by Awert, Wolf
The voice sounded rather haughty.
“You don’t look like you traveled with a caravan; or at least not a very large one.” Some of the bearded faces cracked into grins and the men’s gestures showed quite plainly their opinion of rams compared to horses or camels.
“Continue along the road and take the stair Woodwards. You will find an inn or two there. Or is someone expecting you in Encid?” The haughtiness grew more mocking.
Nill began to boil inside, as always when he was not taken seriously. Who does this muckling think he his? Who does he think I am? But he had barely finished thinking the thought when a laugh began to bubble up inside him and spread across his face. Am I really going to start behaving like one of Ringwall’s mages? He wondered, and his smile grew wider and gained the soft glaze of leniency not usually given to such a young man. The crowd only saw him laugh, though, and never guessed at the thoughts that had caused it, and in their renewed curiosity they raised their heads once more.
Nill replied calmly: “Nobody expects me. I come and go with the wind. And that is why I sleep in the dust of the by-road or beneath the roof of a lord.”
The other speaker stood up and looked around to make sure he had everyone’s attention; for he was vain, and like all vain people a little stupid as well.
“You’ll find no lords here in Encid. All the power in the Fire Kingdom lies with the king in Gulffir. The rest of the realm puts its strength in the eldest of the tribes. Only in Encid, City of Flames, is each of the thirteen tribes represented by a family. And Abimarch alone presides over them.” The man’s voice was heavy with pride.
“So take me to him,” Nill responded.
The speaker’s eyes, which had just been so derisive, were suddenly angered, and his mock politeness disappeared with a harsh laugh. He had had enough of this stranger’s games. “I’ll take no shepherd’s boy before Abimarch.” The man turned his back to Nill.
Nill answered to the crowd at large as they eyed him part curiously, part warily. “Thank you for your information. Do not worry about me. If Abimarch is who you say he is, which I have no reason to doubt, then my path will take me to him anyway.”
With these words Nill turned around and, ignoring the bubbling babble that began to rise behind him, climbed the next set of stairs with his ram close by.
What Nill saw appeared to be the houses of the city, but he was not entirely sure. He had never seen a city like this. All the houses he knew had been built. Stone was layered on stone, bricks on bricks, and where wood was plentiful planks and beams were connected until they formed a structure that was clearly a house or a hut. A house breaks through the flatness of the land around it. It stands tall and proud, even if it is only a one-room cabin. But this was completely different. The housing here was carved into the rock.
The canopies that covered parts of the open yards consisted of lengths of joined leather, stretched over wooden beams that had been anchored into the mountain. The wood must have come from far away and showed the great wealth of the city. To Nill, knowing only the cramped space of small rooms and having seen the endless distance in Ringwall’s halls for the glamour they were, these houses seemed palatial in their size. It was as though some madman had fused tent and cave. And everywhere he looked, there were steps, ledges and bays. It was impossible to tell where one domicile ended and the other began. Even the streets and paths of the city seemed to meld into the buildings.
Unsure where to go in this mess of chambers and courtyards, and without any recognizable directions, Nill turned to one of the bigger rooms. He had the impression that he had already entered a house without realizing it.
“Come closer, but move not too hastily,” a croaking voice came from a jutting slightly above Nill’s head. Nill looked up and saw a glowing pair of eyes looking down at him from beneath an impressively bushy pair of eyebrows. The rest of the face remained hidden in shadows, but the hunched back and the veiny right hand he could make out told Nill he was speaking to a very old man.
“Forgive me if I have intruded on your property; I am not from here, and I find this city rather confusing.”
“Even we have our difficulties here from time to time. The light plays with the stone in a tricky way, and the stone is more alive than the blind folk believe. Come closer that I may see you properly, and please keep a good hold on that ram of yours.”
As Nill drew closer, a soft, deep growl made him falter. In the back of the room, barely distinguishable from the brownish-yellow stone, a huge animal rose. Its shoulders were about waist-high to Nill.
“A ripper? You own a ripper?” Nill gasped, and he instinctively laid his arms over his ram to protect him.
The old man shrugged. “We call them faline. Ripper, you say? Never heard that before.”
The animal had come closer and held its head low as it approached. The lower its head went, the more prominent its back became, and with every step it looked bigger and mightier. Its eyes were half-closed and the short sallow fur stood on end. The old man made no indication of holding the faline back.
Nill forced himself to take a deep breath. “What’s its name?” he asked, less out of interest than to relieve the tension in the air.
“Doesn’t have one. Why should it? It’s an animal. Names are for people.”
Nill had to admit that the question had been rather futile; in his homeland, none of the sheep had had names either, not even his ram. On the other hand, he had heard of horses receiving names. Maybe horses were a different matter?
“But you could give an animal a name,” he said.
“What sense is there in that? People have names because fate has a plan for them. Or because their parents put into them their own wishes or blessings. Animals aren’t chosen by anything, that’s why they don’t have a name.”
“But there are humans who give themselves their own names.”
“There are wise people, and then there are fools. If you give yourself a name, you’re either doing it unknowingly as part of what fate has in store for you, or you’re trying to tell the world: ‘look at me, this is me.’ You tell me! Is it the fool or the wise man who acts like this?”
Nill had to suppress a smile. He had certainly been a fool when he had taken the name Nill from an insult, as a sign of defiance. Or maybe not – beneath fate’s invisible hand things sometimes happened that were not so black and white. Maybe it had not been foolish, but destiny.
The faline seemed to have seen its fill. It padded over to the entrance where it let out a long, drawn-out screech that was answered from several different places. It then returned to its spot by the wall, sank down to the ground and blended once more into its surroundings.
“We have our own guards here,” the old man explained. “The faline thinks you should be allowed to stay, so I will offer you my hospitality.”
The old man slid down from his jutting and bade Nill to follow him further into the large room. The ram followed the two humans at a polite distance. Out of nowhere several figures appeared, bringing with them fresh tea and a few bowls of perfumed water. Young, fragrant hands washed the dust from Nill’s face and cooled his neck. Nill enjoyed the gentle motions, but enjoyed even more how the people here used their time. In Ringwall, you ate when you were hungry, and Nill wondered whether all courtly manners lay with the nobility and the mages. They could have learned much from the mucklings here. As Nill thought it, the word ‘muckling’ made him falter. The inhabitants of Encid had no knowledge of the arcane, and Nill felt no magic anywhere. But the word muckling seemed suddenly unfitting, even distasteful to him.
They ate for a long time. Silently and attentively they enjoyed their meal and Nill felt his strength returning. He did not miss the fact that the front half of the semi-open room had slowly begun to fill with people who looked upon his host with respect, even reverence.
“Sit beside me, stranger,” the old man said, “and tell me and the others what brings you to Encid. You are no trader, and the ram by your sid
e does not make you a shepherd.”
Fate brings me to Encid, Nill thought as he sat down beside his host. Did Morb-au-Morhg not say that part of the truth would be found outside of Ringwall? And I still want to find my parents and understand what the prophecy means.
Nill felt once more the feeling of urgency he had carried with him since his last encounter with the falundron, and which he had never been able to shake off entirely. So he cleared his throat and prepared to speak when he suddenly realized that he was in Sergor-Don’s kingdom. The peacefulness of the place had almost made him careless.
“My name is Nill, the nothing, and there is no reason for my being here. Should there be a reason, then fate alone knows it. Where I come from it is customary for young folk to visit all five realms before taking over their parents’ duties. I wish to visit the Borderlands; there is an old legend in my village that tells of a man called Perdis who found an ancient scroll in the Borderlands.”
This was neither truth nor lie. Nill knew he would go to the Borderlands if he had to. And he really was searching for Perdis, and the runes he had brought with him. Among the crowd there was muttering when he mentioned the Borderlands, but the old scripts and even the name Perdis elicited no reaction.
“We in the Fire Kingdom have no great love of scrolls,” the old man said. “The wind takes the symbols too soon. Only the spoken word lasts, as it goes from generation to generation. You mentioned a legend. Tales are what make up a great deal of our people’s lives. You would do us a great honor if we could hear one of your own.”
Nill did not need convincing; it was tradition to repay hospitality with news from the far reaches of the world, or to tell stories that had likely not made it here yet. But Nill had come to learn something important. And so he began his speech with the words:
“I would like to tell you a story from your own kingdom, a story that might have been long forgotten, but is worth remembering.”
The old man nodded in approval, but several other exchanged meaningful glances. It was unusual, not to say impertinent, to tell tales that had their origins in the realm one was visiting. But Nill began to speak of five sorcerers who had sought refuge in the Borderlands during the Great Persecution.
They studied a magic no one had known before. It was the magic of the five elements, of Earth, Metal, Water, Wood and Fire. In the Fire Kingdom they were pursued by fast riders and only their magic enabled their escape. As long as they kept a safe distance from the settlements, they remained unmolested, for there were things in the plains of greater importance than hunting sorcerers. But with time their supplies dwindled, and at the least opportune time, when they reached the desert, they had no more water. They dragged themselves through the scorching sands until they reached an oasis at the foot of the mountains, where a hermit lived and guarded a small spring. The water came from a small hole in a rock, and the hermit caught it in a bowl. When the bowl was full he poured the water onto the roots of one of the eight sweetnut trees that kept him company and fed him their fruits.
The sorcerers pleaded for water, and the hermit promised them all the water he did not need for his trees. With avaricious eyes they watched the bowl slowly fill, and when it was full the hermit carried it to the next tree, removed the large leaves on the ground, watered the tree and replaced the leaves.
The Sorcerers were incensed; they were parched, and the hermit was wasting the water on the roots!
“The water is for those who live here,” he told the sorcerers, for he had noticed their angry glares. “I will happily forgo my share for your sakes, but I cannot make that decision for the trees.” The sorcerers knew the wisdom in the lonesome man’s words and decided to be patient. It took several days to quench their thirst, and longer still to fill their waterskins, for at the end of each day there was not much left. And during the night the trees even received a second bowl. On the eve of their departure the first sorcerer handed the hermit a costly dagger as thanks for the gift of water, but the old man declined with thanks.
“I need no weapon. There are no enemies I need to defend myself against. And should a troop of soldiers decide to end my life, a dagger would stop them not.”
The second sorcerer dwelled on this for a few moments and then held out a hand in which lay a beautiful ring, but again the hermit did not accept the gift. “Should word get out that I have such a ring in my possession, the thieves would come or worse. I would rather you keep it.”
Determined to thank the hermit for his water, the third sorcerer pulled a light overdress from his traveling bag, but the hermit said: “I spend my days in the shade. You need the clothing more than I. Should you die in the desert, the water would have been drunk in vain.” The sorcerer bowed his head in shame.
The fourth sorcerer procured a map from his shirt and said: “This map shows all the important paths. We detailed them on our way here. With this map you will never get lost.” The hermit again gave his thanks and said: “Maps are of use to those who wander, but I am the spring’s keeper and will stay here until the end of my days.”
“Will you not grant us our right to thank you, as tradition dictates?” the fifth and youngest sorcerer cried in anger. He was the Sorcerer of Fire and he made a rock float over, and burnt into it with hot flames several signs. “It will take a long time for sun and wind, water and salt to heal the wounds I have cut into this stone. The symbols will remind you always of us and remain a mystery for eternity.”
“Your gift to me was your company in my solitude. It is thanks enough for me. I will happily accept your mystery as another of nature’s own, another task fate has given me. I will not need the symbols to remember you; I will never forget.”
The impulsive young sorcerer felt suddenly guilty of his outburst and said: “With your answer you have given me another gift, and also bestowed upon me a great shame. I will not leave until I have repaid my thanks.” The young man spat thrice upon the wet earth, pulled a feather from his brimmed hat and scratched a few markings into the ground. “With sand and a feather you can praise whatever you wish. You can show nature its beauty through your own eyes, and you can witness the things you have written disappear beneath the strength of the sun.”
“Something so fleeting can hardly hurt,” the hermit said jovially. “I gladly accept your gift.”
The next morning the first four sorcerers continued on their journey, but the fifth remained to teach the hermit the art of letters, and the secrets of their deeper meaning.
“We have no knowledge of what happened to the other sorcerers,” Nill said thoughtfully. “We believe they were the first to practice the magic of the elements, and as that is the magic we all know today, it seems clear that they survived. According to the legend, it was due to the Fire Kingdom that the old magic never died out, as the burnt symbols remained forever. And it was one of the sorcerers of the new magic, of Fire, who took the elemental magic to the Fire Kingdom and then all of Pentamuria. That is the legend we hear.”
The listeners’ faces radiated satisfaction. The old man had chewed on green leaves while Nill spoke, and now he spat the pulp into a small cup. Then he said:
“I thank you, stranger. It took great courage to tell us this story, for you have also told us how you see your hosts. A man who can tell a tale is a clever man, and one who invents them has the makings of a wise one. You knew before you arrived that we have no love for writing, and that pictures are of little meaning to us. And yet there is much truth in your words. Images and words have no value to those who are always traveling. But in the desert, where the people live among the water and the rocks, where they never leave, things are different. And to this day our scholars still debate whether the Fire Kingdom came from the desert and conquered the plains, or whether the plainsmen left for the desert when they grew more numerous and the plains no longer offered enough food.
“The spring you spoke of has probably long since run dry; but who knows what nature can do. If the hermit was ever visited by a disciple he
found worthy, perhaps there still is a keeper there. So go, go with Abimarch’s blessing toward the sun, to the rocks of the Borderlands. You must seek out the holy men of the desert, for only holy men would write in the sand only to wait for the wind.”
Nill gave his thanks, but did not depart immediately; he remained under Abimarch’s roof in Encid for a few more days before continuing on his travels. He had not dared ask for a healer; his visit in Encid would not remain a secret.
“Where do we want to go, old boy?” Nill asked his ram as they stood upon the last sandstone hill of Encid, the vast, uninviting, rough plain of rubble before them. “It all looks the same around here.”
The ram scratched the ground with his hooves impatiently. He likely saw no reason in wilting beneath the sun for a long time. He simply trotted off.
“When a leader grows weak another takes command,” Nill sighed and followed his ram.
The rubble was difficult terrain to cross; every step needed to be precise and careful. At noon they took a break in the shadow of a great boulder until the sun had set a little further and the heat was less intense. Nill had pulled his shirt up to his nose and closed his eyes to minimize water loss. He thought about the story he had told Abimarch and the rock-cutters. The five sorcerers had passed through a desert of sand, not rubble. But who could tell vision from imagination?
As evening drew close they reached the roots of the mountains on the far side of the plain and crossed an old riverbed. To the left it was no more than a great hole in the mountain, half-hidden by the shadows of the cliff and perfectly suited to anyone wishing to hide there. The water had gouged a deep furrow into the ground over thousands of years, and had melded stones and earth to a dense layer. The riverbed was a blessing for Nill’s sore feet, and they continued on with considerably less difficulty than before. They marched until the sun’s rays had given their last light. Nill summoned a half-light in a last-ditch effort to keep going, but he might as well have tried to get the moon down to earth to light their night.
