know. Doesn’t matter really. You just have to know that the sky there and over there is always yellow and that you can see it from anywhere on the plain. The Valdanas have been taking their bearings from it as long as they can remember. I’m surprised you didn’t know about that Seama.’

  The wizard shrugged. ‘It’s impossible for one man to know and understand everything, even one as old as I am. No, I knew about the pits and the fumes of course but I’d never thought of them as landmarks.’

  ‘Nice to know you’re not perfect.’

  ‘Isn’t it!’ Seama laughed at himself. ‘Well then, how does direction finding help us at all, given we don’t know where we are to start with?’

  Angren grinned again. ‘Actually, when we were in Slaney I did a bit of shopping. Got myself this compass, which I hope works better than Bibron’s, and I got myself a map to go with it. I’ve been keeping track seeing as no one else seemed bothered. Another two miles and we come to the end of the Hammerhand. That do you?’

  MIRACLE

  The Skirt 3057.8. 1

  In a lighter mood the day’s journey continued. They found no trails at all but Angren led them confidently, looking to reach some form of habitation by mid-afternoon.

  Angren was absurdly pleased to have got the better of Seama for once and this not only cheered him up but somehow it managed to restore his fondness for the wizard. He also found himself pleased to be leader of the company for a while, though he’d never really thought of himself as a master of men, whatever his birthright. He preferred to portray himself as a free agent, a sturdy soldier without any responsibility greater than that of obeying the orders of whoever was paying, and that only when he had a mind to. But he would have to admit that whenever the situation became serious and things needed to be done, Angren had a habit of just getting on and doing them, and if that meant telling other people what to do to get those things done then so be it – but it didn’t make him some sort of general or anything like it.

  Maintaining their direction was easy and so he lent an ear to the conversation around him.

  The brothers were telling a raucous tale of their early military careers, much of which seemed to revolve around the outwitting of an ogre of a drill-sergeant. All armies had them, Angren reflected, both the sergeants who might mean well but were bred into petty cruelties, and the young buffoons who played practical jokes and broke the rules just for fun. Looking at Edro and Piedoro, quick-witted, lithe and rakish, he doubted they’d changed much over the years.

  They were telling their story to anyone who wanted to listen but their attention was centred upon Sigrid. She was a fighter like the rest of them and yet she was a good-looking woman, small and dark, with all the curves necessary to attract any man. The brothers considered themselves to be in friendly rivalry for her affections and she was flattered by the attention, though she gave neither any promise. As he watched, Sigrid gave Angren a wink and he smiled in return. He was pleased that Sig’ and ‘Berta were still with them and he wasn’t looking forward to the inevitable parting of the ways.

  Given the obvious direction of the brothers’ interest others started conversations among themselves. De Vere was in a wide debate with Seama about the politics of the world through the ages. He appeared to be quite a scholar and knew much about Partain history in particular. He was eager to learn more about Aegarde and Gothery and Seama seemed happy to help him. Angren was still suspicious of the dandy: he asked too many questions altogether. It was clear Seama trusted the man, and that should have been enough for him, but Angren decided to remain wary. Meanwhile, as history bored him, he left them to it.

  Garaid was quiet and thoughtful and content to bring up the rear. Angren couldn’t remember him speaking at all since the incident at the stables, or certainly nothing at length. Obviously it had affected him more than anyone else, but that wasn’t surprising since he’d held the blade that ended it. Angren decided there was nothing to be done, the kingsman just needed time to think it through.

  Bibron laughed his parrot laugh at one of Edro’s jokes and tried his best to get ‘Berta involved in the talk but she seemed distracted and ill-at-ease. Every few seconds, she’d peer ahead as if she expected something of dubious nature to crawl over the horizon. ‘Berta had her moods, more perhaps than Angren, but generally she was always ready for a good joke. Something was bothering her.

  Angren managed to steer his horse to walk alongside hers while still keep
ing them all on the correct course and as he did so Bibron tactfully drew back to talk with Sigrid and the brothers.

  ‘Well, ‘Berta, what do you think of this chase of ours?’

  She didn’t look around to face Angren but said, still searching the sky ahead: ‘What should I think?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe that we’re running about in the dark looking for invisible enemies while other people are fighting proper battles.’

  ‘No Angren. That’s what you think. Or maybe you only partly think it.’ She turned to him now with a half-smile on her lips. Angren said nothing. ‘No, I don’t think that at all,’ she said. ‘I know that me and Sig’ have a job to do and we’ll be heading on northwards without you sooner or later, but I can’t help thinking that just now I’m in the right place. Oh, I know he can’t tell us everything, and that’s fair enough ‘cause I haven’t the brains for strategy and politics, but Angren, whatever my orders, I’m here because of Seama. And so is Sig, and so are you. And if he wants us to fight dark sorcerers, whatever the risk, well, fight dark sorcerers is what I’d like to do.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. So, the problem is you don’t want to do what Mador wants? I wondered: you haven’t seemed happy this couple of days.’ Angren said this quietly so that the others couldn’t hear.

  ‘Berta forced a laugh. ‘Think you’re clever, do you? Orders, orders, always orders? No Angren, these things can’t be helped. You take the commission, you do the duty. If that was all that was wrong, well… But it isn’t. What it is… it’s…’ ‘Berta was struggling to spit it out and Angren wondered why. ‘It’s… well it’s stupid. I’d feel daft telling you.’