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

by Wilf Jones

  ‘I have news. You must say good or bad.’

  He was a rounded, hairy man. At court he would have been considered uncouth, loutish. His shabby fur parka, a companion of all seasons, was hardly more weathered than the man himself. The voice he produced in fits and starts, deep and rasping, seemed more suited to swearing than polite conversation though, as far as Lomal knew, swearing was something the tracker never did. Nomads were very religious. How a Plan Visent nomad had found his way across the Hypodedicus to become Chief Scout of the Anparas army Lomal couldn’t guess. Udsal was impenetrably silent about his early life whoever asked the questions and Lomal suspected that some dark secret bound his tongue, some shame.

  The captains were now gathered in a loose circle waiting for Udsal’s news. His first move was to attack one of them. After a short flurry of arms and legs Udsal stepped back into the centre of the circle with the captain’s sword in his hand.

  ‘Could’ve just asked, Uz,’ said the captain seemingly unconcerned by the incident.

  Udsal grinned. ‘I just wake you up, Mister Honry – you all lazy, sleepy.’ Some of the younger officers, men not familiar with Udsal’s antics, were affronted by the suggestion but nonetheless pulled themselves erect. The tracker prowled the circle challenging them all with his eyes. ‘Who next, eh? Who next? Mister Burstan?’

  ‘Enough, enough,’ cried the senior captain, with a laugh, ‘I’m too old for horseplay. Here,’ he said surrendering his sword, ‘What do you want them for anyway?’

  Udsal, clutching the swords under one arm, gestured with the other asking them to gather round an area of flat, smooth rock. Here he lay the swords in parallel. ‘Uh, valley sides.’ He pulled a coiled whip from somewhere inside his parka and arranged it in a circle at one end with the stiff end representing the dyke. He used Captain Honry’s gauntlet for the castle and found himself a large flat stone to show the position of the raised meadow.

  ‘Yes, yes. There is huh baby valley, huh castle and yes, high aaah pasture,’ Udsal used his hands widely to make up for his uncertain language: a language he had maintained in its uncertain state with some difficulty over the years. ‘Big trouble for you bossman. Listen,’ he said and raised a finger, meaning that they should wait for a moment. Rather theatrically he chose a fern frond from the brake nearby and wrestled it away with a great deal of gasping and grunting as though he was too old for such exertions. Returning wearily to the centre of the group he began to pull the frond apart, each segment the length of a thumb. When he had enough he turned to Lomal and said:

  ‘Each ten by ten.’

  Scooping up two handfulls he walked about his diagram pouring the pieces thickly or thinly according to what he and the other scouts had seen.

  On the flat stone, and before the belt dyke, thirty pieces of fern fell; another twenty were tight up against the cwm-side of the gauntlet castle. Between the sword arms a scattering, ten or more, fell by the side of the flat stone and then half-way to the open end of the sword valley was a block, five deep and five across, holding the centre ground.

  For a few moments the gathered captains stared incomprehendingly at the diagram. It was not too difficult for them to understand but the small pieces of fern seemed so insignificant and it was hard at first for their imaginations to make the necessary substitution. Lomal was quicker than most and even he was momentarily lost for words. In this age of the world the combined army of Anparas and Temor was considered a large force, sufficient for most eventualities short of total war. Was this total war? Callin Senca was the first to speak.

  ‘Each piece a hundred, Udsal?’

  ‘Yes, yes! I say ten, ten times.’

  ‘Lomal, we are three thousand facing more than eight.’

  ‘I’ve counted it Callin, though it’s not quite as bad as you paint it. Our army is three thousand, eight hundred and Jaspar has another twelve hundred. Even so, I share your concern. Let’s hope they’re poor fighters. Any more to tell Udsal?’

  ‘Yes, Uz, some good news this time or you get no supper,’ prompted Dom Honry.

  Udsal laughed fiercely. ‘No Mister Honry. No good news, no supper. Not today. Not ever again.’ He fixed the captain with a compelling gaze and it was with some strange delight that he added: ‘This is the day for the killing. The day for death!’

  A silence fell. Honry’s grin faltered. Prognostications of doom, however gleefully given, were not well received by even the most levelheaded soldiers. They were certainly not what Lomal wanted and he was angry. ‘I asked for information, tracker, not fancy. Speak your news and have done!’

  Udsal was contrite: ‘Yes, boss; sorry boss. But they fight no good.’

  ‘You rogue,’ Honry burst in, ‘I almost believed you. No good news, a day for death. Udsal you’re a fraud. So they can’t fight, eh?’

  ‘Wait, wait! They fight no good; they die no good. I stab, yes; I cut, yes; die?’ He shook his head.

  ‘Whatever’s that supposed to mean,’ asked Senca, ‘They fight when they’re wounded? We face a dedicated crew then…’

  ‘No, no. Not that. You’ll see.’

  Senca and his Lord exchanged puzzled glances. ‘The sooner we see the better,’ said Lomal. ‘Udsal, do they have horses? I see none from here.’

  ‘No horses.’

  ‘And the force in the valley, how is it deployed?’

  ‘Like I show you: they stand in rank, like parade. But in group, ten times ten. That’s why so easy to count. But yes, in valley aswell, three tens to scout, and listen,’ Udsal paused, looked around at all of them and wagged his finger in the silence, ‘They have seen,’ he chuckled evilly, ‘they come close.’

  ‘Three different platoons?’

  ‘Of ten. Now you see, eh?’

  Lomal didn’t need prompting.

  ‘Well, who’s going to fetch me ten enemy scouts,’ he asked, and immediately grey haired Captain Burstan spoke up:

  ‘My horse are closest, Lord Lomal.’

  ‘Thank you, Burstan. Take Udsal with you.’

  Udsal snorted at that: ‘No, no, no,’ he said,’ I will take him with me.’

  Over an hour later, Lomal and his commanders were still discussing the possible tactics of the engagement when Burstan returned.

  Lomal turned to chide him for taking his time but the words died on his lips. The Senior Captain of Horse looked as though he had aged another twenty years, and borne many a wound and many a grief in that time. The haggard, drawn face had lost all colour.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Udsal was quite correct, My Lord. Well almost. May I sit?’

  ‘Stubson, fetch the Captain some brandy. Take your time, Burstan, but we must have it.’

  Burstan tipped off his helmet and sat for a moment massaging his forehead with whitened fingertips. ‘My Lord, ‘ he began, ‘I will tell it in order, but… well, it’s hard.’ His eyes, as he spoke, had a disturbing, absent look about them. ‘We found the group,’ he said, ‘with Udsal’s help, of course. Two of their platoons had come together. I had forty horse, they were twenty on foot. Thought they’d yield easy enough. Damned if they didn’t just ignore us. They were pale men, Lomal. No, it was more than that. They were white: they had the look of the grave about them. Their eyes, I swear it, were dry like on a bad fish. They never spoke or screamed or anything. I told them to drop their weapons. The swords they had, all sorts, all fashioned as I’ve never seen, and pitted as though ages old. They didn’t lower their weapons; didn’t even try to run. Well, there was no command I heard but of a sudden they advanced on us, not quickly but as though they were walking through jelly.

  ‘I dismounted, and half my men. We wanted to drop a few of them and take the rest. I thought it’d be easy. Dear Gods! Easy enough to pass their strokes at first. Worse than farmboys. I stabbed my man high on his left breast, sto
od back to watch him fall. Lucky that Erol was at my side. I’d dropped my guard. The man hadn’t fallen at all. He wasn’t even bleeding. Erol swiped at his guts but that still didn’t stop him. All I could think was to hack at the sword arm. Thank the gods I managed to sever it. Ordered my men to fall back then, and we stood facing each other. I’d lost three, they’d lost none.

  ‘It was madness after that. Arrows were useless; spears didn’t stop them. They just pulled them out – like it was an inconvenience. Somehow they got quicker at their job, as if they’d remembered how to do it. Came in among the horses, cut ‘em up as we tried to beat them off. The horses were in a panic, six got killed; I lost another three men.’ The Captain punched his gauntleted fist into the earth where he sat. ‘We bled alright! We died! What could we do? Hacked at them but it was no use. Some were still walking, still fighting with great rents in their sides, injuries that’d have stopped any one of us. It was horrible. My men couldn’t live with it so I ordered another withdrawal.’ He looked at the faces of his peers daring them to judge him. They stood in silence, all wanting to disbelieve what they heard. ‘Don’t you worry,’ he said, ‘you’ll understand soon enough. We didn’t retreat fully – still had a job to do, orders to obey. I sent back for reinforcement. Decided the only way was to face them on foot with sword and knife, and so we set-to again. That was a terrible hour. My men are as brave as you can find, you know that Lomal. Some of ‘em were gibbering by the end of it.’

  Lomal blew out a long breath. ‘Yes, Burstan. They’re some of the best.’ What sort of challenge is this? he was thinking. Who are these people, these devils? Tregar had told them about Seama’s land of evil. By their very bodies these were evil. ‘But you returned Burstan, you’re unmarked. Give us the end of it. They cannot be indestructible, can they?’

  ‘It’s a moot point my lord.’ The Captain looked again at the faces surrounding him, everyone intent and frowning at what he had to say, all shocked by the tale he told. Dom Honry. Callin. Young Solan Cole. They were worried faces, every one, but at least there was the spark of life in their eyes, the flush of good honest blood in their cheeks.

  ‘By Tammaz, but it’s good to be among common folk.’ He sighed. ‘Is that brandy you have there?’ Stubson passed him the flask. ‘A bit of warmth is just what I need.’ He took a pull at it and then clutched the flask to his chest. It seemed to buoy him up. ‘The end was a long time coming. It took three of mine for every one of theirs, but eventually we managed to dismember the lot of ‘em. Arms, legs, heads. One of them, I’d chopped off its head but it just kept coming at me, waving its sword as though the head didn’t matter. Like a bloody chicken! When the arms and legs were gone I quartered it myself – had to make sure, you see. And, you know, when I left, all the bits were still twitching.’

  The senior captain shook his head as if to deny the image in his mind. He took another pull at the flask.

  ‘And are they dead now?’ cried out one man for all of them.

  Burstan looked at them, a half-smile on his face.

  ‘Were they ever not dead?’ he said.

  ‘What are we going to do, Lomal?’ Callin’s voice had an edge to it. ‘With Udsal’s numbers on top of Burstan’s story we don’t stand a chance, not a hope. With Temor and Jaspar it’s still two to one and we need two for every one of theirs. So what are we going to do?’

  Lomal’s look was cool and steady. ‘We cannot leave them unfought, Callin. Our course is set. Jaspar is holed up but without us he’ll be destroyed. Temor has less than we have. What could he do without us? And, anyway, how would we fare with our backs to them?’

  ‘But it’s suicide, Lomal!’

  ‘No Callin. We may find a way to defeat them. Tregar will soon be at hand. This is work for wizards if ever there was. He may find an answer, but even if we’re heading for a defeat, this will be no suicide. I hope you’re all listening. This will be no suicide! A sacrifice maybe. You all know me. I will not waste lives. But everyone here must remember that nothing stands between this horror and the green fields of Pars: the mothers and children, our brothers and sisters. We cannot let it pass unfought. We have to give Pars time to muster.’

  ‘But who are they, Lord? What are they?’ Solan, the youngest man present was clearly moved by Lomal’s words of the threat to his homeland – his family lived in Coldharbour – and he knew where his duty lay, but still he was confused. ‘Why have they come to attack us?’

  ‘Why indeed? What they are I can say no more than we have heard from Captain Burstan. The great wizard Seama Beltomé gave Tregar some warning of this, though even he could never have expected such a terrible crew.’ Lomal gave them a brief account of Seama’s guess about the evil that lay beyond the mountains, past the mighty Dedicae where the Sea of Ice attacked the land. Before Burstan’s tale the men would have scoffed at such foolish ideas but now every word seemed reasonable. Lomal told them the names Seama had given them: Ah’remmon and Kyzyl Kum and Ohr’mazd. The last they all knew as the great god still worshipped by many as Lord of the Just, but Ah’remmon was little more than a footnote even in Lomal’s mind: a god of evil, the king of an evil country. The captains hung on his words. Lomal was embarrassed that he could tell them nothing more.

  Callin Senca was an imaginative man, more information was not necessary. ‘Do you mean we are to fight a god?’ He was prepared to believe it.

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. I’m sure Seama used the name only as a symbol which, awful though that may be, cannot be quite so invincible. We fight for Ohr’mazd in this war, but I doubt our enemy expects to fight the Lord of the Just himself. Now Solan, does that half answer your question?’

  ‘If we’d not heard Burstan’s tale… I hardly know what to think.’

  ‘I hardly think it matters’, said Honry, ‘I mean, who cares where they’re from, what they are? They’re here to raise war and we’ve a duty to oppose them. Whether we’re capable or not. But it’ll be hard killing dead people, don’t you think? Perhaps we should ask Ohr’mazd if he can arrange for us to rise from the dead aswell.’

  ‘A little too blasphemous, don’t you think, Honry?’ said Callin, ‘Especially for a man about to meet his maker.’

  ‘Enough!’ said Lomal. The thought of death filled his own mind, but he refused to admit it. Maudlin thoughts were not going to help any of them. ‘The battle will be hard enough without us trembling at the words of a misplaced nomad, no matter how good a tracker he might be. I suggest we proceed as previously discussed. In fact, I command it. The task will be more difficult given Burstan’s report, but the form of our battle must remain the same. What we must do is make sure every man hears the tale before we begin. I don’t want them too shocked to respond. Shall we get on with it?’

  POINTS OF VIEW

  Francon valley 3057.8.8

  The tactics of engagement seem so obvious when they are planned, arrows on paper, pieces on a table, but in the inferno of battle the paper is burned, the pieces are scattered. A footsoldier has too hard a time saving his skin to be bothered whether he is in the right place or not. And yet, as Lomal looked down upon the opening moves he had ordered, somehow the men and the pieces followed the same pattern. We begin well, he thought.

  A squirm of guilt caught him by surprise. The general was not at the head of the army as he had promised himself. So much for resolutions. Of course it was his duty to stay out of it, his lot to watch and to control. Romantic gestures, he reminded himself, were Shaf’s province, good sense his own. The guilt abated but didn’t disappear.

  His soldiers were now comfortably small in his sight. He looked down from a vantage point high-up on the southern wall of the Francon upon what seemed no more than toys of brass and clay. His view was bloodless, distanced from the flesh and the bones and the guts of war. Up here the screams of agony were nothing in the anonymous, frantic din.

  Five hundred p
erfect mannikins hurled ferociously into the centre of the enemy line. The momentum carried them deep, toppling all before them. If there was hesitation, a sudden shock as the opponents met, Lomal did not see it and he certainly didn’t feel it. ‘Now!’ he whispered and, as though his word had carried half a mile, a second assault crashed down upon the field from the northern wall: a sudden flood, a dam-burst that nothing could stand against. What a power they were. An army working as one. A raised hand released the cavalry. His signal would bring ruin.

  A large part of the enemy on the southern flank had turned to assist their comrades in the centre and north. Lomal’s cavalry, charging in a scything loop from the south, made them turn again. A simple manoeuvre, but sure. Lomal admired the graceful arc: in, cut and away; admired the straightforward hammer and anvil of the combined foot brigades. He was watching for the reply. He expected the deployment of the still ranked rear lines of the enemy this way or that. His tactics depended upon that reply, but in watching the enemy Lomal missed the moment when his own army faltered.

  The cavalry were already looping back for their second pass and his third wave of foot was running in behind them before Lomal saw his hammer broken. The advance had been illusion. The trampled and scythed had not been harvested by the final reaper, the enemy sprang up like prairie grass after the storm and they attacked again. In the fury of the initial movement Lomal’s soldiers had forgotten Burstan’s tale, ignored their instruction. A slash, a stab, enough for mortal men, was not enough. Only now did they understand.

  ‘Callin,’ Lomal screamed, ‘Sound a retreat. Now! They must all withdraw.’ And under his breath he prayed: ‘Gods, let them have the legs.’

  That was how Anparas opened the Battle of the Francon.