Ringwall`s Doom

by Awert, Wolf

  “What happened?” Sergor asked again.

  Skorn-Vis indicated Uul’s neck, where several small black splinters were stuck in the sweat.

  “It looks like the remains of a scorpiworm. Probably dropped from the ceiling the moment it felt Uul’s steps. A nice big treat like that doesn’t come past you every day in here. It had already paralyzed Uul by the time Aulo sliced it in half. Let us hope it did not manage to use its second venom to prepare the hatching.”

  Skorn-Vis attempted to keep his voice factual and aloof, but he was shaken. It was not just that he had learned to enjoy Uul and his odd mixture of sacred seriousness and innocent happiness. It was also Aulo’s magic that terrified him. The man might have been unable to use most of his brain, but his command of Metal was brutal and exact at the same time, as precise as it was expansive. Skorn-Vis had never seen anything like it.

  “Who can heal him?” The young king’s eyes wandered from one guard to the next. Sijem merely gave a hollow and doubtful chuckle as he shook his head, Aulo stared at a point only he could see and did not move. Phloe looked up and ceased his stroking to raise his hands in helplessness.

  “They are only half-arcanists, my liege,” Skorn-Vis said hesitantly. “Only a true arcanist could hope to succeed.”

  “So you heal him.”

  Skorn-Vis sighed and knelt beside the boy, laid his palms on Uul’s face. The venom had, as expected, already spread through his body. It would be difficult to extract it. Skorn-Vis pulled the Metal from Uul’s head and neck and guided it to his own mouth, where he made his tongue circle around between his cheeks and the roof of his mouth. When he had accumulated enough saliva he spat it out. The white foam bubbled on the ground for a short while and green vapor rose from it.

  “You’re still missing Fire, little brother. You can do it better than I. Wake up and help me instead of lying around, you lazy boy.”

  There was no Fire in the scorpiworm’s venom. In a land as hot as the desert of the Fire Kingdom it would not have made sense, where everyone had learned many different ways to ward off the heat. Metal and Water were in it, and something else. Something that made liquid rock shrink as it cooled down, that slowed its pace enough to make it form bulges and cords and made it taste sour. Skorn-Vis was certain that the sour taste was Earth, or more precisely solid rock. He could not make out any more besides the taste. He extracted Water and Metal from the unconscious Uul, left Wood well alone, and the Earth…

  “Hey, Sijem, take the sour rock out of the boy’s blood.”

  The dwarf opened his mouth that was far too big for his small head.

  “Just do it!”

  “There isn’t any sour rock in his blood.”

  “Shut up and do as I tell you.”

  Sijem the Brown leaned forwards, clapped his tiny hands on Uul’s forehead and began to laugh.

  “Sour rock and sour stone, bends a bone, breaks a bone.”

  The dwarf grew more and more enthusiastic and began to dance as he sang louder and louder; Skorn-Vis’ ears began to ring but he felt the false Earth magic leaving Uul’s body, and so he did not complain. The boy opened his eyes.

  “Uul, call Fire to yourself, give your body some warmth.”

  Uul nodded and closed his eyes once more, but this time his face remained lively.

  “Let me lie here for a while,” he said after a long pause. “I feel fine, but I’m tired and my back aches.”

  Sergor-Don stepped next to Uul.

  “I am proud of you, Uul. I am proud of every one of you. You are the best, as you are gathered here around me, each a master in his own field. Only you, Skorn-Vis, you are not a master, you are a true artist with many talents.”

  “You could have healed Uul as well, if not better, your Majesty. You were a student of Ringwall.”

  That was not what the young king wanted to hear. He gazed at the sorcerer whose experience and maturity seemed to stream from every pore of his skin, blending into his aura for an overwhelming sight.

  “What other abilities do you have, court sorcerer Skorn-Vis?”

  “Much and nothing. I am a sorcerer like any other, but my speciality lies in Water.”

  “Did you go to Ringwall?”

  Skorn-Vis burst into laughter and with it every little crinkle around his eyes seemed to glow with merriment.

  “Me, Ringwall? Far too much, your Majesty. My parents were sorcerers for the village, and not even that for a long time before. They must have traveled a lot, the elders said. The Vis always offered their services where they were needed. We did the small things that the great mages consider beneath them, but I do not complain. There was always enough to live off. I never knew real hunger, unlike the villages that suffered from frozen, burnt or otherwise destroyed harvests. I lived a good life.”

  “Give me a taste of your arts, Skorn-Vis.”

  “What, here in this cave, where even Fire has left?” Skorn-Vis winced as he realized he had objected to the king, and composed himself. “If it is your wish, my liege, I will do my best to obey. How could I deny you. But what do you wish to see?”

  “I will be happy with anything.”

  Skorn-Vis hesitated. He could feel that he was the only member of the kingsguard not to have Sergor-Don’s full trust. He had been a court sorcerer under Auran-San when the king had still been a child prince. He had to be careful.

  “I’m waiting.”

  “Give me a moment, please, your Majesty. Picking from any number of choices, and choosing wisely, is not an easy task. But if you dislike my first demonstration I would beg for a second try. Now then…”

  Skorn-Vis stretched and muttered something under his breath. The fiery rock groaned and moaned and cried bitter tears. Its crying gave way to a whimper and the walls grew moist. Tears flowed down them and dripped from the ceiling, causing Sijem to lift his cowl over his head. The dwarf would have liked to simply banish the water, but in light of the king’s wish to see a demonstration of Skorn-Vis’ arts he thought better of it.

  Uul grumbled as the water drenched his clothing. He put his hands on the ground and pushed himself into a sitting position with some effort and leaned with his back against the wall. He continued grumbling and cursing as only a horse-thief could. Wherever he looked there was Water.

  It gathered on the walls and on the floor, flowed downwards and grew more and more. Before long they all stood ankle-deep in water. And still Skorn-Vis muttered, and the only visible sign of effort was the deeper creases around his mouth.

  Uul, Phloe, Aulo and Sijem the Brown retreated to slightly higher ground. Only the king stood immovable, even though the water had already reached his calves. And Skorn-Vis muttered – or was it singing?

  The rock had come to life and the rushing water was its voice that had drowned out the pained groans early on. Skorn-Vis’ spell was inaudible and the others’ curses were silenced by the omnipresent sound of water as it echoed from every nook in every wall. A splash made Sergor-Don whirl around, his face more like a khanwolf that has picked up a scent than a human. He waited and listened as he probed the area around him, taking in even the minutest disturbances. How was Skorn-Vis getting all this water out of the rock, and was it really just water?

  A jolt interrupted his thoughts. Something was nibbling at the king’s right leg. Like a diving falcon his hand shot down into the water to grasp whatever it was and crush it.

  There was a splash and a hollow thud.

  “Very good, Skorn-Vis, you can stop. Uul, give us light.”

  Uul raised a hand and flames illuminated the cave that had just been cloaked in shadows. King Sergor-Don stared down at his leg where a container of some sort had been pushed against it by the flood.

  The water disappeared as quickly as it had come. The container, as long as a forearm, round and as wide as a fist, sank slowly to the ground. Whatever it was, either its walls were thick or its contents heavy. Nothing showed what was inside it, and if it had had magical traces on its surface the water had
washed them away.

  “Let us return,” the king said. “We are wet and cold, and if it is daytime outside then I would welcome the warmth of the sun.”

  It was indeed day as they left the cave. The sun dried their clothes and their evening meal tasted better than anything they had eaten while they were inside, even though it was still the same food. Bread, thickened milk and yellow pepper were their rations; their mood was more likely due to the fresh air that blew around their noses and the feeling of limitless freedom beneath a ceiling that was not solid rock.

  And yet there was a strange tension that came from the clay container as it lay in the corner of the tent.

  “I feel danger. Tonight I would like you to take up position in a circle around the tent. Weave a protective shield against everything and everyone, above, below and around us.”

  The sorcerers obeyed, but the dwarf grumbled. “He could have just said he doesn’t want us to be with him when he opens that thing. I would have known what he meant.” Aulo gave him a slap on the head and the dwarf fell silent.

  King Sergor took his time as he examined the container. If it had been smaller he would have assumed its purpose was to keep secret messages safe. Now, in the dry desert air, some of the smell came from the clay that the water had pressed into it. The dusty scent of age surrounded it and something else, something that gave Sergor a familiar feeling, something he knew but could not name.

  Sergor-Don waited for a long time before he finally smashed through the clay. He broke off the end that looked like it had been the last part to have been sealed, which he held upright in anticipation that something would fall out. But nothing came. With several more magical blows the entire pipe broke into shards. They fell chiming to the floor and King Sergor now held in his hand several sheaves of spotted, but well-preserved parchments that had been tightly furled inside the clay container.

  It was not easy spreading them on the floor. They must have been rolled up for a long time and were now brittle. Sergor-Don had to use some magic before grabbing the top-most stack of parchments. It consisted of a map, similar to the one that had led them here, but this one showed a land he did not recognize. The other two pages were covered in tightly-written ancient symbols, the same ones he had found in his youth. Sergor-Don had difficulty in deciphering them in the half-light of the tent, but one word jutted out at him. Olvejin.

  That was what he had hoped to find here: the Olvejin, the mystical item of Ringwall’s founding fathers. With its help he would force Ringwall to its knees. He did not know whether to be happy or angry. The Olvejin existed, but it was not here. He did not even know exactly what it was, but there was still hope in finding a means to power.

  Beneath the three parchments that mentioned the Olvejin there were two others, completely covered with incomprehensible text. It had something to do with the waking of magic, but it made no mention of the kind of magic. It spoke of great magical changes and made reference to other scripts that the writer seemed to know all too well, but said nothing to the king.

  The bottom-most pile was the thickest and was made up of more than just a few parchments. It appeared to be the remains of a book; after all this time some of the pages were still held together by the sticky substance that had once bound them all. The first page read, in large and artfully decorated letters:

  The Other World and its Magics

  Section by section the different spells were listed, each with a short description and explanation. It was too little to truly understand the spells, but of a nature to make the young king realize that there was much more in the Other World than Ringwall’s mages guessed. Ringwall’s knowledge and this book: a king needed nothing else to rise above all other kings. Ringwall’s knowledge. Wherever he turned, Ringwall was always there in his way. And he had no Olvejin to open his path into the innermost core of the mages.

  Ringwall must fall!

  Now that King Sergor-Don knew that he no longer needed to hope for a miracle, for some supernatural power, a magic nobody could counter, his determination grew further still. He believed, as he always had, that destiny had chosen him. Why else would the legacy of the past have so willingly presented itself to him in the tower? Why did only he know of the Olvejin? And why had the thing he had so fruitlessly searched for in the dragon’s skull simply floated up against his leg? It had been his own doing. He had commanded Skorn-Vis to summon the waters. It could be no different. He, King Sergor-Don, had been chosen to crush Ringwall. It needed preparation. And for the first time ever, the young king decided to confide his plan to others.

  “Listen closely,” he said to his kingsguard and raised a hand to point at a spot somewhere far in the cosmos. The sorcerers stared enraptured at the stained leather of the tent’s ceiling as though they could see the future in it.

  “Our goal lies up there,” Sergor-Don continued. “High up in the stars, as high as high can go. And the reward for our efforts will be greater than anything you can imagine. An overpowering foe stands in the Fire Kingdom’s way. Once it has fallen, nothing and no one will be able to stop us. I speak of Ringwall; I speak of the city of mages that decides Pentamuria’s fortunes under the guidance of its magon. I speak of the archmages whom nobody seems able to match and the colored cloaks that follow them, and the White mages whose loyalties swing like a twig in the wind.

  “Look at me, you who have followed me into the depths of the desert to find the secrets of the dragon’s skull. We will defeat Ringwall when three things come together. Surprise, the right time, and our strength. You are my strength, and I am yours. The surprise that will catch Ringwall off guard comes from the past, and the right time will be clear to me. Until then gather your strengths and enhance your craft, cultivate your courage and confidence, for every one of you will have to resist an archmage.”

  VI

  The path was arduous and the air too dry, and as far as the eye could see the only living things were lone, leathery plants that Nill’s ram completely ignored. He would occasionally chew on some thorny bush, but it did not sate his hunger, and that reflected in the accusatory look in his eyes when Nill looked at him. Nill shared his own rations with the ram.

  On the fifth day the ground finally grew harder and the light grays gave way to a pale yellow. Somewhere in the distance a dust storm raged that made the sky look white as it hid the sun from view.

  “No sun and still no shade,” Nill complained as he instinctively wiped his brow. It was bone-dry and refused to give even a drop of cooling sweat. The ram had stopped circling a while ago and nudged Nill onwards whenever he wanted a break.

  “You’re merciless, you know that,” Nill scolded the ram. “You’re pushing me like a donkey and you won’t even carry a tiny bag.”

  The ram looked at him as if to say: “Move your legs, not your mouth,” and some of the restlessness and urgency he had felt in the falundron made Nill obey. With a sigh he continued onwards.

  At the end of the sixth day, their first with no food or water, Nill and his companion saw a mountain range that shone a bright, coppery red in the setting sun.

  They look like they’re on fire, Nill thought, and now he understood why Encid was called the City of Flames. Can’t be much further. We should be there by tomorrow.

  They rested a little way off the path. Their camp was not comfortable: the ground was hard rock beneath a thin layer of sand, and jagged bits of stone poked up all over the place.

  Tomorrow we’ll be there, Nill thought before exhaustion pulled him into the world of sleep. The night passed dreamlessly and ended the same as morning came at the first rays of the sun. The ram no longer needed to urge him on. Nill threw his baggage over his aching back and marched onwards.

  The landscape changed frequently now. The caravan trail they followed began to carve its way through the rock. It looked as though the rocks around them were growing taller with every step until the path suddenly ended on a great open space. In the middle was a fountain. Behind it was a wide stair with l
ong, flat steps that led upward. No problem for a practiced rider, but less ideal for a ram.

  Nill helped himself to some water from the fountain and washed his face, then wetted a rag and cleaned his ram’s eyes, nose and mouth of dust and sand before climbing the first few steps.

  Encid was a strange town. Sections of winding stairs alternated with straight paths. There were lanes to the sides and small open spaces, benches and trees. “The most important part of a city is the trees,” he had once been told, but he had not understood the meaning of it until now. Now he noticed that the air grew fresher with every step. There was a smell that gave the wanderer a sleepy contentment. Here, even the pervasive dust settled. The tall rocks granted wanderers welcome shade and coolness, and the scent of flowers was rich in the air.

  A babble of voices told Nill that people were nearby, and at the top of the next set of steps there was a round plaza with another fountain in its center. This was no mere hole in the ground; it was an ornate stone structure with green bushes surrounding it and carved stone benches that invited passers-by to sit and relax for a while. The men near the fountain stood together in small groups or sat on the floor playing with dice, smoking or drinking a golden liquid from tiny cups. Its sweet smell mingled with the pipe-smoke and made Nill feel slightly light-headed. The coolness of the evening had reawakened the people’s spirits, as the scorching heat of day forced them to retreat to the shade of their homes. Several women stood a little way apart, and their colorful shining clothes seemed to sparkle like jewels compared to the men’s drab gray and brown cloaks.

  Nill stopped and waited for the curious eyes to settle on him.

  “Hal!” he greeted them. “Might a weary traveler find a place here to rest and eat?”

  One of the sitting men spoke up. He decided against rising to greet the stranger. “Be welcome, stranger. The caravans usually camp down by the bottom of the stairs and wait for someone to receive them.”