Epitaph Men

There weren’t always dragons in the valley, read the inscription. It a curious way to end an epitaph, thought Oldebirk Bradagast as he traced the line of the chiselled letters with his one good finger. But the ancient Menana men of the peninsula often wrote tangential trivia into their carvings. It was generally surmised that this was to keep the reader interested. A reward of knowledge given to the intrepid scholars who posessed the stamina to ascend the mountains of onerous biography compiled in each of the memory stones.

Just once he’d have liked to have found something… magical. Something supernatural, that cracked open the shell of assumed truth and invited a whole new way of understanding the civilisations of the past. But no, the towering monolith in front of him had over 10,000 lines of script, dedicated to the memory of a rather mundane Menana citizen who had turned out to be a chef, not a chief as he’d originally thought.

The light was starting to fade over the hilltop to the east. Oldebirk sighed and rocked back on his haunches, looking out over the foothills of the Menan peninsula. It was a pleasant sight, and from his vantage point near the top of one of the large hills, or ‘Up-earth-that-way-quite-tall’ as it was known to the Menana (they could be distressingly literal at times.), Oldebirk watched a flock of fledgling Mender birds duck and dive through the air. The birds were native to the local peninsula, around the size of a small tennis ball, but with two sets of wings that operated in syncopated patterns, flapping one after the other in a rhythm that reminded Oldebirk of nothing so much as a heartbeat. The locals believed their massed murmurations were portentous messages from Asper, the god of wisdom and fate. How Oldebirk could do with such guidance right now, he thought, as their silent, cloud-like flock passed over the rolling foothills and off toward the wilderness of the northern steppe.

It was a strange thing to imagine, a large bat-winged reptile snaking its way across the sky, over this otherwise uninspiring country. This peninsula-state, named Comocora, after the collection of stone houses that they unashamedly called a city, was nestled between the coastal hills to the west, and the eastern mountains which formed the natural barrier to the wider continent to the east. The bickering politics of the Imperial over the mountains seemed not to penetrate here, perhaps because the locals seemed fairly disinterested in even learning to read, let along scheme. The landscape was undulating, mostly unclaimed shrubland, but small forests had grown up in the valley itself and given home to a host of creatures. Mender flocks nested in the craggy upper parts of the hills, whilst herds of cattle drifted from plain to plain, blissfully unaware of the potential archaeological marvels hidden just inches below the grass on which they grazed.

Oldebirk turned from the stone monolith behind him and glanced down at his diadem. It was a small gift for all neophyte scholars who left the academy on expeditions. The green buzzing creature caught inside was supposedly a miniscule imp, captured from birth, never-to-leave its gilded cage. Oldebirk held the diadem in front and watched as the familiar green glow pulsated. As he’d thought, nothing of magical property here. He’d been studying the mysterious Menana men for seventeen of his 42 years, and yet, had barely advanced the subject beyond where he had begun all those years ago.

The study of Menana was not a fashionable subject within the academy of Arcographers. In fact, the entire faculty now consisted of Oldebirk himself, merely a Silver-level scholar, and Mable, an inveterate elderly woman who had never risen from the post of neophyte despite having worked in the academy for more than 40 years. For some reason she made Oldebirk rather uncomfortable, and he shifted awkwardly in his seat at the memory of her chewing that Kelvian tree bark and glaring at him from behind the paned, colored glass that separated their two research desks.

No, everyone now was looking at the ancient Oronian civilisation that seemed to have existed on the other side of the continent. All intricate pottery, gowns, marble mosaics and deep magics lost to the world eons ago. The Menana men, in contrast, seemed mundane and frankly rather dull when it came to crafting artefacts, except for one line of script that had come from this very peninsula which was unlike anything found anywhere else.

“Watch the mountains, keep the plains, stay faithful to the way. Entrust the Silver to the ground alone.”

This was unusual for two reasons. Firstly, the Menana NEVER addressed their reader directly, preferring long, dispassionate recantations of information to anything that might engage. Secondly, there was no Silver to be found in the whole of Comocora. Silver was an Oronian discovery, far to the east. Other scholars had suggested maybe that this was a mistranslation, or even an invention of a long-dead archaeologist. But Oldebirk had discovered this phrase himself in three separate reports from other scholars and had matched the translation down to the letter. And yet, his two years of digging, reading and deciphering had found nothing but a few old tools and endless epitaphs. Certainly not enough to bring back to the academy.

The grand library, housed at the centre of the continent in the powerful duchy of Paravost was the opulent home of the inner circle of the Academy, and where Oldebirk had spent the majority of his study. It was a huge and imposing building, filled with tomes, artefacts and bustling with lectures on subjects from around the world. It was from here that the highly revered and majestic academic expeditions were launched. Oldebirk thought back to those that left for the Oronian foothills. Hundreds of scholars, spools of papyrus, wagonloads of wine and even a grand organ on a cart at one point. The assembled notables waved them off from the balconies of the third floor, unfurling the traditional indigo banners as the procession passed them by. In contrast, when Oldebirk left, he had had to almost beg for a simple backpack and a donkey. In fact, the donkey had refused to carry him, and he’d had to lead it out by a rope. Fortunately, this indignity had only been witnessed by a meagre group of first year student layabouts who barely looked up from their drinks. And Mable, of course, scowling down at him from the second floor. The only banner to be unfurled was simple and white, and turned out to be some sheets being dried by the laundry servants.

Oldebirk glanced down the path and narrowed his eyes at the sight of that accursed ass that he’d led hundreds of miles across the continent and was now tied to a tree. It turned to look at him blankly, and he swore that in its large, disinterested eyes he could see a slight mocking attitude.

Grabbing his satchel, his notes and papers, his copy of ‘Oswald Phillipe’s Menana Lexograph (Now with 30% more verbs free!)' and taking one last look at the obelisk he’d spent the last week deciphering, he untied the donkey and began to descend the hill. The path was barely visible, let alone wide enough for a regular sized human. Vegetation from the ages had almost completely devoured what was once a winding thoroughfare up to the site, and he’d had to hack his way up here with a small machete. As they finally reached the path, they found a young lady waiting for them. She was dirty faced and furtive, glancing up and down the stone path back to the village, wearing a dull green tunic with layers of leather on the shoulders and pockets. Yes, many many pockets. Oldebirk knew her as ‘Reeta’, a local young lady of about 16 who he had employed as a sort of runner, to help him trade with the village, organise his lodgings, collect his paperwork. All of which she seemed to fail at with spectacular regularity. Still, she was quick witted and sharp, and seemed not to dislike him with quite as much vigour as the others, so he kept her on. She must have been about 4 feet and 6 inches standing tall That is, if she ever did stand, she seemed to spend most of her time hunched over in a sort of crouched position, ready to run or pounce at a moment’s notice.

“What are you doing here, Reeta?” sighed Oldebirk, “I’m sure you were supposed to be gathering supplies for our dinner tonight?”

She nodded at him, and as usual, completely ignored what he said.

“You should come quickly, O” (what she called him, having no time or inclination for the use of multiple syllables whenever they appeared.)

“There is a man in the village. He wants to see you.”

“Oh yes?” muttered Oldebirk, as he started down the path, handing Reeta the rope which tugged along the donkey. “Another man, no doubt trying to sell me some more magic shoes. I’ve barely recovered from the last pair I was duped into buying. I almost never recovered that toe, you know. Had I not had the spell of reversal I’d have lost it to the nether realm forever.”

“No no, it’s different this time.”

“Oh really, what now?”

“He says he’s been searching for you.”

Oldebirk stopped in the road and rolled his eyes.

“For what purpose, Reeta?”

She paused and considered herself for a moment.

“He says he is Menana."

END OF CHAPTER ONE