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

by Wilf Jones

  The company rode briskly, though not recklessly, having a care for horses hard worked in battle only hours before. The road was well made and direct and they hoped to make good time. Angren pushed them on, sure that Seama would need them sooner rather than later. They’d done nearly twenty-five miles before he let them stop. With forty more to go he planned on reaching the Gotherian capital by late afternoon on the next day. It would be a hard ride for animal and human alike. What they all needed first was a good night’s rest and no one would argue about that.

  They had wearily begun to set up their camp for the night when Sigrid, who’d been resting up while others worked, jumped to her feet and raised a cry.

  ‘Look, look over there!’ She was pointing north-east, and everyone stopped what they were doing when they saw it.

  It wasn’t yet dark, being not quite nine, but more brilliant than lightning on a winter’s night, piercing bolts of fire burst into the sky. They were a long way off, perhaps even as far as Astoril itself, but the green and red and silver flames were clear for all to see. And then as they watched, rolling like a slow wave beneath their feet came a tremor that made the trees quiver and tipped over a kettle of water.

  ‘Gods above!’ Gumb cried, ‘What the blue blazes is that?’

  MISSING

  Astoril 3057.8.6

  Seama reached the outskirts of Gothery’s capital by five o’clock. The sixty-five miles from Moreda had taken only ten hours riding and not surprisingly, despite magical assistance, both horse and rider were exhausted and sore. The magic had given them the energy to make the journey, but acting as a channel for that energy had been almost torture. The road behind them was littered with wagons and traps halted by the sudden feebleness of horses and drivers. The people were amazed by the passing of a couple so ragged and yet so brisk, but they were too tired to wonder what it might mean.

  Seama finally reined-in a mile from the city gates. He dismounted stiffly and, after resting for a few minutes to catch his breath, he walked Bellus thankfully to a place she could rest.

  ‘You’re my greatest friend, Bellus, bonny Bellus. I couldn’t manage without you. But you know that, don’t you?

  He ruffled her mane as they walked but the horse was too tired to respond.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said the wizard, ‘You’ve worked harder and acted more nobly than you ever you should have to. Taking up with me was a mistake, Bellus. One day I’ll ask too much of you but you’ll try anyway and suffer for the trying. You’ll be gone and I’ll be desolate. It will happen, Greatheart, and there’s no way of avoiding it.’

  Seama talked to his horse regardless of the scornful gazes and bemused glances of those wayfarers he passed by, and he chattered and rambled all the way to Burgil’s gate.

  Burgil was an old friend of the Wizard Beltomé and he lived half a mile from the now mostly dismantled city walls. Burgil – ‘Burgil what’ or ‘what Burgil’ no one knew, least of all Burgil – was a sort of wizard himself, and, until his retirement four years ago, he was one of the most respected teachers on Errensea. He was a particularist rather than a true wizard: a person with power that could be used in only one direction. In Burgil it was a most unlikely, and, to the uninitiated, a most terrifying direction. He was a changer. He could, for example, transform himself at will into any number of birds or beasts; more subtly, he could become someone else. It was not an illusion he created, not a trick. What was in one minute a human male would be a scabby dog in the next: a real scabby dog, though minus the fleas as he could manage only one entity at a time. He claimed to have achieved the feat of once becoming an ant, but it was an attempt he would never repeat. Apparently, ants lack the important factor of individuality and without self-awareness it was impossible to empathize properly with any other individual. Changing back had taxed Burgil severely.

  For students, shape-changing was hellishly difficult. Very few ever managed to achieve success in the extreme form of the art: changing from one animal into another. It wasn’t unknown for students to achieve the first step but then have such difficulty changing back again that Burgil had a job to rescue them. It was a dangerous art to learn. In all the years he had taught his most succesful student was a young man called Stey Asinus, and it seemed that he, like Burgil, had been born with the ability. From his early years the boy had shifted from one form to another quite naturally, according to his needs. Like Burgil he’d suffered the prejudices of others who suggested he was not entirely human: that he had been born in a form not true to his nature. Neighbours, at their home in Pullonia, began to suggest that his parents were also not quite what they seemed. People are easily frightened. Seama had seen it happen many times. The neighbours didn’t disguise the fact they wanted rid of Stey and his family, but Stey’s father was a stubborn and brave man. For many uncomfortable years he stayed where he was, refusing to be intimidated, refusing to retreat. Nobody ever was going to tell Stey’s father what he should or should not do. Except his wife, of course. A patient and intelligent woman, she realized that Stey’s gift should be trained not suppressed and eventually she persuaded her husband to move the family to Errensea. The wizard’s school was quick to accept the boy.

  Seama thought it strange that the story should crowd in on him so. Intuition or coincidence? The story of Stey Asinus and his mysterious disappearance was Burgil’s one obsession. It preyed on the changer’s mind. The move to Errensea, of course, had not been the end of it.

  It was two years ago at the Stralli Horse Fair that Seama heard the tale. Burgil, not long retired to Astoril, was looking for livestock and Seama had his eyes open for a pack donkey. They had a successful day: Burgil laid out for a stately plough horse and some goats and Seama found The Mule. Celebrations in order, they stopped at an inn for a drink, or two, or three, or more but the alcohol had a depressive effect on the changer and the story poured out without preamble.

  Apparently from the start Burgil realized that at last he had an apt pupil and within a few weeks he made Stey his apprentice. The boy had raw talent and over the years Burgil managed to add to it the theory, the knowledge, the finesse. He was surprised but delighted that the boy wanted to stay on at the College to teach. Everyone presumed he would take over when Burgil finally retired. Stey seemed happy to be considered for the position and Burgil’s recommendation to the Council was readily accepted.

  Why then did Stey Asinus leave without a word? Why disappear so effectively that he was never heard of again? One evening he had said: ‘Goodnight, see you tomorrow,’ and that was the last Burgil saw of him. He failed to turn up the next morning, the morning became a day, the day a week. His room remained empty. Sure that Stey had not simply gone away and believing he was too astute to get into trouble of someone else’s making, Burgil made his way to Stey’s parents’ home looking for answers. There the tale took another twist: the house was deserted, left open. The chickens roamed the kitchen, the donkey and the horse chewed lettuce unhindered in the kitchen garden, the starving dogs prowled the rooms, too well trained to take the chickens. Another mystery. There was no sign of violence, nothing to suggest that Stey’s parents had gone unwillingly to wherever fate had led them.

  Burgil’s only clue was something Stey had said the day before his disappearance. He was involved in some new work on identifying essential nature: an important point of study for any magician. Burgil had found him in his workroom, a book open in his lap, staring into space.

  ‘You know, master,’ he said when he noticed Burgil had entered, ‘You can live with people for many, many years: all your life in fact, and think that you know them well. All their history, their likes, their dislikes, their loves, their fears, their hopes. But the fact is, all of those things are secondary, they come after. What comes before is what we call true nature. Most people know nothing about their own true nature – they just guess at it. And if they can’t understand their true nature, then how c
ould anyone else really know them? Unless there’s a testing of course. And you’d not think of testing your own family, would you? The tricky thing is, master, unless you can understand your family, your antecedents, you never will be able to understand yourself. I know this to be true.’

  Burgil started to ask what he meant but Stey distractedly closed his book and left the room. Obviously it had bearing on the disappearance. Burgil suspected that all three had shape-changed: shifted back perhaps to a form that better suited their essential nature? Stey’s studies, he guessed, had led them to some sort of revelation. Perhaps. But it was all speculation. Stey never returned, nor his parents, and Burgil retired a disappointed man.

  Master and apprentice both were missed in Errensea. Shape-changing had not been the most important part of their work, but the basic techniques involved had other adaptations. Interrogation was only another step beyond testing essential nature and many wizards desired the skill. Burgil disliked the whole idea of interrogation and taught the subject reluctantly. He preferred to spend his time teaching the more regularly used art of disguise – an art that had nothing to do with make-up. There were other teachers but none so good as Burgil or Stey. The wizard’s school was depleted by their absence.

  Seama swung open the unlatched gate and led Bellus into Burgil’s front yard. The flowers were bright in neatly laid beds but the grass was overgrown. The front door of the single storey cottage was slightly ajar. Seama knocked and shouted a hallo and was dismayed to hear no reply. Rather than enter unbidden he decided to explore outside. The stables were at the rear of the cottage alongside the kitchen garden. Burgil was nowhere in sight. The back garden led into a twenty acre wood and Seama supposed that his friend might be out gathering firewood or herbs. With the stable so close at hand, Seama decided to get Bellus settled before he did anything else.

  ‘Old Burgil must be out, Bellus. Not too bad an evening for walking or visiting. We’ll wait a while, I think.’

  Soon Bellus was drifting into a well deserved sleep in the clean, cool stable and Seama was free to investigate further and perhaps find something to eat. The back door was unlocked and it led straight into the kitchen. He filled the kettle, put it on the stove and lit the fire with matches rather than a spell. There was tea in a stone jar and honey in another. Seeing a tall jug in the cold pantry he expected to find milk but it was all mould. The bacon was smelly, the butter rancid. Burgil had been gone for some time: a week at least.

  In the front parlour the furniture was in disarray as if there’d been a struggle. Seama was alarmed and confused. Had his friend been abducted? Who would want to kidnap Burgil? And why? Uh-Bib was an obvious candidate. Perhaps Burgil had recognized him. But how? Burgil, a recluse by inclination, was not a likely guest at court, so how could they have met? That was another question the Randalan could answer. He had a lot of explaining to do. But not just yet.

  Whatever had happened Seama still needed rest. He made his tea, found biscuits in a tin box that were still crisp, eat them, and then threw himself down on a sofa to sleep. He could afford two hours and no more.

  TUMULTUOUS FLIGHT

  Astoril 3057.8.6

  Two hours were as good as ten for a wizard; well, that was what Holander always said. Ten would have been better but Seama shook off his lethargy well enough and, after bathing his head in cold water, he was more or less ready for the trial ahead. The same was not true of his horse. Bellus could not be roused. She didn’t hear Seama’s farewell.

  The wizard stepped onto the main road and began to walk the last half-mile to the city gates. He hadn’t gone far when a lumbering cart filled with cabbages rolled past him and the driver shouted for him to jump up.

  ‘Come up here, sir. We can’t have you walking when you could just as easy ride. Lost your horse, then?’

  Seama settled himself onto the bench seat and said: ‘That’s very kind. Thank you. My horse? Well, she was tired out, so I’ve put her to stable not far back. Horse or not, I have to reach the City soon.’

  ‘An appointment, then?’

  Seama knew Gotherians were an inquisitive race and the questions didn’t worry him, but he wasn’t sure yet how he was going to find uh-Bib. Naming him didn’t seem a safe option. Instead he lied.

  ‘I have a message for the King, Mr. Farmer, and it’ll not wait.’

  ‘The King you say?’

  ‘The same. A message for him and no one else.’

  ‘Well you’re out of luck then. You’ll never see him; anyone could tell you that. Nobody sees the King except his doctor, and the Prime Minister, maybe.’

  ‘No one else? How can he run the country if he see’s no one?’

  ‘Worked through that doctor of his. You know Sirl’s ill, of course? Well, the doctor holds any meetings the King should attend and then he reports back in private. I reckon your best bet would be to go as a petitioner at his evening session. My brother had to go up over his son being in the army and promoted to the King’s Guard and… well you won’t want to know that, will you, but anyway, he says Dr. Tubby—’

  ‘Dr. Tubby?’ Seama couldn’t help laughing, and the farmer grinned as well.

  ‘Well, it’s Bliss actually but everyone calls him Tubby now on account of him being so fat. I know we shouldn’t. What was I going to say? Oh yes, this Doctor holds an ‘audience’ at about eight. After his dinner, I suppose. He’ll take your message to the King and no doubt your reply’ll come the same way. I’d best whip-up the horses a bit, you’ve only half an hour.’

  At ten minutes after eight a limping but respectable blacksmith arrived at the Palace. He carried his tools in a bag hung over his shoulder. The guards grumbled at him for not being on time but after a little argument they relented and led the smith into an antechamber. He seemed worried and out of breath, but when he saw there were still people in the room waiting for admittance he relaxed. He managed a smile, even, when he recognized, lurking in the shadows, the small sharp featured type with the nervous tic. Seama was glad he’d decided against using his ‘old man’ disguise.

  Soon they were all ushered into the audience chamber and Seama gasped. The man had no shame. Dr. Bliss was sitting on the throne itself, at his ease and smiling! The petitioners were allowed close by order and Uh Bib dispensed the law like medicine. Seama followed two men involved in a half-hearted dispute about the tenancy of some crown land in the city centre. The debate between them had been going on for over five months and at this rate there would never be a settlement. Dr Bliss listened, grinning all the while, and then told them their message would be forwarded. He suggested they might both benefit by taking a sleeping draught whenever they were likely to meet in order to avoid bad temper and conflict. Disgruntled and still sniping at each other, the two were led out. Seama glanced at the twitcher but the man held back, wanting to keep is news for a private audience no doubt, and so it was Seama’s turn to step up to the throne.

  ‘And now Mr. Smith, what had you to tell our ailing King. No problem too taxing, I hope. Indeed, nothing about taxes, if you please. They’re such a bore. Well, speak up then. I don’t bite, not after dinner at any rate.’ Bliss giggled.

  ‘Dr. Bliss is it?’ said the smith and the fat man smiled, ‘Or is it Tubby, I get confused?’

  The smile disappeared.

  ‘Sounds like a bit of a joke, you being so fat. Bliss is a bit of a joke too, isn’t it? For those in the know.’

  ‘Those in the know?’ Dr. Bliss’s smile had returned, but it was of the order of a cobra smiling at the thought of closer acquaintance.

  ‘About your real name, I mean: Tarangananda uh-Bib, the Blissful One. The grinning Hippopotamus!’

  Uh-Bib was not the sort of man to fly off the handle but Seama could see that the wizard was annoyed.

  ‘Congratulations, Mr. Smith. Or is there another name I should be using. Come now, you have me at a
disadvantage. You do indeed.’ The punctuating giggle had an edge in it now. Could it be nervousness?

  ‘You are too easy a mark in your curly shoes,” Seama advised. “Enough of this nonsense! You were not pleased at your last sight of me, and I’d wager you won’t be pleased to see me now.’

  Seama’s disguise came apart: the smith was gone apart from his clothes. The bag of tools was a cloak and its contents were revealed as a sword and a knife.

  Tarangananda uh-Bib did not quite gasp and the look of dismay was fleeting. He now smiled broadly.

  ‘Congratulations once more, Lord Seama, Wizard Beltomé, Ambassador to the High Council, etcetera, etcetera. It will be an entertainment to receive you.’

  ‘A little surprised, uh-Bib? Spies not performing as well as they should; not even Rat Face back there?’

  They both looked to where the twitcher had been but there was no sign of him.

  ‘Ah, Creel seems to have found the prospect of your company unattractive, Seama. I shall teach him manners some day soon.’

  ‘I wouldn’t count on that, Tubby.’

  ‘You persist with the name. Do you not think the insult a little childish. I expect better from you.’

  ‘You expect better from me?’

  ‘Indeed I do. I wonder, are you feeling yourself today? You seem both exhausted and excitable. I have a potion you might consider.’

  Seama laughed. ‘Oh I’m sure you have. Something that has been helping the King also, no doubt.’ Seama spoke lightly but uh-Bib’s observation did have some truth in it: he wasn’t exactly dizzy but he felt most peculiar. It was as though something was rising up inside him, something that might be hard to control. ‘No, good Doctor, exhausted or excitable, I think I can manage without your drugs. I wouldn’t want to be made too comfortable. Shall we begin?’