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

by Wilf Jones

  ‘Begin?’

  ‘With the questions and with the answers.’

  ‘Ask away, Seama. I am sure your questions will be diverting at the least.’

  ‘What are you up to, uh-Bib? Who are you working for? And why?’

  ‘My dear Seama! You are too much,’ the giggle was genuine this time. ‘What am I up to, you ask? Well let us say I am organizing a party, an event, an entertainment – but let’s not spoil the surprise. And as to who is paying the bill, well you wouldn’t expect a good doctor to compromise his client’s confidentiality?’

  ‘I expect nothing of good from you, uh-Bib, and everything of bad.’

  ‘Now then, you are being uncharitable, and I impolite. If we are to talk let’s be more comfortable. Take some supper with me, and perhaps some wine. Carl,’ he called out, ‘A light meal for two, if you please, and a bottle of Furide, in the garden, at once. Lord Seama? An honest meal, I promise – we might as well be civil about this.’

  Seama agreed. A glass of cool wine might just calm that tingle in his gut. Of course Seama didn’t trust him an inch but it wouldn’t be poison in the wine: uh-Bib would count that unsubtle. Seama needed information. He’d have to play the game but keep up his guard. There was chance that uh-Bib would let something slip. No doubt uh-Bib was waiting for a chance too.

  Tarangananda uh-Bib walked casually, calmly along the corridor towards the garden. He found time to enquire about the health of various members of the Council, and to reminisce about his time in Errensea. It was likely that Seama was taken in, to some small extent, by this splendid display of unconcern. He was certainly not aware that deep inside the ‘Randalan was a turmoil of emotion and calculation not far removed from panic.

  Uh-Bib was amazed at his own reaction. Years ago, though powerful enough to sway most enemies, he was a weakling as compared with now. He would count himself the strongest wizard on the five continents if only he didn’t have this persistent fear of the Wizard Beltomé. How had he come by this new strength? Uh-Bib had no time for the naive explanations doled out by the Collegium. Their theories were tortuous, their Texts of Power nothing more than conjecture. In reality the source was obvious. Once he had bowed to the ar’Andalan Emperor and his reward had been great, in both wealth and influence. Now he bowed before another and far greater Emperor, and the raw power he had gained was a reward beyond measure. For six months now it had grown in him and around him, its source was infinite, and the reserve he could draw upon was limitless. It made him feel that he could defeat whole armies single-handed, that he could challenge the combined strength of Errensea and win. It had given him great confidence.

  And yet it took only one glimpse of Seama’s annoying face for all that mighty confidence to drain away, for his fears to return and mock him. Of course he feared Seama and with good reason when he remembered his abrupt exit from Asteranor thirty years past. Seama had nearly destroyed him. He had no doubt that Seama now intended to finish the job. What should he do? He could run, and he would run if necessary, but that was not his plan. Things had changed. He had changed. It was time to face his fears.

  Uh-Bib was about five paces in front of Seama, mildly denying any part in Burgil’s disappearance, when they reached the garden. A servant was arriving with the food through another doorway and the sight of food reminded Seama that he had hardly eaten since the previous night. As he scanned the platter to see what was on offer, he was picked up, as if by a huge hand, and slammed against a wall that cracked with the impact. He slumped to the floor and lay face down in the grass. Uh-Bib stood over him, grinning.

  ‘I’ve thought about it, My Lord Wizard, but for the life of me I cannot think of anything I need to say to a dying man.’ Seama groaned and blood trickled down his neck. Uh-Bib stooped over him, pushing his delighted grin into Seama’s face.

  ‘What would be the point in telling you about the Necromancer and the General? Why burden you with knowledge of the Angra Mainyu? But then, just to make sure your dying moments are as painful as possible, perhaps I could just explain how awful the situation is.’ Uh-Bib tapped Seama’s arm with his foot. ‘Would you like that?’

  Seama managed another groan.

  ‘Well then, I don’t know how much you have already guessed, and it would take too long to give you detail – I wouldn’t want you dying before I’ve finished now, would I? But Old Harry has a vocation, you see, a mission, we could say, to cause you and yours as much suffering as possible; and most importantly, he wants his old kingdom back. Did you know this was once his domain? I’ll bet you’ve never even heard of him, have you? Not that it matters. It’s been a long long time since this world was taken from him – the fact is, he’s done enough waiting. Forces are mobilized, Seama, undefeatable forces. All of Kyzylkum is ready to win it back for him, and for themselves; all his people, all with one aim! And at last they are ready while your paltry few are not. How did this happen, you cry, why now? Who has done this to us? It is because of me. Me! Tarangananda uh-Bib, Hand of Ah-remmon. You should never have treated me so badly, My Lord Wizard. I am not a good loser. I have been plotting your downfall for thirty years. And your precious Asteranor? Well, I’m having it destroyed. I’ll give your petty kings, your arrogant Council, your good citizens a few months of freedom, and then it will end. And as for you, Lord Wizard, your time is up!’

  Uh-Bib stepped back and raised a clenched fist. The look on his face was ecstatic as he poured energy into that containing hand. In seconds the hand began to glow with a red-gold radiance. He need only release the power and his enemy would be torn asunder.

  Seama rolled, staggered to his feet and drew his sword.

  Uh-Bib angrily loosed his bolt but too late: Seama found the time to smile as his raised sword flared before him, deflecting the energy and destroying the stone bench beside him. The exchange left them both unharmed but uh-Bib was furious.

  ‘Don’t think to play games with me, petty conjurer. Before I was little more than a student at your feet, now I am Emmissary of the Dark King, and my power is great. Much greater than you can know.’

  ‘What should I do then, Tubby, lie down and die for you? I— aah!’

  A vice clamped Seama’s chest and gradually closed. The breath was squeezed out of him; a rib snapped. Unless he could respond, they would all go, crushing his heart. Seama gave a soft push at the air and uh-Bib, standing beside the pool, intent on Seama’s destruction, was caught off balance and fell backwards into the water. If only Seama could have pressed his advantage, but though the pressure disappeared as uh-Bib struggled to get his head clear of the water lilies, the pain brought Seama to his knees still gasping for air.

  Uh-Bib emerged from the pool by levitation, his robes half smothering him. He was retching pond water as he ran from the garden. A door took him out into the city at a place called Haslem’s Bright Field: a place of festival and fireworks.

  Meanwhile, Seama had begun a healing cycle. He uttered a chant that plunged his mind into deep concentration. He searched along the paths of his veins, as he had been taught, to find those damaged and bleeding. And when they were found his cells seemed to explode inside him. The blue nimbus that had bloomed to regenerate his damaged arm after the fire in the library bathed him once more. A million points of energy, it seemed, or one great source of heat – it was impossible to tell. What could be cleaned and cauterized was taken in hand, what was gone was made anew. The bleeding stopped, the wound receded. His ribs, though seriously damaged, knitted and eased and the pain flew away. He couldn’t believe it. The tingle in his gut had swollen, it crept out into his limbs but it was no longer an unpleasant sensation. It was a promise. His whole body was throbbing with potential. And then he was himself again. The whole cycle had taken hardly a minute and yet he was ready: ready to pursue uh-Bib to the home of winds, ready to attack, ready to conquer whatever he had to face, be it man or demon or God. He burs
t into action.

  Seama rushed out onto the Bright Field and found Tarangananda uh-Bib waiting for him. The old people who had been enjoying an evening stroll, the children playing, the lovers quarreling all stopped to look at the two men squaring up, thinking that perhaps this would be some sort of performance or debate. The bobyboys passing by, who all knew the makings of a fight when they saw one, skidded their twoers to a halt, calling out to their pals to come and see; a city constable, sniffing trouble, ambled towards the pair, confident in his authority.

  Uh-Bib screamed words of a tongue none of them could understand and raised an arm to point at a tall house nearest the green. It erupted into flame in an instant, incinerating all within. The pointing arm then swung in an arc and a plume of flame, thirty feet wide, roared from the house in a rainbow of fire to descend as damnation upon his enemy.

  Seama stood motionless. The onlookers, staggered or felled by the horror, shocked by the inhumanity, covered their eyes as the flames enveloped him and all about him. But as the flames hit the earth they died immediately in a whoosh of steam for the ground water had risen at Seama’s command: the field had become a marsh and Seama walked unsinged out of the sudden fog.

  Uh-Bib was not expecting an easy victory. Already he was at work on another spell. This time he required a greater, more frightening power than fire. His arms moved as if gathering-in invisible ropes. His ululation screamed into the air. His robes whipped about him as winds from the four quarters crashed in upon the field, buffeting all those still standing to their knees. And on those winds came together the biggest, blackest storm they’d ever seen. Day killing clouds met in battle over the innocent houses. The whole of Astoril quivered uncertainly in the charged air of it. Across the city people ran for cover or stood paralysed by fear. No rain fell but the electrical power in the clouds snapped and crackled, seeking an opportunity to discharge.

  So far, Seama had been forced to defend but his intentions upon surviving the Randalan’s onslaught were ambiguous even to himself. Uh-Bib had more to tell him about Ah’remmon and the war to come, if only he could subdue the man. But now here was a chance to destroy his enemy once and for all. It was a chance that might not come again.

  Uh-Bib had called the storm with little more than words. It would be much more difficult to harness and direct the power it held. Few could attempt it and fewer would succeed. Power harnessed power, strength grappled the elements. The forces encompassed by the black clouds surged and hummed back and forth as uh-Bib struggled to bring them together, and to deny them easy passage to the earth. With the whole city throbbing under the pressure of it, uh-Bib smacked his palms together above his head, and the rending, annihilating energy blasted in a single stroke targetted upon his foe. The noise of that lightning flash toppled buildings, broke men’s ears; the light of it blinded them for days to come.

  And when it had blasted, when it had burned the air it tore through, and when the boom and flare had passed, seeming to glow blue in the gloom, there stood Seama. He had restored his spell of ingathering but it was subtly altered. He had taken in the power and essence of the earth beneath his feet. It was as though Seama was himself the plateau upon which the capital stood; he was the rock and the soil. He was earth itself, unmoved by tempest and violence. He had not been destroyed. Though his clothes smoked eerily, his body was unharmed. The power had flooded into him, into the extended him, and he held it: dispersed and yet still present. The extended Seama was a sump, a reservoir for all the destructive energy of the storm. And he had control. He raised his nameless sword as a conductor of that energy. His baton was a terrible weapon.

  Uh-Bib was aghast and almost failed to react in time; he grabbed at whatever was nearest. Seama struck and in the next second uh-Bib was tumbling over and over as a translocated wooden pavilion appeared for a fraction of a moment before exploding, disintegrating, vapourizing between them.

  The Randalan was no sooner down than he was up. He was a pitiful sight, blackened and ragged, but he had survived. If Seama’s arrival had made the fat man nervous, now he was scared. He couldn’t believe that Seama could control such power.

  Running fast with borrowed strength, but completely out of breath, Tarangananda uh-Bib gained a few seconds. He was well hidden by the fire and the smoke and the fog that lingered about the field. Mingling with a crowd of injured people he gained again, knowing that Seama couldn’t attack for fear of hurting them. He ran through the gates of the public stables, and clambered onto the back of the first saddled horse he found. As he swung into the street again a bolt of fire destroyed the hanging sign above the gates. The Lord Wizard was only yards behind him, but he was hampered and unsighted by crowds of terrified pedestrians. The reins hurt uh-Bib’s badly burned hands but he held on tight and kicked the horse to gallop, knowing that death was at his heels.

  The two wizards were separated by innocents and Seama’s choices were limited by an ethic. He too mounted up as quickly as he could and gave chase, hoping for one clear chance. That was all he would need. Uh-Bib was obviously drained or he wouldn’t be running, while Seama had lost only the energy of the storm. The power inherent grew within him with every exchange, and from without his ingathering continued and grew.

  Uh-Bib had to gain time, gain distance, and he needed help. Without hesitation he begged his master for aid, but it was no prayer he made. He didn’t call out in the dark to some remote God unpricked by the needs of mortal men. He spoke to the Dark One directly using the spechanstone he’d been given, and he asked for the strength to survive. The answer came instantly, and the weight of power that fell upon him then crushed the horse beneath him. Rising from that wreck of a life he paused only to send out another call, a summons which would cost him some of that God–given power, but essential if he was ever to get free, and then set himself to working easy magic until he felt ready to face Seama again.

  His first ploy was to create an illusion but not something to fool Seama. It was a deceit designed to induce panic.

  Seama was impressed. As the pursuit clattered down a cobbled road, walled by tall buildings, a river, a wave of prodigious proportions spewed out of the clear air and swamped the street. People screamed; they thought they were drowning as the wave flooded to a depth of fifteen feet; they tried to swim. Seama was thankful the illusion was not as deep as those Chaldonie had made. No one would really drown. But fearfully confused men, women and children couldn’t understand why their swimming didn’t work. Their only achievement was to delay a madman trying to ride through the flood as if it wasn’t there.

  Uh-Bib had made ground before Seama could fight his way through the madness. He’d taken another horse – from a man stripping off his clothes that he might swim better – cleared the vision from its mind and ridden on. At the end of the street the illusion abated and both horses were unhindered. Tarangananda uh-Bib now produced another surprise. Sorcery filled the air with fire drakes: demon arsonists not longer than six inches but winged like dragons. Translocated they were in pain but their discomfort was soon forgotten. Cutting through the agony was the realization that all about them was a city: houses, wooden doors and frames, curtains of the most flammable cloth, carpets that would make such a smoke, tar that would catch the breath. They went to their work with delight and soon fire was blooming in every house within a half-mile. The drakes circled gleefully in the smoke of it as people ran onto the streets in fear of the flames.

  The ‘Randalan assumed that Seama would stop to take on the fire-drakes before they caused more destruction, but no, the Lord Wizard galloped on regardless, gaining on him by the yard. It was only when a child ran in front of Seama’s horse, her skirts ablaze, that he pulled up. Looking back uh-Bib saw him douse her clothes with a command and then, to his relief, slip from the saddle to make sure she was safe. Uh-Bib rode on, turning one corner and then the next as he made for the Northgate Road.

  Seama was in
a rage. He wanted to leap back into his saddle and get after his quarry; the urge to continue the fight was almost uncontrollable. But something inside held him back. Because this mad rage was not the real Seama Beltomé. The little girl was screaming and shaking with the pain. Her mother ran over to scoop her up, but then she stopped in despair – there was nowhere to go not ringed by the flying demons. It was too much. The real Seama could never leave these people in danger. The drakes had to be stopped. But how?

  Seama searched for an answer. He wanted to send them back where they belonged: to Deamonia, but only uh-Bib could do that. He couldn’t reason with them as he had with Bast. They were everywhere, hundreds of them, and each had its own Name. He couldn’t command them without using those Names. How uh-Bib had managed to call them all was beyond him. There was one solution: they must be destroyed. Then he had it. Power answers power, so why shouldn’t he likewise answer one invocation with another. They had an enemy, these drakes, one that hated them as a mother hates the murderer of her children. Bor’eth. A god of the third order, a nature god, sometimes named God of Dreaming Trees because of his affinity with alder and willow, but his province was the forest, his people the trees, his enemy the axe wielder or fire raiser. Seama had no paraphernalia or ritual with him, and it was decidedly an improper way to proceed, but such was the power he held in that hour that he didn’t hesitate for a second. He called out to Bor’eth by focussing upon the trees that lined the avenue, many of them already aflame. Bor’eth was a god dwelling in the fabric of Ea’, he was, in a way, ever present, but never in his life had Seama been able to make such a strong connection so quickly. The negotiation was brief, the offer a feast of fire drakes and the God of Dreaming Trees was pleased with that. The answer was immediate. With a droning of woodland insects and a smell of rotting leaves Bor’eth invested the city, keen to start the killing.