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

by Wilf Jones

  How things had changed. Here she was, the hero of the hour, ready to embark upon a dangerous mission, and simply adored by her people. Her people!

  That was another reason for euphoria. She was at last the victor in her rivalry with Jaspar. Of course it was still the case that he was Lord of Sands and her Commander on this expedition, but what did all that matter if the soldiers of Sands looked to her and not to him for leadership? She’d never understood why she, the King’s Heir, should have to defer to Jaspar in the first place, after all he was hardly a proper Lord. Not even Xandra would have considered crossing Ammel, his father, but Jaspar was only a little older than she was, and surely no wiser. As children they had shared classrooms where she had always been his better in all the finer skills. What had he been any good at? Playing games! It was ludicrous that he should be considered her superior.

  She joined the expedition determined to have her way and expected no opposition: he had always deferred in the past. It came as both a surprise and an annoyance that Jaspar proved to have a mind of his own and was not prepared to bow to her dictate. In fact he seemed to delight in contradicting her. She found his attitude insulting.

  Now none of that mattered. It was Xandra the men trusted not Jaspar. What had he done for them? Locked them in this jail of a castle. It was the Heir who had saved them from the spooks; it was the Heir who agitated for a sortie. At last he had bowed to better judgement and agreed to play it her way.

  She was elated; that was a better word, she decided. She showed it in her bearing: the way she leapt into the saddle, armour gleaming, blade unsheathed; the lance scorned as a coward’s tool. She showed majestic courtesy in the way she allowed Biethal the command, but rode at his side lest he forget she was present. She saluted Lord Jaspar as they paced the horses toward the opening gateway, but yet managed somehow to convey the idea that she was taking the salute from him.

  They passed through the guardian wall and the trumpets blared, Xandra moved by the defiant flourish that spoke of brave deeds to follow. Noble and proud her bold soldiers. Ten yards, fifteen, and the trumpets still rang in her ears; twenty yards, thirty, and her mind was galloping to vanquish the retreating mists though her horse, in fact, could manage only a trembling walk.

  In the space of a heartbeat the drumming broke out all around them, the fog fell thick, smothering sight and hope, and horses, men and women were screaming their sudden fear.

  Xandra whirled about in the saddle. The castle had disappeared as if someone had taken it away. All she could see were snatches of horse and human tearing blindly through the packed air. Frightened as much by the sudden movement as by the fog, her own horse took off, ignoring any attempt to turn him. Her clothes were sodden with the foul vapour that rushed by. What in the name of Pidra was happening? She would not believe it was just the fog and the drums that started the panic. An attack on the rear of the column perhaps? Whatever it was, she understood immediately that her glorious mission, her first battle had failed before it had begun. Horses buffeted against her, bruising her legs, as she tugged at the reins to no avail. The pain of it seemed to make her poor beast worse than before and he plunged on in torment. The end came when horse and rider smashed into the midst of a confused snarl up. Limbs and leather tangled as horses collided and many riders were thrown.

  Xandra landed face flat in the marshy ground and curled into a ball for fear of being trampled. Hooves pounded the earth only inches away and she sprang to her feet to clutch desperately at rein or halter, but the horse ran too fast and her fingers caught only air.

  She was alone in a world of grey. The turmoil of cries and movement died in the unseen distance, the drumming diminished and ceased and a silence covered her like a shroud. The fog, drawing in ever closer, became a cell, became a tomb. She found herself crying. Was it fear? She was oddly more frightened of being afraid than of the present danger. Her prison of grey was welcome in those few minutes of tears. She was a proud woman, and strong, and needed others to know it. No unseen ears would hear her sob, she could not permit such weakness: hidden tears were bad enough.

  ‘Help. Help, please. Can anybody hear me?’ A voice from the left. ‘Please, can anyone hear me?’ The voice a frightened whisper, the owner not bold enough to shout. ‘Help me please, my leg is broken.’ Xandra heard him try to move, winced as he cried in pain.

  ‘Hold still man,’ she said, her voice devil may care, full of its customary bossiness. The tears were gone in a blinking. She was afraid no more. ‘Keep talking until I find you. What’s your name?’

  ‘Kershall, My Lady.’

  ‘Not so far gone you don’t recognize my voice, then. Well, keep talking man, you can’t be far aw— Oh!’

  ‘Aaaah!’

  ‘Sorry, didn’t see you, thought you were a rock. Can you believe how thick this fog has become. Going to be hard seeing what to do. Let me have a feel down—’

  ‘Aaarh!’

  ‘Sorry again, but it can’t be helped man. Going to hurt a lot more before I get you back to the castle.’

  ‘Perhaps you ought to leave me, My Lady; get yourself—’

  ‘Almost an insult, Kershall.’

  She had meant to say it lightly but it came out as a threat. Sometimes she disgusted herself.

  Xandra splinted Kershall’s leg with his scabbard; a plucky soul he tried to talk his way through the ordeal. They discussed what had happened and were not surprised to learn they were both equally confused by the turn of events. Half way through her task Xandra was tempted away by the sound of horses nearby. Her first thought was to catch one but she knew she’d stand a great chance of getting lost in the chase. Kershall deserved better. Her second thought decided her: what if the horses belonged to the enemy? It was much safer to stay hid. She continued with her work, cautioning Kershall to be as quiet as possible.

  As she finished off she began to wonder just where the enemy had disappeared to? Wasn’t it strange that she had seen nothing of them at all?

  Which way should she walk? There was no way of knowing where the castle might be. Out of habit she put her hands on her hips and looked about. It was useless. She could barely make out the shape of Kershall as he lay before her. How on earth was she to—

  ‘By all the stars in heaven,’ she boomed, ‘that is a beautiful sound!’

  Trumpeters on the castle walls were blowing a retreat.

  ‘Listen to that Kershall,’ she cried in glee, ‘Jaspar has them blowing for us. We must get home now. Put your arm around my shoulder, man, and keep your weight off that leg. Ready? Let’s try it.’

  Very, very slowly, in a weird parody of a three-legged race where the winner is last in, the King’s heir and her charge hobbled off in the direction of the trumpets.

  They heard voices.

  ‘Biethal! Xandra! Japheth! Sorren!’

  Men on the parapets were shouting the roll call of the lost troop. Xandra tried to move on faster. How many would find their way back?

  Then, even as hope danced in her heart, trumpets blared behind them.

  Jaspar’s stomach pitched as the fog wall fell. ‘By Gods! It’s alive’ he cried. Every man on the battlements could hear the drumming and the screaming and the running of horses. Uovin! Ten seconds and they’re gone. The Lord of Sands concentrated on the sounds, trying to sort out the meaning of all he could hear. He expected the sound of metal on metal, sword on shield but it never came.

  They all waited, breathless, a good ten minutes before anyone moved. The drumming had abated; various sounds of horses splashing about, the cries of frightened men and screams were their only news of the sortie until one man, clutching a broken arm to his side, stumbled through the fog wall, twenty feet from the gates. He appeared not to notice the castle but continued to stagger onwards, across the face of the building. Jaspar ordered his rescue and two men dashed from the g
ates to get him.

  The Lord of Sands ran down to meet them, but as he cleared the first flight of stairs he charged into one of his trumpeters, knocking the woman’s instrument to the floor. The clatter drew his eye and in a sudden rage he snatched it up and thrust it into the soldier’s hands.

  ‘Blow it woman. Blow the thing ‘till you burst! A retreat! We must give them a chance.’

  An instinct for survival told Xandra to stand absolutely still as the sound of trumpets now broke out all around her. They all blew, note perfect, the Partain retreat. The purpose was clear: there was to be no escape. This lost troop of Sands was doomed to wander in the dark until… until what? She was sure there would be no battle. They would be picked off, one at a time. The enemy would gain victory at no risk. Damn their wizards! It was the fog that defeated them. ‘Don’t turn!’ she barked at Kershall. The trumpets rang and rang but she knew which direction was right: it must be the first. They couldn’t have known a Partain retreat! Determinedly she pulled Kershall onwards, a groan at every step.

  After five minutes of madness the trumpets fell silent. Jaspar must have recognised the problem, but he wouldn’t abandon them, and the roll call continued. The King’s heir discovered by this that she was heading too far to the left. She changed course just in time. Within less than a minute the enemy’s mimics were calling too. It was maddening. She did her best to ignore everything, to close her mind to the torment.

  Ignoring, she couldn’t understand Kershall’s sudden reluctance to continue. He was tugging her back, wanting to go back the way they had come.

  ‘Biethal!’ he yelled at her, ‘It’s Biethal!’

  Sure enough, she could hear the lieutenant’s voice: ‘To me! To me, men of Pars. To me!’ But it sounded as though he was calling from the bottom of a well, and the voice grew less clear with every cry.

  Biethal was a strong man of sound judgement, admirable in every way, but still she wouldn’t follow. He was wrong, confused by the enemy.

  ‘Biethal, Biethal,’ she cried, ‘Not that way: this way. This way!’ Her powerful voice rang clear but it seemed the lieutenant couldn’t hear. The distance between them increased. ‘Biethal, Biethal, come back!’ she called, but the lieutenant was lost to them. She was never sure afterwards but at the time it seemed the last she heard of him was a long and shuddering scream.

  She was firm with Kershall, who was whimpering with pain and fear, and they continued on their course. Sure of herself when nothing else was certain she would not be side-tracked. Ahead a red glow bloomed amid the deathly grey. Diffused as it was, Xandra could see that it was the light of a great fire and, to judge by its height, one built on the castle walls. And near. Jaspar had done it: a beacon that could not be imitated. He had thrown out a lifeline to draw them in.

  Twenty yards out and she was praying to the gods she scarcely believed in. Ten yards out, with people rushing to her aid, she was so thankful and relieved she was in danger of crying again. Finally, safe within the guardian walls, she was so proud of her efforts in returning to the castle, lost to many, that her fear disappeared from memory. Despite the absolute collapse of her designs she was positively triumphant as her people, as her house cheered their hero’s return. What glory!

  BANGERS AND MASH

  Small Cuttings 3057.7.30

  The clattering of billycans and clamour of male voices sounded like a battle and made the yard a seething place. The cooks had set up an open-air kitchen where the high fence sheltered the fires from the wind and the fracas of lunchtime had just begun. There was a constant stream of soldiers flooding into the yard at one end, eddying around the serveries and rushing out at the other. The day was hot and many of the soldiers went bare-chested to keep cool or, in some cases, to show off their muscles, tattoos and battle-scars. The language of these seasoned warriors was indelicate and the air was ripe with crudity. The armies of Anparas and Temor were all-male.

  For the women and children of Small Cuttings the yard was out of bounds, but several of the young farmers had gathered to talk to the soldiers or listen to their tales of heroism and adventure. They longed to be soldiers themselves, strong and brave and honoured, not plodding ploughboys. Cookson watched with some distaste the bragging and posturing. Those young farmers, his young men, had asked for Owen’s permission to join the army. They didn’t exactly need his permission, of course, but throughout their lives they had accepted his authority and would even now respect his decision on the matter. They wanted him to say yes but he said nothing at all. Owen could understand the attractions of camaraderie, of glamorous tales, but he knew well that soldiers played down the bad times: the betrayals, the defeats, injury and death. He couldn’t decide what to do for the best, but he was determined his lads would have the full story before this fancy went any further. He had called at the yard to ask for Lord Anparas’ help, whenever the generals came out for their meal.

  The two Lords, Anparas and Temor, all of their captains and Tregar were in council in one of Cookson’s rooms on the other side of the house, away from the noise. They had invited Owen to join them but he’d refused. ‘Strategy is for generals not farmers,’ he told them and explained that there were besides a number of problems he had to see to. He made it plain that these problems were entirely to do with the arrival of the dreaded three thousand. But it was all a sham. The real reason he didn’t want to attend their meeting was because he was frightened. Frightened of becoming any more involved. He couldn’t become a part of this war, he had to keep it at a distance. And that was not because he was cowardly. Normally he was a brave man but just now, and he didn’t understand why or how, just now he had the most awful feeling that this war, this campaign in particular, held in it complete disaster for him and for his family. The feeling wasn’t specific but however vague in terms of events it left him with a persistent, over-ruling fear of some intolerable personal tragedy. The intensity of the feeling shocked him.

  As he stood there, on his own ground, contemplating this strange emotion, the Lords and the wizard and Cookson’s own sons came into the yard to claim their share of the food. Cookson was surprised to see his sons in such company. Seeing the Master of Small Cuttings standing alone the small group put their hunger aside for the moment and came to greet him.

  Lomal, the Lord Anparas, was first to speak. He was a man of fifty years or more, spare of frame and quick on his feet; he had greying hair that once was black and wore a quiet smile forever on his lips. Owen liked the man: he seemed kind though serious, fair minded and intelligent.

  ‘Mr. Cookson, Good Afternoon. Will you have lunch with us?’

  ‘I don’t often eat at this time of day but I’ll take a bite, My Lord, to keep you company. Your meeting was worthwhile, I hope?’

  ‘Long and weary!’ This from Lord Temor, breaking in on the conversation. His name was Shaf but Cookson had noted that few people used it, unsure perhaps of the man’s quick temper. He was younger than Anparas, maybe forty and at his peak. Though short of stature he was stocky and clearly a man of great strength and poise. He wasn’t the sort of man Owen could take to: too brash for the farmer’s taste, too fond of his own opinion.

  ‘It was dawn when you sat down,’ Cookson reminded him, ‘So you’ve had at least six hours hard labour. Long enough to make your plan?’

  ‘It was and I’d wager it’ll be to your liking. I think Tregar would be the best to tell it, but after we eat I hope: my breakfast seems a long time gone.’

  For politeness’ sake Owen nodded assent but he was annoyed. Why couldn’t they tell him now and have done instead of wasting his time? He realized though that it was his own fault: he should have attended the meeting. With a shrug he walked with them to the canteen.

  ‘And have my sons been helping your work, Mr Wizard?’ he asked as the burly man fell into step beside him.

  ‘They have, Owen, and I can tell ye their help
has been invaluable. Really, they know their way around these parts so well. I’m sure they’ve saved us days on our journey. Especially your Gordon. He must have been quite a wanderer in his youth.’

  ‘He’s not exactly old now, but yes, before he married he was always after new places and faces; especially fond of the mountains. I remember we had a few arguments about that but I daresay it was the making of him.’ Owen Cookson was proud of all his sons but Gordon, his first, he had learned to admire as a man. He was solid and dependable without being stick at home and narrow minded.

  ‘Ah yes, the mountains, not very safe, but that was what helped the most., I may as well tell ye, we’ve decided we’d be best approaching from two sides. Anparas will take a route across the River Plain to meet supplies we’re having shipped to Coldharbour. He’ll make a base there and then carry on up to the Francon. Temor, the while, and I’ll be with him, will work a path through the mountains. Ye probably know about Greteth and the Francon?’

  ‘I know a bit of geography but I’ve never been there.’

  ‘Well, taking all your force up the Francon against the end wall wouldn’t be so good if an enemy holds the head. So half our force must come from the South, straight into the cwm behind the castle. I wasn’t too keen: didn’t think we could do the climb and fight after, but your Gordon’s given us a good route and he’s sure we can do it. I’ll show ye on the maps after lunch.’