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

by Wilf Jones

  Creel felt queasy.

  ‘Do you know something?’ he said, ‘I r..r.. really don’t want to know.’

  A TRIP UPRIVER

  River Sea 3057.7.22

  Aboard the creaking ship Angren and the wizard, undisguised, leaned side by side on a rail at the bow and watched the river seals skimming ahead. It was a delight to watch them: playful, carefree, ecstatic. Arcs of droplets hung in the air like rainbows in the wake of their high leaping. Who could ever think of war in the face of such innocent beauty? Who could think of death?

  Seama sighed. Who indeed? Deep within him Seama knew that life was not intended to suffer war. Life was supposed to be joy, innocent joy, untrammelled by violence and tunes of glory. And it was by some perversity in nature, or in man, that this purpose, this divine intention was ruined. Too often there was hatred, pride, fear and lust; too often did those feelings lead to evil deeds, horror and death. Seama was himself a dealer in death, he doled it out like a bitter medicine. He had learned to fight fire with fire, but it hadn’t escaped him that no matter how many times he turned the tables, applied the medication, no matter what power of magic he brought against it, somehow evil always survived, always thrived. He felt sometimes he was approaching the problem from the wrong direction: what he wanted was to eradicate the disease but all he could do was address the symptoms. The answer eluded him. As the years rolled by Seama came no nearer to ridding the world of evil and, in a mood that played with defeatism, he had come to worry that his gut feeling was wrong, that joy was not attainable, that life was meant to be perpetual struggle.

  ‘A penny for them,’ said Angren, seeing his friend with a frown on his face.

  ‘More than enough!’ Seama replied. ‘I was philosophising when I should have been thinking. You could have my thoughts for nothing if I could make room for better ones. It’s more than a war, Angren, more than politics. Evil is the root of it. There are enemies everywhere you look. Pars, Aegarde, Gothery, Masachea: they’re all at odds with one another and if I’m right it’s no accident. I think some terrible plan underpins every stupid event that’s happened for the past six months. Someone out there is sowing seeds of ruin and if we don’t act quickly we’ll reap a disaster.’

  ‘We’re after some farmer then.’

  ‘Do you have to make a joke of everything?’

  ‘No, I just enjoy it. Seriously though, I always thought that when a tree’s diseased you chop it down, and you burn it so the seeds won’t grow again.’

  ‘That’s what I want Angren, but first we have to find the tree.’ He looked out over the waters. Far ahead, beyond the bounds of the River-Sea, on the edge of sight was a hazy blue line that marked the beginning of the Dedicae massif. The distance was nothing. ‘And when we do,’ he continued briskly, ‘Let’s hope our axe is sharp enough, and that we don’t get caught underneath when it goes.’

  Angren spat over the side. ‘We’re warriors, aren’t we? We find a way. No point worrying about failure and death – well not much. We just do what we can. The good’ll win in the end.’

  ‘You think so? Sounds like wishful thinking to me; you’ve been listening to the priests.’

  ‘You’ve got to believe in something.’

  ‘Well I wish I could be as sure. Perhaps I’ve been in too many fights – it makes you cynical after a while.’

  They fell silent and opened their eyes and ears to what was about them: the wind, the gulls, the seals and, dispassionately working against their progress, the cold grey flood of the Hypodedicus, mightiest of waterways.

  It would be misleading to call the Hypodedicus a river at this point. Here they sailed an inland sea, still powerful in its current, at its extremities one hundred and twenty miles wide and two hundred and fifty long, yet rarely deeper than fifty feet. Eight thousand years before Seama was born the bedrocks turned over deep below Asteranor and threw up solidifying lines of molten basalt, like glowing worms on the green surface of the lands now called Pars, Gothery and Aegarde. One of these thrust lines crossed and dammed the great river. Gathering up the melts of many winters the river pooled outwards and backwards, filling the shallow valley, drowning whatever could not move. The trees rotted, the crude dwellings of an ancient, now forgotten race were ground into the lake bed. Eventually the lake swelled to the lip of the cliff that contained it and forced a ragged, bouncing path down into the soft earth below the fault.

  Now in Seama’s day the river was settled in its course and, to those who peopled its banks, the Hypodedicus seemed eternal in its long journey from the High Dedicae to Knot Island and the Errensea. The River was the unchanging bastion of their lives. And it was no great divider as a sea. Men had rowed across the waters between Pars and Gothery, though sailing was the more obvious and less exhausting method. Nevertheless, whenever the wind dropped, it was wise to down anchor against the still driving flood. From Riverport to the nearest Gotherian landing the mariner must first journey north and then ride the current down into the saving dead-water on the western shore.

  And here they were, tacking slowly upriver, but Banya’s Harbour was not Seama’s destination. Banya’s first landfall in Gothery was dictated by geographical considerations: the cliffs in the south and the salt marshes in the north. In later times the same reasons were the cause of continued traffic through Banya’s Harbour, which in turn was responsible for the great prosperity of the residents. But traffic and wealth make for a busy town where watching eyes may not be distinguished from thousands of others. It was not only Seama who wanted to avoid those eyes: Mador had thirty of his favoured agents on board, all set on their various missions by the orders the wizard had carried. They could have gained entry severally into Gothery but it would have been remarkable if their passing could have gone unnoticed. It was decided that they should together take a lonely route through the northern marshlands, keeping clear of the three or four villages and the main town of Fletton, until they were well settled on their different paths. Some would meet up with other agents, some would travel alone; dependent on their purpose some would travel by night while others could travel openly by day, taking on one guise or another or none at all as became necessary.

  They sailed northward ten miles out from the coast of Pars for the length of two days’ journey and then, at nightfall, the Captain turned their ship westward. As the thin moon came out to look at their passage, those still awake smiled to see that the seals continued to follow them, indefatigable in their play. It was a good sign. Many sailors believed the seals warded off the Spirit of the Waters, a spirit that could be benign or terrible at a whim and was never to be trusted. The more cynical recognized that the river seals were intelligent enough to keep well clear of danger. The River-Sea was a perilous environment. Common were the ever-shifting sand bars making navigation near the coast a nightmare for the inexperienced, and there were ancient boulders just below the surface that made life treacherous for those who strayed off the main routes. And to lose your boat on the River Sea could be fatal. The water was cold, the current frighteningly strong, and creatures other than the friendly seals scoured the depths. There were tiny fish with sharp teeth that travelled in shoals of agonizing death: the Schiff. There were large snake-like reptiles, the pangalori, with paddles instead of legs that made them incredibly fast, and some of these reached tremendous lengths of over one hundred feet. But the floating jellies, so transparent as to be invisible, were most to be feared. Some as large as five feet across, they had a poison that paralysed while the inverted gut enveloped its victim. As it began to digest the membrane turned a hideous red – popular lore said it was better to meet a red jelly than a clear one.

  Few children of Pars or Gothery learned to swim in the River-Sea. Taking it for what it was the sailors learned to ride the currents in tense safety. The seals swimming alongside truly were a welcome sight.

  On the third day Seama and Angren were wok
en with a welcome gift of rahi. Though the nights were cool they had preferred to sleep above deck as the quarters had a muggy, salty atmosphere. The ‘Cottle’ was a requisitioned fishing barque and smelled like it. It was one of Mador’s agents who sought them out, a big strong man with an easy and open manner; his name was Garaid Barbossa, of House Anparas.

  Angren groggily raised himself to his elbows.

  ‘Thanks, Garaid,’ he said with a voice full of gravel. He hated mornings. ‘I shall savour every last drop. You never know when you’ll get another in this business.’

  ‘Don’t say that. I’m not sure I can function properly without rahi first thing.’

  ‘Or beer later, eh?’

  ‘I am quite partial to a drop, now as you mention it. Saddens me to say that moderation is in order from now on, but I suppose I’ll get used. Besides I get too fat on ale.’

  ‘Rubbish! Good ballast I call it. Anyway, with all the women and the warring a young man like you shouldn’t be getting fat.’

  Both Seama and Garaid laughed at that. No one could fail to notice that Garaid already carried a lot of reserve flesh.

  ‘Not everyone’s like you, Angren,’ said Seama, ‘I’m continually astounded at your great ability to drink the house dry and still fight well, but how do you stay so slim?’

  Angren put on a confident smile and, smoothing back his sparse hair, said: ‘Well, I’m no wizard, I claim no miracle cures but, in all honesty, may I point out that I am the perfect example of the human male.’ And just to prove it he flexed his biceps for them.

  ‘Even if your head is a little swollen.’ Angren gave Seama a sunny smile in response and then sank back into his blankets. “More beauty sleep? Well, I’m getting up. How far have we come, Garaid?’

  ‘How far? Not sure. I couldn’t count it in miles but Bibron says nine hours should see across the River, if that helps. He’s a bit worried about the marshes though. He can’t understand how he’s supposed to get through them.’

  ‘Oh, you can tell Bibron not to worry. We’ll get through; take my word for it. We’re making good time. If you could stir yourself, Angren, we have a few things to sort out with the good Captain. Meanwhile, I’m off to feed the fishes.’

  ‘Lucky fishes. Have one for me while you’re at it.’ As the wizard headed off Angren closed his eyes. He wanted to get back to a dream he had been enjoying. He couldn’t remember exactly what it was about but he knew there were women in it.

  When he did get up it was past midday. Seama was bound to have said all he needed to say to Bibron and Angren had decided instead to pay his respects to the horses, but a commotion of laughter and jeering in behind the wheelhouse pulled him off-course.

  With over sixty aboard, if you included Bibron’s sailors, it was surprising only that things had been so quiet up until now. At last the natural reserve between folk all prone to keeping secrets and obeying orders had given way to an even more natural banter and jest and, by the sound of it, gambling too. Angren couldn’t help but approve. And better still, while Bibron had the beer barrels well guarded and strict rations enforced for the sake of good order, the sheer level of noise raised gave Angren a campaigner’s hope that all this foolery might well be fuelled by something a little stronger.

  He was right to think so, but not as he suspected.

  The women on board, each agents of the King, had mercilessly taken advantage of Captain Bibron’s more gentlemanly instincts by accepting the Captain’s quarters as their own, while the poor Captain had to sleep in the hammocks with his men. Only two of them had so far mixed with the others, a rough spoken giantess and a shortish, sharp tongued, black haired minx Angren had quite deliberately shied away from. Up till now Angren had presumed they were the only women present but today a third had emerged from the cabin. She was causing quite a stir among the men.

  It was an arm-wrestling competition. At a table liberated from the galley sat a burly tattooed sailor with forearms wider than pork shanks and opposite him sat the giantess, dressed in brown leather, hair close-cropped, eyes fixed on her opponent with an intensity that must have made him nervous.

  ‘C’mon, ‘Berta, he’s just a baby.’ Her supporters cheered; the sailors jeered.

  Garaid stood behind ‘Berta’s chair waving a clutch of white and green paper, Gotherian tally notes, exchangeable for real money at any of the King’s banks.

  ‘Any more?’ He yelled above the din. ‘Ten to one on the bosun, fives on the lady.’

  Angren cursed his lack of funds. This ‘Berta looked too good a prospect. A few more wagers were laid and then the referee stepped in to start the match. She moved into Angren’s line of sight, laughing at something said, and shaking that mane of gold in denial. It was the beauty he had seen on the quays back in Riverport and this time, as she counted-in the bout, he could see her face.

  The black-eye was shading to red, the scratches on her right cheek were fading. It must have been quite a fight, or a beating. Angren, leaping to conclusions in typical fashion, promptly decided some man had done this. The memory of Rixbur’s young and daily battered wife surfaced and left him with a strong feeling of anger that must have showed in his face. It must have showed because at that moment, as though she could feel his gaze upon her, she looked up, caught his eye and then instantly looked away.

  The revellers roared. ‘Berta had picked her moment, forced down hard and fast and smashed the bosun’s hand into the table. Amid the cheers and the scramble for winnings and the picking of the next pair of contestants, Angren’s golden haired girl slipped from his view. He considered moving closer. He could talk to her, perhaps – easy enough to pick some topic of conversation. But then it occurred to him he wasn’t exactly the only man trying to gain her attention. The injuries didn’t disguise the beauty of her face, the clingy dress she wore didn’t obscure the desirability of her body. She was surrounded by a score of men made silly by her presence. For most of them this arm-wrestling contest was simply an excuse to impress. Angren decided not to bother.

  Well, he thought, I may as well see to my nags, and leave this filly to her fanciers. It was a sort of bravado. Tearing himself away was a bit of a wrench.

  Seama had brought both Bellus and the Mule with him, and Lord Anparas had presented Angren with a fine warhorse named Bayling, a strong, clean-limbed chestnut. The weapon-master had promised to take turns with the wizard at the grooming.

  Angren was a fair horseman and, though he preferred to fight on his own two feet, a good horse beneath him did wonders for his confidence. For one thing a horse could be a lethal weapon and for another it could run away a lot quicker than a man could. In one way or another, horses had played an important part in keeping Angren alive for the past thirty years. In recognition he made it a firm rule that before he went to sleep and as soon as he woke he would give his horse all the attention it needed. What a pity for the many horses he’d owned that he so often failed to rouse himself before noon.

  The horses were hobbled in the open hold of the barque and, to judge by their testiness, they were not pleased about it. Here the stench of fish was offensive. Bellus bore this ordeal with fortitude typical of her breed, and made no complaint. The same couldn’t be said of the Mule. As soon as anyone came near he would break into the foulest braying that ever the son of a donkey could manage. It was as though he was swearing.

  ‘Pack it in!’ Angren said, ‘I already have a headache from sleeping on this smelly heap. It doesn’t need you to worsen it. You’re wasting your time anyway: there’s no alternative unless you can swim.’

  And as though the Mule understood the sense of this argument, after only a few more desultory grunts, he shut up.

  ‘Seama has you well trained, hasn’t he?’ the swordsman smirked, and then backed off as Mule tried to butt him. Luckily for Angren the tethers held.

  Bayling was hobbled al
ongside and Mule’s discontent seemed to be catching: the horse snickered and stamped as Angren stepped between the two. Stroking its flank, Angren was surprised to feel that Bayling was sweating and trembling.

  ‘Don’t like the water, young fella? Well neither do I, but don’t worry, we won’t be out here much longer.’

  The animal wasn’t comforted no matter how much he was groomed and fed and so Angren went to ask Seama if he could do anything. Seama checked on all the horses and, after saying soothing and powerful words to several of them, he took Angren to one side.

  ‘I know we’re aship,’ he said, ‘and horses never like the motion, but these poor beasts are terrified. Your Bayling’s not the only one. I don’t know what’s scaring them but horses are often more sensitive than men, so keep your eyes open. The trouble may be on the water or we may have brought it with us, but trouble there is, and it worries me.’

  Angren wandered forward to the bows. He was pleased to see the seals racing and skipping ahead of the boat, but apart from the seals, and occasionally a few birds, nothing could be seen on the hazy waters. Settling himself on folded canvasses he took out his sword and a stone and began the daily ritual of keeping his weapons in good order. He was put in such a good humour by the sun and the seals and the task in hand it was hard for him to believe in any of Seama’s dark warnings. Surely their enemy was miles away on the other side of Gothery? At least, Seama had yet to tell him any different. ‘Angren,’ he’d said, ‘how would you like to help me put down a gang of villains?’ And, after some negotiation about recompense, Angren decided that it would be safer to tag along with Seama than stay in Riverport. Seama had been vague about what Anparas and Temor were doing but, seeing as whatever the two Lords were up to was a long way from where he was headed, he decided to let it pass. He was not incurious, but Seama seemed reluctant to disclose anything more than the army’s destination and Angren wouldn’t presume to press him. Where on Ea’ was Greteth anyway?