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

by Wilf Jones

  Holander grinned. ‘You are human then?’

  Seama smiled ruefully. ‘Yes, Holander: as human as the rest of you, and just as easily distracted. If I’d gotten round to reading the book the last time it called—’

  ‘But I thought it was the Mayoris summoned you.’

  ‘So did I then, but now I’m not so sure. You remember how we found The Song?’

  ‘Not sure I do, Seama.’

  ‘It was sticking out too far, the dust had been knocked off it. That’s what I thought. It just seemed out of place. But what if I was meant to find it? It was definitely The Song calling me today.’

  ‘Well it won’t be calling you again,’ said Grek, ‘Best part of it’s completely destroyed. I’ll get started on rescuing what I can, no doubt of that, but you won’t get much. What ah… what was it about?’

  What was it about? Seama hadn’t found time to read it. The distraction had been a serious challenge to the power of Errensea. The Song of Ages had been re-shelved and then forgotten once more. It didn’t seem so important at the time.

  Asteranor

  VISIONARY

  Escartine Library, College of Errensea 3057.6.29

  ‘Senile tommy-rot!’

  That was Holander’s considered opinion. Statement made, he continued on his way with Seama skipping to keep up.

  ‘Tommy-rot?’

  ‘That’s what I said. Nothing more than that.’

  ‘This is Haslem we’re talking about, you know.’

  ‘Yes, yes, you’re right, I’m sorry: senile tommy-rot and no style.’

  Seama couldn’t quite work out whether Holander was being serious or not. Of course, anyone might read The Song of Ages and count it as tommy-rot very easily. Over the course of the last few weeks, in-between sessions with the healers, Seama had set himself the task of reading and re-reading every page, half-page or scrap Grek managed to recover. After drying, most of the sheets had been too brittle to hold and so Grek had her scribes indexing and copying till their heads ached and their wrists were sore. Grek would eventually have done as much for any damaged text in her precious library, but Seama’s obsession inspired her. Luckily for the scribes, of what was once a mighty volume less than one hundred pages remained. Seama carried a copy with him now, clutched to his chest with his bandaged left arm.

  Struggling through a great deal of pain, the wizard had found his chosen task frustrating. With the conclusion and biggest part of the argument gone what he had left to work with seemed confused and nonsensical. The main body of the text left to them was in the form of a narrative history but clearly owed more to myth and legend than recorded fact. Taken at face value the words he read told the story of a Constant War, the curse of mankind, as it was in the beginning and how it progressed through time. The most recent events described were remote and strange and unknown. There were peoples, races and civilisations with names Seama had never heard. He was not completely sure the events described had occurred on this world he knew. He was not completely sure this was anything more than a tale written to amuse the author and confuse the reader. And it failed to delight. The structure was ungainly, the prose unremittingly dull. If the Book had not called to him so insistently, Haslem the Great or no, Seama would have left it to the ministrations of Grek and her students.

  The only part that had any impact was the introduction. For all its confusion something in the words held him. Little of the discussion was specific. It spoke of old gods, of good and evil, of the never-ending strife between the two; it talked about The Ages of the Earth as though there were more than just the one; it pointed out key events of each of these Ages but in such a haphazard fashion it was difficult to be sure what came before and what came after. And yet there was something in it. There were names given that made him feel uneasy; there was a truth implied he could not quite grasp.

  Holander couldn’t see it at all, he couldn’t feel it.

  ‘Not only bonkers,’ he continued gleefully, as he pushed past a knot of students congregating inconveniently at the rear exit to the Great Hall, ‘but dull as last year’s accounts. Honestly, Haslem could be writing about mayhem, murder and the end of the world and I’d still rather boil my head than read him. In fact, according to you, he is talking about the end of the world and how it already happened! I must have been busy or something and missed it.’ Holander shook his head in utter denial. ‘And you wonder I think it rubbish!’

  Seama found it difficult to argue with Holander on either point. The dullness was indisputable – mostly based in the confusion – and the complex jumble of themes and facts was maddening. But it couldn’t have been tommy-rot or anything like it. Haslem was the greatest scholar and wizard Asteranor had ever known: powerful, dedicated, astute and unfailingly serious. Well, according to his biographers anyway, but then they were a dour bunch themselves. And it was a thousand years ago at that. Fashion, style and literature had moved on. The biographers close to the events of his life, contemporaries or near-contemporaries, were themselves now lost in the past, with only their words about Haslem remaining to prove they had ever drawn breath. And they were men who knew their place, respectful and careful, mindful of their duty to conserve and glorify the Great Wizard’s achievements, to record his legacy for the generations to come – not very likely then to have concentrated on Haslem the man, on his drinking, his jokes, his womanizing. If, in fact, he ever indulged in any of those habits.

  ‘Can you see Haslem as a boozer, Hol?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You know, ‘just as human as the rest of us.’ Prone to bad jokes and heavy nights.’

  ‘What, you mean like you?’

  Seama laughed. ‘Bang on the nail! No, I could never be like that but I know plenty who can. Take my friend Angren—’

  ‘I’d rather not. Anyway, the answer is no. I suspect Haslem was a lot like you really are – and that’s not flattery by the way.’

  ‘Hm. That’s probably what I think too. So the thing is, do you think I would write down anything you would call “senile tommy-rot”?’

  ‘Well, no; but you’re not senile yet.’

  ‘I don’t think Haslem ever became senile. I think this little book here might well be the worst piece he ever put together but that’s only because his subject is incredibly complicated. Trust me, Hol, he was deadly serious; I just wish I could understand what he was getting at. After you.’

  With his good arm Seama pushed open the swing door leading off the first landing of the main stair. They had come down to the Upper Stack, a mezzanine floor installed several hundred years back, between the Lower Stack and the Great Hall of the Escartine Library. That was one of things Seama liked about libraries: they couldn’t help but grow and grow and that meant learning went on and on and there was no ending to it. An invigorating thought. But this continued accretion, accumulation, aggregation of the academic bricks and mortar of the College was hard to control and difficult to house. Even now there were plans in hand to build out behind the library back towards The Quays, using up a portion of the land given over to the lists – another cause of dispute between Fox Garner and the Master.

  ‘I hate this floor.’

  ‘Is that why you always keep to your Crypt?’

  ‘Could be, Seama. But then again, I don’t like it groaning away over my head either. When I’m up here I always think I’m going to fall through the boards, and when I’m in the Crypt I’m worried the whole lot will come crashing down on me.’ Holander eyed the aisle ahead. The mezzanine quivered before them. It would be impossible to advance without ancient joists moaning a protest, creaking a complaint. ‘I’ll be glad when we can move the collection and rebuild the whole thing.’

  ‘Don’t hold your breath, Hol. I think Waldin’s got other things on his mind just at the minute.’

  Holander’s head sna
pped round. ‘What makes you say that?’

  Seama tried to hide his surprise at Holander’s reaction.

  ‘Oh, nothing specific. I found him this morning worrying that the whole College was falling apart. Muttered something about the drains, I think.’

  ‘Oh. Yes. There’s always something. You coming through or are you just going to stand there?’

  ‘Well, fine, yes.’ Seama stepped through the doorway, letting the heavy door swing shut behind him, but then stopped, realizing he didn’t know where to go next. ‘Holander, you won’t mind my asking but what are we doing here?’

  ‘Ah now, seeing as you’re so determined to have me think there’s something in this damn book, I thought it about time we found ourselves some proof. And I figured that if Haslem’s discovered some hidden history of the world we’ve somehow forgotten about, then probably someone else discovered it before him; perhaps even lots of people. He’ll need to have found the information somewhere. And so, Seama, my lad, we’re off to the antiquities and you’re going to be doing an awful lot of reading. How’s your Ancient Medean?’

  Seama pulled a face. His Ancient Medean was rusty to say the least.

  ‘Are you punishing me for something, Hol?’

  ‘Not at all, Seama – I’m trying to cure you.’

  ‘By locking me up with the Classics? Well if it doesn’t cure me at least it’ll bore me to death and that’ll be an end to it. Couldn’t we get a few students down here instead?’

  ‘Would you trust them to find what we need?’

  ‘And what do we need exactly?’

  ‘Corroboration.’

  ‘You make it sound like a crime’s been committed.’

  ‘Now then, Seama, we’ve already had words about Haslem’s style…’

  Oddly enough Seama found his task more rewarding than he expected. Once his brain accustomed itself not only to the grammar and lettering of the ancient Medeans but to the rhythm of their syntax and the style of their story-telling he actually began to enjoy himself. Better than that, Seama quickly discovered details in some of the older texts that he’d already seen referenced in The Song. Perhaps Haslem’s much derided style had emerged from over-long exposure to these same classics. Seama couldn’t help picturing Haslem sitting at his desk, one thousand years ago, in the library of Banya’s Palace in the new city of Astoril, struggling with his translations just as Seama struggled now. How many weeks and months had he given to his task; how many blind alleys had he been led along; how many incomplete passages had driven him into a rage? And yet at last Haslem must have found what he was looking for: something to give order to his thoughts and body to his theory – but what? There were elements from disparate texts Haslem seemed to think important, but in sum the picture they gave of a history unknown to modern times was fragmented and frankly unbelievable. It was nowhere near enough to satisfy Holander’s quest for proof. It wasn’t enough even for Seama. What were they expecting, one key text to give them all the corroboration they needed? There was little chance of that. But as the days passed, while the Chronicler became yet more sceptical, and indeed scornful, the wizard became convinced the fault lay not in the absence of proof but merely in their lack of comprehension. The quest consumed him – he ploughed on undeterred.

  When Grek ushered the poor man into his work room, the audible grumble of disapproval Seama produced was not really intended for Waldin’s secretary. The gripe was simply a measure of his sudden frustration. Seama was aware of the irony even before the secretary began to speak but it had nothing to amuse him. For months now Seama had been desperate for Waldin to find him something useful to do, something that could relieve the boredom, something that would get him off the island for a while. And here it was at last, Waldin calling him to an executive meeting ordered by The Council, no doubt with some mission in mind. But why did it have to be now?

  The frustration was still evident when he reached Waldin’s office.

  ‘You wanted me?’

  Waldin was far too experienced an administrator to let bad behaviour put him off whatever he wanted to say. He sat behind his, to Seama’s mind, overly large desk, in his large but only just large enough chair, and greeted Seama with a careful smile.

  ‘Welcome, Lord Seama. Good of you to come so promptly. Very helpful, indeed.’ Sometimes Seama found the Master’s clipped tones rather irritating. ‘How is your arm now? Septuagem has been telling me your recovery has been nothing less than astonishing – for which we are all, most certainly, grateful.’

  The healing had gone well. Exceptionally well, in fact. There was general amazement. Seama’s unprecedented ability to accelerate the growth of new tissue had all the professors in the school of medicine jumping in excitement. They were less than happy when he refused to let them investigate the process, and simply would not believe Seama was as confused by the phenomenon as they were. He could only suggest that the power within him had recognised a need to be ready for action. Something surged through his veins, obliterating the dead tissue and setting a fire in the cells of each nerve, muscle and tendon; the heat of it could be felt by anyone passing nearby, and in a darkened room his arm seemed to throw off a nimbus of blue light that no one could explain. It was all hugely uncomfortable yet somehow felt right and good. In a few short weeks his arm was whole again, the skin unblemished though still hairless.

  ‘It works well enough, Waldin. Thanks for your concern. I take it you need me fit.’

  Waldin looked offended.

  ‘Genuine concern, Seama. But yes you are right, we have a problem. Marat, could you ask them to come through?’

  The secretary, now on the other side of a thick door, acknowledged he had heard by ringing a small bell vigorously. He had none of Waldin’s finer abilities. It was only a minute or two, during which Waldin got up and started to pull chairs closer to the desk, before the secretary led them in.

  Sight was pasty-faced and blind to his surroundings, moving slowly under Holander’s guidance. Holander shook his head slightly at Seama’s unspoken question and favoured Waldin with a disapproving look.

  ‘He shouldn’t be out of his room, Waldin’ he growled, ‘You know that. Not when he’s working. To ask him to come down for a meeting—’

  ‘Actually, I asked if he might attend.’

  Two others had entered the room, the foremost of these smooth-voiced Aiden Peveril, current Leader of The Council, cool and collected as ever but at least apologetic.

  ‘We needed to know what he has seen but I was not aware he was still in contact. Will this cause him pain?’

  ‘Distress, at the least, to be moved. Just now he doesn’t know he’s here.’ Holander gently eased his friend into the security of a big leather armchair. ‘It is not a comfortable thing to be so far away from yourself for so long. This has been going on for hours now.’

  Waldin gave them all a somewhat sheepish look. ‘We will look after him when he returns to us, but meanwhile we have matters to consider. Seama, may I introduce Gosbert Lanvers. He is our—’

  ‘Our man in Astoril. Yes, we met a few years back.’

  The fourth delegate was a lanky sort, clothes bespattered by recent travel and still sporting great riding boots as though he was ready for the off as soon as the meeting was over. Seama thought he looked a little uneasy.

  ‘Gosbert. Good to see you. You’re not often in Errensea.’

  ‘Thank you, Lord Seama. No, this is only my second visit. It’s a… a wonderful place.’

  ‘But full of strange and scary people.’

  Gosbert managed a laugh. ‘I suppose I should get used to it. We don’t see much in the way of magic back in Astoril. We’re more to do with machines and engines than enchantments and… Well I don’t know what.‘

  Seama smiled sympathetically.

  ‘Unknown territory for you, I u
nderstand. But our ‘magic’ is not so different from your science and mechanics. There’s room for both approaches.’

  ‘And need for both too,’ Waldin wanted to get things moving. ‘Gosbert brings us news of one sort but it has taken him a long journey to bring it; Sight can give us detail with less delay. Aiden, will you begin?’

  Peveril took his seat and indicated that others should do the same.

  ‘Some of the time I think the issue rather clouded and complicated but actually it is all really very simple. Late last night a final piece of information was brought to us by Gosbert here. There was an emergency meeting of the Council. Whether because we were all tired and wanting our beds, or because the answer to our debate was very clear we came to a quick conclusion. We need to act and we need to act now.

  ‘You will all know that Mador is fighting battles out in the East of Pars, has been since March. We consider the situation under control. Five of the King’s armies are more than enough to contain the problem. Why the Sirdar should want to continue his attack is hard to fathom. The garrison at Aristeth was overrun more competently than ever his troops have managed before, and that’s strange enough in itself, but in the general run of things after such success he’d surely have withdrawn, point made. We know he uses the dispute as an exercise to blood new recruits: when they are decimated he brings the remainder back – he believes it gives Masachea an army of battle-hardened warriors – but there has never been any suggestion he might want to go further than that.’

  Seama stirred in his seat.

  ‘You didn’t bring us down here to talk about the Sirdar’s brutalities. What has this to do with Astoril?’

  ‘Well, you would think with Mador so busy in the East he wouldn’t be much interested in the West and yet two weeks past the King ordered the armies of Anparas and Temor to barracks just north of Riverport. Rumour was abroad that Jemenser had begun to requisition ships and supplies for an expedition. Up until last night we did not know why.’