Ringwall`s Doom

by Awert, Wolf

  “So your ancestors’ birthplace is a legend, and like all good legends it’s wrapped in a veil of mystery.”

  “As you say, my king.”

  “And how long have you been at court?”

  “Not for long, sire. The mares that carried their foals when I arrived may still call a stallion’s attention. As Ringwall measures it, no more than ten winters perhaps. I never counted the days.”

  “You were under Auran-San’s command, yet you did not help him.” The king’s voice was objective. Although the answer to his words was what he wanted more than anything out of this conversation, he was satisfied with the simple statement.

  “The other court sorcerers did nothing to help him either, my liege. We all swore fealty, but the order of our oath is to the king first, then the kingdom, then our leader. The king was dead. Our oath bound us foremost to the kingdom. You were at the time the one true claimant, and I had sworn to defend you. As I will continue to do, as long as your plans allow it.”

  Skorn-Vis knelt down and kissed the hem of the king’s robe. King Sergor’s eyes left the sorcerer’s head and found Uul’s wide open ones. It seemed he had absorbed every word spoken between the sorcerer and king like a piece of cloth.

  “And your name, Uul?”

  The boy formed a loose ball with his hands, thumbs side by side. He raised his hands to his mouth and blew into them, calling forth a wailing, yet alluring sound. It was unlike anything in the plains and echoed out dimly.

  “That is no sound of the land.”

  Uul looked rather helpless. “I was told it was a sound of the forest, but I don’t know the forest. Someone once told me they heard a similar thing in the rocks, but that could have just been the wind howling in the crags like my own breath in my hands. It was they who knew the forest who gave me my name. It has no meaning.”

  “Who were these people?”

  Uul shrugged. “The others, here and there.”

  “And who taught you to use magic?”

  Uul shifted his weight back and forth; the boy seemed uncomfortable.

  “I’m no sorcerer, Sire. I was a child of the desert for as long as I can remember. I can talk to the fire. If I ask it, it follows me. My task was to guard the horses, Sire. Never did an arrow hit a horse under my protection, and I could keep the predators of the plains away with the fire. That is all I can do. I’m no sorcerer, Sire.”

  After a brief, tense pause, he continued: “Will you send me away?”

  “I needed a shield of Fire to protect me against Metal. A person who can shield a herd of horses has the power to shield a king. We will see how strong you really are in due time. Until then, rejoice in your gift.

  “And now ride. Both of you. And remember: we need a shield against all the elements, one that no one could hope to penetrate. The five of you are only the core of the army I will build, and it will be unstoppable.”

  IV

  Ringwall’s dark shadows lay behind him. Nill struggled to remember when he had last felt as free as he did now, the warm wind blowing in his face, telling him tales and fables. The smells it brought were fresh and young, and the sounds came from far away. It felt as though with every step he took, he was taking off dark, heavy layers of clothing and leaving them on the ground.

  Soon I’ll be all naked, he thought merrily.

  He had not dwelled long on which direction to take. The name Perdis and the knowledge that this Perdis had written in the old runes of the Fire Kingdom were evidence enough for him. And so he followed the sun at its highest point. While he had promised to help Ambrosimas in his search for the five Books of Prophecy, that had to wait. The books could be anywhere. And if even Ambrosimas had not been able to find them so far, Nill himself would be even less likely to. Unless they just happened to come to him. Fate would decide, as with everything else. Nill decided to take the easier route, likely due to the sun, the light and the happiness he felt.

  Nill avoided the paths and roads. His steps were long and light, like those he had admired of Dakh-Ozz-Han, his first mentor. Dakh’s steps left no trail; he left no footprints on the earth and left the grass unbroken. A stride like this made the wanderer invisible to hunters and trackers. Only dogs or arcanists could find him, for they could follow the magic that remained on his invisible footprints before it blew away with the wind. By the time Ringwall came to realize his disappearance, every hint of his trail would be gone, and so he hurried through the fields and meadows where the grass was tall, and past bushes and copses where his sharp shepherd’s eye spotted the fruits the birds had missed.

  “I have the power of magic!” Nill cheered as he rejoiced in his newfound freedom.

  He avoided the many small villages as well as he could, and the larger settlements in particular. It seemed the better choice to avoid other people, even if it meant not taking the faster roads. He ate what he could find on the land and slept wherever there was enough space and shelter, and so it took just a few days before he was outside of Ringwall’s province. The distances between villages grew, and so too did the lonesomeness of the landscape; in place of fields there was now tall, wild grass, its many blades caressing his legs and stretching to all sides like a vast green ocean. Only near villages was it cut. Away from those it belonged to the wild animals, rams and herds of ruminants. As they were easy game for any hunter, Nill avoided them too.

  He stopped and looked back. Alone and oddly lost, he stood in the middle of the untouched grasslands, calmly swaying like the sea that barely remembered the last storm.

  Moments of harmony like these were rare even in the untouched wilderness, for there was always something that disturbed the peace. A sudden gale, fighting cocks or a freak rainstorm were never far away.

  Well, Nill thought, it doesn’t look like rain. But I don’t seem to be the only wanderer around here.

  His sharp eyes had spotted small whirls in the steady swaying of the grass. Now and then it parted like a maw to swallow its prey, then fell back into unnoticeable calm as it waited for a new victim. Nill observed the grass with caution, but he was not afraid; whatever it was, it was not troubling to remain hidden.

  The motion stopped once Nill was barely twenty steps away. His mouth fell open in a surprised laugh. He knew this distance.

  “Come out, you,” he said hoarsely, but his spirit’s call was all the louder. The grass parted again and out of the green trudged an old ram with great horns and grumpy-looking, slanted yellow eyes, so starved that Nill could count every rib in its side.

  Only now that he was reunited with the old ram did Nill realize how lonely he had been in Ringwall. His heart lifted as it had not since he was still a child in Grovehall.

  He patted the ram’s coat, gripped its horns and knocked gently against its bony brow as if it was a door and he was asking to enter. The ram accepted all of it without losing a trace of its grumpiness.

  “What are you this time? A stubborn old sheep or a Demon Lord’s vessel?”

  He immediately regretted the careless question, but it was too late. A fleeting shadow flitted over him and he shivered. Jesting about the lords of the Other World was foolish; he cast a protective spell on himself. The shadow vanished.

  “Come on, then,” he said to his ram. “We have a long way ahead of us.”

  Nill could attract most small animals and even bind some to him. The larger ones were too strong, but he still felt them. But this ram, his old companion from his younger days, lived its own life, and Nill had no idea why it had decided to follow him all the way from Earthland to Ringwall, and now had suddenly reappeared. There was a mysterious connection between them. Another obscure secret in Nill’s life, which truly did not struggle to attract the inexplicable.

  He set off again and the ram walked in circles around him. Nill began to worry. Shepherd’s dogs behaved this way to protect their herd, but a ram was not a dog, and Nill was not a herd. A ram stood still in vigil, or it kept the rear of the herd safe as it traveled. Nill looked around and al
lowed his senses to wander across the grassland, but he found nothing.

  If you go looking for adventures you’ll find them. If none exist, you make them up in your head, Nill attempted to soothe his troubled thoughts, but he could not shake off the strange uncomfortable feeling. Even the next few uneventful days did not change that.

  Sleeping in tall grass had certain disadvantages. Often his clothing was soaked with dew when he woke up, for the days grew shorter and the nights colder. The feeling that he was being followed surrounded him like flies on carrion. The grass concealed the hunter as much as the prey, and the air was heavy and threatening on his shoulders. Nill noted with displeasure that there were always small wild cats or birds of prey around him. They were not dangerous, but they knew where he and his ram were. He was not worried for himself, but a pack of leonpedons would judge a ram to be easy and tasty prey. Nill called for the ram to stay close, and to his surprise the stubborn old animal obeyed. From now on Nill followed the narrow hunter’s tracks, and they had soon left the plains surrounding Ringwall.

  The terrain began to rise and soon the bald stone heads of the hills broke through the grass. One evening he made a wondrous discovery. Glittering like precious jewels in the last rays of the evening sun, small droplets of water clung to the grass. It could not be dew – it was too early in the evening, and the air was far too warm. Out of curiosity he decided to taste it. It was normal water apart from a subtle, yet impossibly sweet note. Nill caught the droplets in the palm of his hand. Twenty each made a tiny mouthful that filled his mouth with a flowery, mellifluous taste. Nill did not know that people called it dreamwater. Those who bought it paid a high price, for the gathering was an arduous process, and nobody was quite sure when the droplets came forth to breath the silent evening air. And so he simply enjoyed their sweetness and their smell, and the happy thoughts that followed.

  *

  The archmages of Ringwall had convened around the Onyxian Oval. Gnarlhand, Archmage of Earth, had worked his element tirelessly to rebuild it from the three fragments it had shattered into. But the magic that could have undone the conflict in the High Council was beyond any of them. The splits in the stone stood out more clearly than scars left by a blade. They would forever serve as a reminder that conflict and disunity are the parents of weakness.

  The seats around the table were throne-like, each attempting to outdo the others in grandeur. The five elemental archmages sat opposite the magon. Beside him were the Mages of the Spheres – Keij-Joss, he who read the Cosmos; Murmon-Som, Archmage of the Other World; and Ambrosimas, whose magic was of thoughts and words. The Archmage of Nothing was absent. His chair, plain and without embellishment, was empty. The circle was incomplete.

  The Onyx’s scarred surface crackled and blew sparks as the archmages took their seats. Gnarlhand worried how long the stone would last as his eyes wandered across the cracks and gouges. Now and then he shook his head unnoticeably. It did not look good, not good at all. What worried him even more were Ambrosimas and Keij-Joss. Ambrosimas had wrapped his aura around himself like a cloak and was barely visible beneath the dancing symbols; Keij-Joss was so pale he looked as though he would evaporate at any moment.

  “I have asked you here today because Nill, our Brother of Nothing, seems to have gone missing.”

  The airy tone Gwynmasidon affected stood in stark contrast to the pulsing vein in his temple.

  “Can any of you tell me where he is, or the last time he was seen?”

  The magon’s tone had not lasted for more than a sentence. He was angered, and he showed it.

  “I have felt a weakening of the circle for only a few days,” Queschella answered. She was the Archmage of Water and the only woman on the council. “I never considered it important; Brother Nill’s contribution to the circle’s power was never great,” she muttered with a disapproving glance at Ambrosimas, who showed no sign of having listened.

  “Although, the blame is not his own; the young man had no example to follow in that regard,” Nosterlohe added haughtily.

  Ambrosimas remained impassive.

  Bar Helis slammed his fist down on the magical Onyx. “Enough. We all know what to think of Brother Ambrosimas, but our dear Archmage of Thoughts is not what we’re here for. We were talking about our Brother Nill.”

  My Brother Nill, your Brother Nill, our Brother Nill. Don’t make me laugh, you puffed up, pompous prattler, Ambrosimas thought. He did not have the time to finish his thought; Bar Helis rode his attack in a full gallop.

  “I agree with you, Sister Queschella. Nill’s contribution to the circle was small. But if I may remind you all, the boy succeeded in killing Mah Bu, and Mah Bu was an archmage. Powerful and experienced.”

  Bar Helis observed with satisfaction that several faces around the table darkened.

  “Mah Bu was a fool, and now he’s dead. Of course his experience was undeniable. But the powers of the Other World cannot always be tamed. Every Archmage of the Other World lives a dangerous life.” Ambrosimas’ voice was flat and dispassionate. Such an Ambrosimas was a new appearance at the High Council, and everyone wondered what game the Archmage of Thoughts was playing this time.

  “Is that right? A fool, was he?” Bar Helis flared up. “To me, there are only two explanations. Either Brother Nill received aid from within the council, or…”

  Bar Helis did not have the opportunity to finish his sentence. Beneath the weight of this accusation the Onyx heaved and fired flashes through the room. Gnarlhand leapt up and laid his hands on the stone, sending all his power into the cracks. He would not be able to save it again.

  “Magon!” he shouted agitatedly. “You cannot allow such suspicions to spread! We need the stone.”

  The magon jerked up. Nobody knew where he had been in his thoughts. Several of those present noted that his face had gone gray. His features were, as always, straight and angular, but the skin sagged a little here and there. The visions must have cost the magon dearly.

  “We should hunt Nill down and force him to admit he is the Changer.” Fiery in spirit and mind, Nosterlohe always preferred quick and effective solutions, but the magon disagreed.

  “You think it is so easy. Nosterlohe! Bar Helis! You seek the Changer and so everything unusual is your quarry. But the world is not so simple, fate is not so transparent. Even if our brother is the Changer, he does not know it. No one could live with the knowledge that they must one day destroy the world. Questioning will lead nowhere. And remember, Brothers and Sisters, my visions have not changed. The figure has barely left the mists, and all around him rages the din of war. These images do not match Brother Nill.”

  “Why give fate a chance?” To everyone’s surprise Nosterlohe did not give up. “As easily as we made him an archmage, so too can we banish him from our midst. Thoroughly, if you understand my meaning. We would be rid of many troubles and could focus on more important things once more.”

  The Onyx understood Nosterlohe’s meaning and creaked ominously.

  Ambrosimas’ voice added little. “Such as?” The acerbic derision cut through his densely-woven aura.

  “Brothers,” Gnarlhand said soothingly. “Our disunity has broken the Onyx once before. What do you think will happen if we decide to eliminate one of our own?”

  The Onyx had stopped sending out the bolts and flashes. Its sudden silence was only interrupted by an occasional crackling.

  “There is, of course, another possibility.”

  Ambrosimas had chosen to speak in thoughts, countering Nosterlohe’s loud voice with his own silence. A wave of pale blue light shot through the Onyx. In silence there was often more strength than in thunder.

  “The Archmage of Nothing was chosen by fate, and is on our side. He will know what to do. We should let he go wherever he wants. He will guide us to the right place and show us what he seeks. I will send a follower after him, so quiet that even the snakes cannot feel its steps, so quick that the wind believes it doesn’t exist.”

  Bar Hel
is’ expression darkened further still, and sparks shot out of the stone before him, but it was Murmon-Som who spoke.

  “Nill, our savior and the answer to destiny itself. Please, Brothers. This is children’s talk, fairy-tales for the gullible. And to send a follower after him – as if we are a horned husband, jealously running after an unfaithful wife. Brother Ambrosimas, please.” Murmon-Som smiled. Several archmages chuckled, and Ambrosimas’ aura grew denser. “But there is one more thing to consider, something none of us can explain.”

  Eight pairs of eyes looked expectantly at Murmon-Som. Only Ambrosimas kept his gaze fixed on the Onyx.

  “It is the magic of Nothing,” Murmon-Som answered the unspoken question. “It entered into our world, found a place in the Sanctuary and pushed its chair into our circle. In the beginning, I heard, it was just a small space between two chairs. As long as we fail to understand why the Nothing is among us, and Brother Nill is the only one who is in no danger when contacting this mystifying magic, it would be unwise to… remove him. I therefore suggest we send out our hunters and beg Nill to return. Should we still believe Nosterlohe’s idea necessary, we might yet act upon it at a later date. But in a time of such danger as we are in now, when our entire future hangs in the balance, we would do well to keep our young archmage at our side. At all times.”

  Murmon-Som’s words crept across the table and unfolded their potential slowly, like a delicate poison. The first heads began to nod in agreement without noticing it, for none of them liked Nill’s absence. Others saw only precious time lost and hesitated. In the end, even Bar Helis agreed.

  Murmon-Som hid his satisfaction masterfully, aided in no small part by his sickly appearance. Rarely were the eyes of the council upon him, and if they were, it was a mere formality. The shadow Mah Bu had cast upon the circle was long, and Murmon-Som would need time to be heard. He did not mind. Being underestimated was a strength he could use.

  Only the cracked Onyx spoke a different language. It had thrown wild sparks when Bar Helis’ passion had got the better of him. It glowed in a pale blue light before the chair of Nothing, as though Nill was still there. Only in front of the magon and Keij-Joss it showed nothing but a gray shimmer, and it seemed to avoid Ambrosimas altogether. Occasionally there was a flash of light in the darkness, or a crackle along the fractured edges. Murmon-Som looked over at Ambrosimas concern. At first it had bothered him that he could not read the Onyx – now it was a real worry. But he seemed alone in this; the others did not appear to care.