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

by Wilf Jones

  ‘Thank you. But for now – and please don’t take me wrong: your plan of action does interest me – but what I’m really bothered about at the moment is the when not the where. How many more days will all this continue?’ He indicated the roiling crowd. ‘I need to work out how much food I’ll be left with.’

  ‘It’s an imposition, I know, but the reasons could not be more urgent. Anyway, messengers will go ahead to Coldharbour today; tomorrow the first of the Anparas foot will leave, the cavalry a day later; Temor the other way about. Give us three days and ye’ll have your fields back again.’

  ‘And in a right state they’ll be, but at least that’s one problem sorted.’

  ‘Ye have others?’

  ‘Always,’ Owen grimaced, ‘but one in particular comes to mind. D’you see those younger lads who’ve just come into the square, all sorts of odd weapons between them?’

  ‘Aye.’ Tregar had asked Lomal about them already. They were greenhorns, joined the army on the road from Riverport. As the army travelled Anparas had ordered a recruitment and many youths were keen to prove themselves.

  ‘Well the recruitment didn’t stop when it reached Small Cuttings and I’ve now twenty-four of my best wanting to be part of it. I’ve our future to look after, Tregar. Small Cuttings will be short of hands and short of husbands too without them. They’ve asked for my agreement but how can I say yes? I cannot decide.’

  ‘I don’t know what you should say, Owen, but there really isn’t much time left for debate. Why not talk to Lomal? I’m sure he’ll be happy to advise ye. Forgive me, but my thoughts are too full of strategy and magic at present to give the matter proper attention.’

  Magic? Tregar’s comment took Owen by surprise. Of course he knew what wizards were about but, as far as he knew, Owen had never experienced any form of magic, and he couldn’t really understand what it meant. That a wizard should be standing beside him with a head full of spells and whatever, ready to use at a whim, was, now that he thought about it, a bit of a worry. And the thought that magic had something to do with the war was worse.

  ‘Those sausages look good,’ he said, ‘Could you pass us some of that salt, Tregar?’

  The sudden change of subject was accepted without query. The wizard’s eyes were already full of gluttony. Soon they were both hurrying to catch up with the others, each carrying a plateful of sausage, onion and potato in one hand, and a steaming mug of tea in the other.

  They all sat on a garden wall to eat their meal. They talked of mundane things at first, of flowers and crops, of clothes and schools, but it couldn’t be sustained and before they had finished eating weapons were mentioned, and then war and soon they were well into the crisis at hand. It was impossible to pretend that all was normal when all around them sprawled the armies of two Royal Houses.

  ‘What I don’t understand is who it is we’re fighting,’ said Seth, voicing a common complaint. ‘Here we are, mekkin armies, marching north and still no one’ll say what there is to meet.’

  ‘That’s because we don’t know,’ said Lomal, ‘Our mission is to find out what is happening in the north of Pars: why are people leaving their homes; where is the House of Sands? We may have an army to fight, or we may not – we simply do not know.’

  ‘Even I have nae clue, Seth,’ said Tregar, ‘or rather, nothing more than an idea of Seama’s, but that was so vague it’s not worth repeating.’

  ‘Oh come on, Tregar! You can’t do that. What idea?’

  ‘Seth Cookson! How dare you?’ Owen was outraged. ‘A son of mine so insolent to his betters? I’ll not have it. What were you thinking of?’

  Seth reddened. They’d treated him as an equal but of course he was nothing of the sort.

  ‘I’m sorry. I am. It’s just, well, it’s all so frustrating.’

  ‘No Seth, I’m sorry,’ Tregar said kindly, ‘My fault. I should either speak or be silent.’ Turning to Owen the wizard said: ‘Maybe your boy is right to press. How could we expect you to commit your people on such scanty information?’

  ‘But we must!’ Temor wore a look of irritation. He’d finished his meat and drink and now stood on the path before them, hands on hips. ‘Look, there’s no worthwhile information to be had. That’s what we’re off to get. Better be told nothing than be misled by speculation. Just think of it: you go looking to scare a few bandits but find yourself attacked by dragons. Where’s the good in that?’

  ‘Dragons? Do you think it could—’

  ‘I think,’ said the wizard quickly, before Seth could say any more, ‘that we can stop that rumour from spreading right now. It’s most unlikely, so don’t go gabbling it.’

  Seth was silenced but Owen, unable to believe in the wizard’s reassurance, said pointedly: ‘Something up there’s frightening people. Or they’d have stayed put.’

  ‘Yes. But the only way we can find out is by going north ourselves. That is unless your men have caught up with the Hannayford people?’

  Owen had sent some of his own men to intercept the refugees at Lomal’s request.

  ‘If you’re after starting tomorrow they won’t have time to get back here before you go, even if they’ve found them. Anyway, th’Hannay folk have run before the storm. Do you really think they’ll know what’s behind the clouds? My lads’ll come back with news but I wouldn’t expect too much.’

  Tregar nodded an ‘Aye’, Lomal sipped his tea and Temor threw himself down amid the buttercups beneath the wall.

  ‘Do you reckon,’ he said, finding speculation easier from a prone position, ‘they’re Aegardean or Masachee?’

  Lomal laughed. ‘I thought you didn’t want to know.’

  ‘No. I said we shouldn’t allow others to worry about it. Besides, I was only asking which was favourite.’

  ‘How could it be either? The Aegardeans could never cross the Table and the Gorge, and the Masacheans we know about. You know yourself, Shaf, how difficult it is to hide troop movements over short distances, never mind five hundred miles. It’s not on. I know that Seama’s theory sounds implausible and vague but it does seem to fit the facts.’

  Owen had had enough.

  ‘I give up! This is maddening. What is this damned idea Lord Seama’s given you. I’ve lads in my charge who want to become soldiers, but I’m damned if I’ll let them, unless I know what the hell is going on.’

  ‘You tell ‘em, dad,’ said Seth. His father glared at him.

  ‘Vairy well,’ Tregar submitted with a heavy sigh. ‘Here it is: Seama has found some ancient texts in the Library on Errensea. They refer te a land called Kyzylkum, a land that lies north of the Dedicae and yet south of the Sea of Ice. It’s explained that the people of this land want nothing more or less than to rule Asteranor; all they need do is discover a pass through the mountains for the invasion to begin. Seama suggests they may now have found the pass. There ye are. Can ye understand my reticence?’

  ‘But I thought the mountains ran into the sea?’

  ‘I did make that point te Seama but he more or less asked whether I’d actually been there to find out. Which of course I haven’t, and more t’the point, neither has anyone else.’

  ‘Then why’s it taught?’

  ‘Beats me. Most of our knowledge is handed down: we cannot discover everything afresh for ourselves. Sailors sometimes stray into the Sea of Ice; few come back. Even when they do they still cannot give us news concerning the whole length of the range. I did think the Geography of Asteranor came from Haslem’s day, and maybe even from Haslem himself, but the odd thing is, that key text Seama found, The Song of Ages he called it, was in the scholar’s own hand.’

  ‘So it may be true?’

  ‘Yes, Owen, I suppose it may.’

  ‘And the people of this Kizzil place, what sort of people are they.’

  ‘That I can’t sa
y. There wasn’t much time for Seama to give me the full tale. I do recall one thing: the text called them ‘the Creatures of Ah’remmon’ and Ah’remmon is supposed to mean ‘Evil’. What that actually means is anybody’s guess.’

  ‘It’s all guesswork! Well isn’t it?’ Temor looked for support. ‘Haslem may well’ve been the greatest wizard we’ve ever known but it doesn’t say he knew everything. Did he ever meet this Ah’remmon? Supposed to be a God you tell us, but I’ve never heard of him. Did Haslem ever go to this wilderness place? I doubt it. It’s all speculation but even if it were true that’s not the real point anyway. How can any of it help us? We still have to march north, still have to face them whoever they are.’

  Owen didn’t like the sound of any of this. Ancient texts, the threat of war, a forgotten God? Was that the root of the premonition that stalked him? Reality: the reality of Winter, Spring, Summer and Autumn, of crops and weather, of birth and death, that reality was drifting away from him. Ever since the wizard had come everything had seemed so strange, so threatening; or had it all started earlier when… He shook his head. Anparas was speaking.

  ‘Yes, we still have to face them,’ he said, ‘but may be if this text was studied, we’d get a better idea of what to expect. It’s an ancient maxim: to defeat your enemy, you must know him first.’

  ‘You’ve fallen for all this weird talk, Lomal. There’s nothing mysterious in warfare. One group wants something the other group has and they try to take it. What’s the point of talking about how evil they might be? I say defence is bettered by counting heads with a sword and not by heeding ancient songs.’

  ‘I’d like to believe ye, Lord Temor,’ said Tregar, ‘My inclination would make a match, but over that I respect the Lord Seama – how could I not – and he was deadly serious.’

  Owen too felt he would like to side with Temor, but that horrible feeling of imminent disaster kept growing and growing within him and got in the way. This Song of Ages must mean something. This hidden land, these creatures of Evil must be more than a story. The threat sang out to him, sang through him. There was nothing anyone could do to stop it: they were coming. With violence and destruction and hatred in their hearts, they were coming. He just knew it.

  THE SWORD OF AGES

  Small Cuttings 3057.7.31

  Morning arrived and Owen’s premonition had grown into an almost palpable presence. It went everywhere with him. It was an angel of doom that whispered of defeat. It threatened indescribable torment and everlasting shame. He tried to shake it off but it clung to him like a leech.

  He had half decided to tell Tregar about it and was walking out to find him when he was approached by three of the young men who wanted to join the army. At Owen’s request Lomal himself and one of his officers had spoken to the lads about the reality of warfare but, despite the gruesome nature of the discourse, Owen was saddened to hear that not one of them had changed his mind. Owen had to agree with their request. He had expected some opposition from the parents but they seemed more proud than anxious. Why was he the only one against it? He told the three, who were acting for the rest, that they would go with his blessing.

  So it begins said his premonition.

  When he found Tregar the wizard was talking to Temor and Anparas. They were going over the plans one last time. Cookson’s plea for help went unspoken and all he could find to say was: ‘Good morning. Is everything worked out?’

  ‘Well, that depends,’ the wizard said, ‘on the weather. If we have storms or fog, or anything extreme, the mountain road will be difficult. But it’s a risk we must take.’

  ‘I’m still worried about supplies,” said Lomal. “Not at my end of it: if we’re lucky, the boats will have docked in Coldharbour by the time we reach the Francon road. Jemenser will have arranged carts and drivers and it’s a good track. Anparas will be well fed, but I’m not so sure about Temor. You’ll need more food than you have at present, Shaf, and your men’ll be sick of carrying what you do have long before you reach Greteth.’

  ‘You worry too much, Lomal. The thing about food is it’s a lightening load: it gets ate. The less we have to carry on the last few thousand feet the better. When we get there we’ll either walk into Greteth and find Jaspar snoozing or we’ll have a fight on our hands. If we fight I can’t see us being held for more than three days, so we’ll have enough whatever. And don’t forget we have carts for the first part and we can do some foraging on the way.’

  ‘Well, if you’ve time. Hannayford’s your best bet.”

  ‘If the rats haven’t beaten us to it. You said the grain hadn’t been harvested, Tregar?’

  ‘Left to rot, Shaf, but Gordon said there’s a dried food store near the exchange: fruit, biscuit and such. That should suit us.’

  Owen stood impatiently to one side as they talked. Fruit and biscuit! The hypocrisy sickened him. But that was what generals were all about: they’d look out for their men, keep them happy, keep them fed, right up to the moment they get a sword in their guts.

  ‘I am glad to see you before we go, Mr. Cookson. May I thank you on the King’s behalf, and for all of us: we couldn’t have been received more hospitably. I have spoken to your young men as you asked but I don’t appear to have dissuaded them.’

  ‘No you haven’t. I’ve just had a word and they’re as keen as ever. I won’t deny them. They’re good lads and dear to us, My Lord – I’ll trust you to give them a good chance. For my part, though I have no great store of weapons, I can find swords for most, and packs, and provender. They’ll not be wanting.’

  ‘Thank you, Owen, but really you must keep your weapons. We brought extra gear from the armoury. I imagine we have enough swords for your twenty.’

  ‘And will you give me a sword?’

  They all turned. Seth and Cal had joined them, unnoticed till now.

  ‘What do you mean, Seth?’ Owen asked, though he understood very well. ‘You don’t need a sword. You’ve a duty to the stead.’

  ‘But dad, I can’t stay here when Tom’s gone, and Gest. Even Geoff Cross has his dad’s blessing and he’s just sixteen. We can’t be the only family to send no one. From what I can mek out, everybody’ll have to do something.’

  ‘There’s plenty to do at home. War or no, people have to eat next year. Soldiers can’t fight without grain for their bread. Why risk your life fighting when you can do something worthwhile back here?’ It was cowardice that was talking. And panic. His son go to war? To this war? He couldn’t allow it. You’ll never see him again, said that voice in his ear, never again, never again; he’ll die horribly, never come home.

  ‘But the family’s honour, dad. What’s worthwhile and what’s right, it’s not the same thing. I’d be ashamed.’

  ‘Seth, it’s not that. Can’t you see? It’s…’ he couldn’t say it. How could he explain this stupid fear? Here was his son, talking like a man, telling him about honour and shame. The boy teaching the father what he should already know.

  Tregar’s face wore that frown he favoured. Seth and he had become friendly over these last few days and he seemed concerned about the lad. An ally, perhaps?

  ‘Seth, what about your Rowena? It’s hard to go to war without a farewell. Why don’t ye go find her first? The war won’t be away that quickly, I fancy.’

  ‘No Tregar. This is my chance and my choice. Dad’s got his men looking for Ro and her family. They’ll likely end up in Riverport and I reckon that’s as safe as anywhere.’

  ‘And they’ll be welcome!’ boomed Temor. He was becoming bored with the tension, ‘We’ve set them to preparing for a siege just in case. They’ll be wanting as many recruits as possible.’

  ‘You see, dad, everyone has to do their bit. I have to go. Can’t you understand why?’

  Of course he could understand why. None better. Owen was fighting a war even now: a war between cowardice
and honour, their weapons fear and shame. For the moment honour gained the upper hand.

  ‘Yes, son,’ he said, though the words could have strangled him, ‘Of course I understand. I wouldn’t have you go without my permission and I know you’ll go whatever I say. So yes, I give you leave. But remember, there’s no need to be a great hero, or to risk everything. Do what you must son, but come back to us.’

  It wasn’t his way, but he felt the need to hold his boy, to embrace him even though this was a public place. Seth wasn’t expecting the hug but he accepted it.

  In the background, forgotten for now, stood Owen’s middle son, Cal. He was watching the scene with a grim face. If he had wanted to spare his father he could have let it rest there. Instead he stepped forward.

  ‘I wasn’t thinking of going to war, myself,’ he began, ‘but I’ve made a vow that if Seth’s to go, I won’t let him go alone.’

  ‘Cal, there’s no need. You don’t—’

  ‘You might see no need, Seth, but I do. I have to go with you, and I will. Look, dad doesn’t need me here. Gordon’s done with his travels: he’ll stay. They’ll manage well enough between them. I’m coming, Seth, and that’s that. I’ll not let you go alone.’

  Owen couldn’t speak. He realized that just inside, hardly below the surface, he was already crying and he didn’t know what to do about it. There were no tears as yet, but they were there, ready to consume him. None of his family had ever seen him weep, and they wouldn’t see it now. The hug he gave Cal was a fleeting thing. ‘I’ve something for you both,’ he said, ‘Wait here.’ And then he turned and more or less ran back to the house, and barged through the nearest door.

  He hated to show his feelings. It was his job to be strong and reliable. Even when Marjorie lost their fifth child at birth, or when his father had died, Owen had been the steady earth in the storm of his family’s grief. So what was this? A wave of emotion was breaking over him, breaking through him. He tried to outrun it but he was weak and he was cowardly, and he loathed himself for it. In the darkened corridors of his father’s house the first pricking of tears was hidden, but still he wasn’t safe. Desperate for refuge he ran to the strong room: his own private room. He managed to lock the door behind him and light one of the lamps, but then, in the centre of the room, with weapons and gold, the treasures and heirlooms of the family, the safe reserve of the years all about him, Owen Cookson finally collapsed into a chair and wept as he had never allowed himself to weep before.