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

by Wilf Jones

  The peat wall burned, would burn for more than a day because of Tregar’s magic. The flames stood in bright relief against a darkening sky. Over in the Francon no eyes picked out the red glow of it, no mind wondered what it might mean. Already Udsal had found his death day while Dom Honry struggled on over the ruined body of Marshall Callin; and forgotten, left behind by the storm of bloody war, the cold, cold corpse that was Lomal, the Lord Anparas was trampled into the mud by cold, cold, heedless warriors from another land and time.

  EPILOGUE

  AUDIENCE

  Castle Ayer 3057.8.8

  Anders Belori, Mador’s number three door-ward, was not in the best of moods. In fact he rarely was. In a way it came with the job: door-wards were meant to be solid, unflappable, adamant and judiciously grumpy. The King most certainly did not want people thinking the Presence an open invitation for them to come along and bother him. This was not Astoril where by all accounts King Sirl kept his door open to anyone. Such freedom of access would not be encouraged here. No appointment meant no entrance.

  A skirl of laughter from the duty guard made him frown but he didn’t say anything. The past few weeks had been, well, problematic, and it was actually something of a relief to see them relaxed enough to stand easy whenever they were not needed.

  Anders double-checked the doors. In the regular way of things he wouldn’t have needed to lock them at all, but for some reason today the message had come down that the King wanted extra security. And that was partly what had niggled him. It was almost as if the King didn’t trust them to do the job properly. In all his years as number three door-ward Anders had never once let anyone get past who shouldn’t. Abram, the Chamberlain, knew that full well, but still along he comes with his instructions, given directly to the guards without ever a nod in his direction, with no respect for the hierarchy of command, without even having the decency to speak to him first.

  Anders gave the door handles a rigorous tug but they didn’t move a quarter of an inch. Door locked and secure. And now he stepped over to the left-hand side of the doors and his high desk. With an air of ceremony he inked his pen and carefully began to fill in the names of Mador’s current visitors.

  Isolde Robarn, The Lyndons, Makerfield.

  Normally he would have made the visitors wait until the names had been properly entered before letting them through, but, well, it was not an easy task trying to gainsay young Miss Robarn when her dander was up. Something of a favourite that one.

  Gerald Robarn, The Lyndons, Makerfield.

  Of course they were out of order. First the Miss all in a bother, insisting she was due as arranged – and yes she had been, before the schedule was changed. The fact was, on the rosta Abram had given him, what with crossings out and the scribblings-in, it wasn’t at all clear. Well, not clear enough and if the chamberlain had to apologize about the mix-up to the king, well, Anders was not going to be too upset. Then the father turns up two minutes later, acting as though the world was about to end, and demands to be let in ‘or there’ll be trouble!’ Trouble indeed, what nonsense.

  Mark Jeffers, Secretary to Gerald Robarn, The Lyn—

  What was that? The guards heard it too. A crashing noise, screaming…

  Anders swore as he struggled with the key in the lock. The guards had their swords out.

  ‘C’mon boss, get it open!’

  The screams, male and female, continued as they pushed through the doors. There was the sound of metal clattering on the stone floor. As they ran towards the throne the conflict came into view. Anders tried hard to understand what he saw.

  On the floor two people lay sprawled in a tangle, blood blooming on the white marble beside them; above them two other figures fought hand to hand. There was metal in there, and… claws, but the figures twisted so quickly it was hard to see what belonged where. But…

  As one, Anders and the three guardsmen stopped in their tracks, completely at a loss, for what could they do? The man they were there to protect, King Mador of Pars, was fighting ferociously, tooth and nail, fighting to the death… with himself!

  Thank you for taking the time to read Best of Men. If you enjoyed it, please consider telling your friends or posting a short review here on the book’s Amazon page. Word of mouth is an author’s best friend and much appreciated.

  Wilf Jones