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

by Wilf Jones

  Tregar wouldn’t have it.

  ‘Oh come on now Seama. Is that not going a bit too far?’ At last his impatience was beginning to show. ‘How could a history book have anything to do with what’s going on now, today?’

  Seama could feel the argument slipping away from him. Tregar sounded almost offended. Not knowing what else to do he reached down into his saddlebags and produced the sheaf of papers that had so enthralled him. He held it out.

  ‘Here, take a look at this. Then you’ll see. It’s a copy of everything we could save from the fire.’

  Tregar looked doubtfully at the wad of paper in Seama’s hand.

  ‘Ye don’t think I’ve time to read that lot, surely?’

  Seama was disappointed by the reaction. He riffled through the pages and selected two. ‘At least read this part,’ he said, handing them over.

  Tregar sighed theatrically. ‘Neath’s Sake. You couldn’t have had it translated then? My Mid’ Parsee’s not all that good y’know…’ he glanced over at Seama looking for some give but got none. ‘Ah weel, I suppose I’ll manage.’

  Seama waited. After about five minutes of puffing and blowing from Tregar as he struggled with his grammar, the Court Wizard slapped the pages with the back of one hand.

  ‘This, Seama Beltomé, is a piece of fiction!’

  ‘That’s what Grek said.’

  ‘So why are ye wasting my time with it?’

  ‘I think it’s true. You haven’t read enough. Yes there’s a creation myth in there but the rest is all names and dates and places—’

  ‘Which I’ve never heard of.’

  ‘Of which most people have never heard, true. But, if you read the introduction – the piece I gave you was a part of it – and you learn that ‘the reign of Ah’remmon ended when the Greats of Earnor joined themselves with Glorious Ohr’maz and with He that is Time’ and that ‘Ah’remmon is cast out’ you have to realize it’s a style of story-telling. It’s a metaphor of the truth. Men do the deeds in this world, not Gods. I talked about this with Grek. She was convinced Ah’remmon simply means ‘The Enemy’ or ‘Evil Enemy.’ Whenever was there an enemy not considered evil? All it’s saying is there was a massive war and the Enemy was thrown out. Now, if you go to the relevant bit of the narrative, it’s there you get the real events with the names of the kings involved, the dates of their reigns, the names of their kingdoms, their allegiances, the battles, the victories, defeats and so on. It’s very complex. I don’t think anyone could have invented such detail. Haslem couldn’t have done it and he wouldn’t: for someone like Haslem fiction was far too petty to bother with. This is a real history, Tregar, a history of all the ages of Earnor.’

  Tregar looked unconvinced. ‘All the Ages? Well, silly me, but I thought there was only the one. None of the histories I’ve ever seen goes any further back than the Wandering. Even if there was something before then, how could we know anything about it. Are there texts you’ve read that us lesser mortals aren’t allowed to see? No, of course not, not histories anyway. So if it isn’t fiction, where did Haslem get to hear of it? Have you thought about that?’

  ‘Yes I have.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Holander’s thought that the information might be found in the antiquities had, by the look of things, come to nothing. There were hints and speculations but they’d found nothing that could really be called a source. Not so far, anyway. ‘Look, what I do know is that no one had more knowledge or power or skill with that power than Haslem. Somewhere in his writing, either here in The Song, or maybe in another work, Haslem will have left us a clue as to how he did it. ‘Till we find it we will just have to stick with what we have in hand and try to work out what he’s trying to tell us.’

  ‘So the bit you gave me: what’s that supposed to tell us? If I’m reading it right it’s all about banishing The Followers from the Land of the Just.’

  ‘The Followers are also called the Children of Ah’remmon. And sometimes it says Creatures of Ah’remmon.’

  ‘Creatures, eh? And these creatures are the same as followers?’

  ‘Possibly; probably. It might just mean they’re bad men.’

  ‘You don’t believe that, do you?’

  ‘No.’ Seama had visited King Sirl’s museum in Astoril. There were ancient bones there, large and monstrous remains that did not seem to have anything at all to do with man or any beast yet walking this world they knew. ‘I don’t know what it might mean.’

  ‘So, where are we now? These Followers are, banished from The Land of the Just – which I take to be Earnor –and they’re cast into The Wilderness, somewhere called Kyzylkum. That right?’

  ‘Your M’Pars isn’t so bad after all.’

  ‘Bad enough. What’s this bit about Kyzylkum being the land beyond The Heights then? Which heights? Or is this another of those metaphors?’

  Seama took another deep breath. ‘That’s the point, Tregar: I don’t think it is. I asked Grek what she thought about that bit and she said it depends on who originated the story. If it all came from Haslem’s head then it was impossible to say: Haslem should have said what he meant. But if Haslem was merely reporting the story, say from one of the Classics, it might be easier to understand. If you go back to the very earliest texts we know – that is anything Medean, up to four thousand years old – it can mean just one thing. In all the ancient stories each range of mountains is given the name we know now, all bar one. One range is known simply as ‘The Heights’, more important than all the rest. The Wandering People revered The Heights as the home of the gods.’

  ‘And The Heights were?

  ‘The Dedicae.’

  ‘Kyyzylkum lies beyond the Dedicae?’

  ‘Well possibly. More likely ‘through’ the Dedicae.’

  ‘Neath’s sake!’ Tregar wasn’t grinning. He had guessed at “The Theory” and just like Holander he rejected it out of hand. Seama felt a keen sense of failure. Tregar continued: ‘Let’s get this straight, what you’re saying is that north of the Dedicae there’s a land – this Kyzylkum place – and it’s full of people or creatures or some such, all descended from these ‘Children of Ah’remmon’, who by the way happens to be the personification of Evil. And you think they’re coming to get us, and that’s what’s waiting for me up beyond the Francon! Honestly Seama, it isn’t even a good children’s story.’

  ‘I’m serious, Tregar. Tell me, how long is it since a book last summoned you? When was the last time someone set fire to a book just so you couldn’t read it? This is a warning, Tregar, and I think we’d be foolish to ignore it. What more can I say?’

  ‘Not a lot. I think there’s a brigand army to fight and you think it’s monsters.’

  ‘Not monsters, well, maybe. The fact is I don’t know what to expect.’

  ‘Seama!’ Tregar had had enough, ‘Something is going on. That I can accept. But all this nonsense is stretching my patience. Look it doesn’t matter to me that your book was written a thousand years ago and you only have a bit of it anyway. If it spoke sense I would have not a problem with it. But a land beyond the Dedicae? We all know, full well, the Dedicae marches all the way to the sea. It’s on the maps! There’s nothing up there but cliffs and rocks and a very rough ocean. Your monsters would have to breathe underwaeter.’

  ‘But Tregar, we know only what we have learned. How can we really know what lies beyond the Dedicae unless we go there?’

  ‘Am I te believe nothing I’ve been taught?’ This time Tregar was plain angry, the underlying growl in his voice by now almost menacing. ‘No Seama, I’ll always trust Errensea. They made me a wiezart; I’ll not reject their teaching. Now never fear: I’ll think about whit ye said, but I suggest you do the same. Meanwhile we’re wasting time. Sirrah’s impatient to be running and I want to be getting this journey started,
so we’ll be off now. Right now. Goodbye, Seama.’

  And that was that. With a twitch of the reins and a click of his tongue he turned his hunter toward the right hand fork of the road and made him trot. Tregar had listened to too many words, words he had no intention of accepting; now he was off to look for some good straightforward action. Seama didn’t try to call him back.

  Mule, who had been remarkably silent and attentive throughout the discussion, for some reason decided to punctuate this scene by braying a sort of farewell. It came out perhaps closer to a barracking. Bellus snorted in protest and Seama covered his ears.

  ‘For Gods’ sakes, Mule! Can you not be quiet!’ he shouted.

  Mule could not, or would not.

  Tregar, hearing the racket break out behind him, came to a halt and looked back. Mule relented.

  ‘Fare-ye-well, Seama,’ the wizard yelled out in a gargantuan voice, ‘Be sure to send me my soldiers, quick as ye can. And good luck with that family of yourn. Farewell!’

  And this time Tregar kicked Sirrah up into a gallop, and rounding a spur they were gone.

  ‘Well, thank you Mule. I’m glad he didn’t go away still angry with us.’

  Mule snickered and then fell silent.

  Seama sat motionless in his saddle for a good ten minutes after Tregar’s departure. His family waited patiently for him to have done. He was not idle. With all the power he could muster he was looking ahead, along Tregar’s lonely path, past wood and water, over the hills and through the deep valleys that marked this road into the far north of Pars. He had no distinction in the art but such was his power that, in most circumstances, his sight was good and could range two hundred miles or more. And yet today it failed him. The Carrig fells, Greteth, the Francon Valley and all the lands beyond were hidden from Seama’s view. A strange mist clouded his thoughts whenever he tried to cast further and deeper. He sighed. There was nothing he could do but hope: hope that Tregar could manage, and hope beyond hope that his own ludicrous theory was wrong.

  ‘Come on, Bellus,’ he said at last, ‘Come on, Mule. Let’s get him his soldiers: I think he’s going to need them.’

  KENTRETH’S GRAVE

  Norberry Part 3026.4.10

  Kentreth’s Grave was the name given by men to the pass of land between the Hurgals and the Dedicae. It was a place without explanation. Long ago, when the Wandering People had not yet explored all the lands of Asteranor, one of the Noble Tribes, whose chiefs were the ancestors of Sandar and called by history the Medes, had amongst them a chieftain named Kentreth’hal. He was a brave man, though History makes him seem foolish. His story was twisted by millennia before it came to be written down for future generations but, no doubt, remained true to the events even if the words actually spoken were lost. It was a tale of jealousy and rejection, an angry, love torn oath and a wilful, fateful journey into the darkness of a haunted vale. Kentreth’hal, the man, never returned to his love-lost or his family and emerged from the vale only as a broken spirit to bring one last warning to the living. The ghost came to the elders of the Medes saying:

  Heed well my words,

  O Chiefs of men!

  Let not thy children,

  Strong or frail,

  Seek out my grave.

  It is forbidden

  To mortal men.

  Death or damnation

  Be their course

  If my words are forgotten.

  This is no curse,

  Take heed of my warning:

  Only the Sayoshant

  Will pass unscathed

  To say a prayer at my grave.

  The elders who had never seen a ghost before were duly impressed and made sure the words were heard and understood by men of all tribes. They placed a stone at the western end of the valley inscribed with the verse.

  Naturally, the warning had been challenged by young men through the ages and it is true that some of them emerged from the valley alive but they were not unscathed. Even Seama would not claim to have been unchanged. Though he suffered both physical and mental injury Seama did recover. Unlike other survivors he kept his sanity, but he was affected more subtly.

  Sayoshant had been translated as ‘the Best of Men’ and Seama Beltomé, sure of his power, thought he had a right to that title, as had many before him. Why would he attempt the crossing? Not to test himself, that much he was sure of. The fact that a feat may be achieved is no real reason for trying to achieve it. Did he simply lust after The Greater Power spoken of in the Texts? There was something in that, but it didn’t explain all. Another force was driving him, a force more potent than lust. It was something to do with the power inherent. Something to do with that oddest feeling he had, every now and then, that everything he did was on one side of bargain: a bargain he had made somehow in his dreams, that remained tantalisingly over the edge of memory and yet it ruled all of his thoughts. There was an obligation involved. The power he enjoyed required him to walk that path and Seama was happy to comply.

  The stone was there, the marks on it clear though indecipherable to common men, yet still it had the power to turn them away. It made Seama pause and wonder at his peril. Ignoring peril he strode on into what seemed an ordinary pass. It was noon when he entered but within minutes of leaving the stone the sky above him seemed to grow dark. He stumbled on in a thickening gloom. Soon it was blacker than night, he could not see. Blind, he pushed onwards.

  And then the nightmare began. Visions assailed him of men and women in torment, demons devouring, Gods raping the world. The temptation of immeasurable power pulled him from the path. Knowledge of final, inescapable despair dragged him to his knees. Lust and hatred ground him into the dirt. He was drowning in unfamiliar emotions but all the while a redeeming promise hung in the air above him. All he need do was grasp it and he would immediately have the power to control and to indulge in these new feelings. And he would have grasped it but for another force that buoyed him up. Every thought of evil the world has ever known was challenged by everything good there has ever been. Visions of peace and beauty and art and music vied with the heady fury of battle and the eager delights of cruelty and destruction. A battle raged within him: unsullied love fought unquenchable desire; there seemed to be no ending.

  That was how he remembered it but no words he knew could really tell the horror and… and the grandeur of his experience. His soul was ripped apart. The two great opposing forces of existence examined him, tested him, right down to the last shred of whatever it was that was himself and none other. And finally, before he could remember no more, the Great Glory of being passed, admitted, accepted, approved by all that was Good and True; of being rejected, reviled and feared by all that was not. He truly was the Sayoshant.

  He awoke, or came to his senses, on the Partian side of the pass. He had little recollection of the place itself but the memory of the horror and glory stayed with him. The trauma left him ill for nearly a year but the knowledge of Errensea had warned there would be a price to pay and this year of illness seemed only due. And after that year the power at his command increased significantly. He often wondered what had happened to those men and women before him who had given their sanity as payment. He presumed their fault was in rejecting Good and they were being punished, or perhaps they had rightly rejected Evil but hadn’t the strength to survive the subsequent onslaught. It never occurred to him that they might not have chosen any particular side at all, that they couldn’t, and the dilemma had cost them their senses. And the reason it didn’t occur to him was because he had chosen and now he paid the real price. Irrevocably his allegiance was given to the one, his hatred to the other, and the world in his eyes was soon divided into two camps.

  ISOLDE

  Nether Makerfield 3057.7.20

  ‘So what does it say then?’

  She had to smile. The look in his eyes wa
s all mischief. Gerald Robarn just loved secrets, and delighted in being ‘the man in the know.’ His retirement from Mador’s service had not changed him.

  ‘Father, you should know better. This is a public place.’

  ‘Yes, dearest daughter, I am well aware that this very fine drinking house, which I happen to own, is a very public place; that is after all what it is for. However I note there are only three other people present: one is my innkeeper and the other two are Stam and Rona, a young couple I’ve known all their lives, so totally caught up in gazing into each other’s eyes they would not notice if I stood on this table and danced for them. I am also aware that we are presently secluded in a nice corner far enough away for our speech to be inaudible to them all. Unless there is some invisible presence with a magical power of hearing far beyond the skill of cats and bats, then, daughter dear, we are safe to discuss whatsoever we will whether it be the disposition of forces or the extraordinary size of King Mador’s underwear.’

  ‘I don’t think he will ever forgive that clothier.’

  ‘It is one thing to make ludicrous clothes for your King and yet another to tell the world about it. But that is a long way from being beside the point. What about the letter? I know I’m just an old fool—’

  ‘Rubbish father! We both know you’re not an old fool but I really should not be talking about this. I know you’re curious but this is the King’s mail!’

  ‘Yes, I am curious, Isolde, but more than that I am concerned. You have such confidence, you think you can take on anything and mostly you can, but Asteranor is a dangerous place just now. When all comes to all, my little Izzy, you are my darling daughter and without you I’d be lost. I want to make sure you will be safe.’

  Isolde sat back with a sigh. She knew that this was as much simple manipulation as plain truth but ever since her mother died, nearly eight years past, her father had somehow lost the strength he was known for. She was indeed his mainstay and it was a role she accepted happily enough providing, of course, her father understood that it would work according to her rules and not his. She gave him her time, half of the time. Whenever she wasn’t on some mission or other for Mador she returned to the Lyndons and enjoyed her life there. But it was becoming more difficult, her work more demanding, her personal needs not addressed. Between Mador and her father, between work and home there was precious little time for anything that was just for Isolde. Her parents had shared a wonderful relationship for forty-two years. They had first met at a party for her mother’s seventeenth birthday and neither had looked at another since. There was an aching sadness in her father’s eyes these days but at least they had found each other and shared a good life together. Where would Isolde find such a relationship? When would she ever get the chance to look? Not yet a while. She reached across the table and took her father’s hand.