Ringwall`s Doom

by Awert, Wolf

  He had difficulty in extending his attention to the surroundings. Again and again something outside flickered, the lightness of the world outside the cave was interrupted by wandering shades. For what he intended, perhaps choosing to sit facing away from the entrance might have been a better idea. But Dakh was not simply an arcanist. He was a man of the wild, and no one who values their life sits with their back to the only entrance.

  A last flicker and then darkness. Something blocked the entrance and shut the light out. Dakh’s eyes flicked open.

  “Wanted to see who’s snooping around.”

  The voice was deep and coarse, yet full. The face the voice came from was in shadow; Dakh could make out no details. The rays of the sun shone down on a messy jumble of gray hair, with the occasional dash of its original black.

  “Well, well, well, Dakh-Ozz-Han the druid. But even a great druid did not manage to make anything but a bullheaded land-owner out of Hermanis-Per.”

  There was more derision than bitterness in the voice, and more joy than sadness.

  “It was all so long ago, Urna. That was your name, wasn’t it? Urna! And still you cling to his memory. I can understand, I cling to him too. He is my friend.”

  “Pah. You understand nothing. He was proud of his dexterity with a weapon, the fool; proud of his strength, his gift of leading men into battle. But a leonpedon is more agile than he, a brulabar stronger, and a khanwolf a better leader. The only thing that made Hermanis special was that he could feel the elements while he traveled through time. He was the only one who could. Traveling through time and feeling the elements. He saw the world differently to me, connected past and future to a pattern he always got lost in, and then he’d come out laughing. How he laughed! I showed him the Other World, and I have him to thank that I know the Other World of the past and the future. Even if I don’t know when the future will come to pass; the future he helped me see. Yes, it’s true. I cling to him and his magic. He’s still a fool.”

  Urna sidled along the craggy rock and sat down opposite Dakh.

  “But you did not come all this way to talk about Hermanis with me.”

  “You are quite right. I came to deliver greetings from Urumir, your teacher. He asks whether you’re doing well.”

  “You’re a liar, Dakh-Ozz-Han! The old man would never presume to call himself my teacher. True, he showed me one or two things, but all the important knowledge came from my parents. And you’re a liar two times over. Urumir would never bother asking about me. He lives in his own little world. It’s always been that way and so it’ll always stay. So what do you want from me, druid?”

  Dakh looked a little sheepish, began a few sentences and stopped them after a couple of words. He shook himself and decided on the words he had to say.

  “I’m looking for your son. Sedramon-Per, the dragon between the mountain and the sea. And time is short, Urna. Too short.”

  “I can’t help you there. He’s even more of a fool than his father, and that’s saying something. One fool sends the other to Ringwall. He came to visit me once, Sedramon, when he’d become a sorcerer. He understood nothing of magic.”

  Urna clicked her fingers.

  “And where did he go?”

  “No idea. I had nothing to say to him. He wanted to find the roots of his magic on his own. No mean feat with parents like his.” Urna giggled merrily.

  “And you have no inkling where he might have gone?”

  “None whatsoever. His visit was many, many winters ago.”

  “Mothers and their sons sometimes have a magical bond. They can feel together even if they are a year’s travel apart.”

  “Never heard of that, but if he had left for the Plains of the Dead I would probably have noticed. No, he’s still a part of this world, that much I know.”

  “No more?”

  Urna shook her head.

  “Then I have wasted my time. I have no further hints. I will have to travel at random, and ask for Sedramon-Per wherever I go and hope for a lucky encounter. The Five Kingdoms are vast.”

  Urna said shortly: “Travel first to Woodhold, then on to the Waterways.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t know where he was.”

  “I don’t. But Sedramon had a vision when he was here, a vision of forests and fire. And when I think of him today, all I see is water. I can’t tell you what it means, I don’t know myself, but I wouldn’t waste my time looking for the boy in Earthland or Metal World.”

  The boy, Dakh thought. The boy must have seen forty winters by now, but to mothers, their sons are always children, all their lives.

  Out loud, he merely said: “I will depart shortly. Is there anything you’d like me to say from you?”

  Urna shook her head silently.

  XII

  Nill looked down at Fugman’s Refuge from above, the capital of Metal World, governed by the Trade King Talldal-Fug. The city lay at the center of a huge valley and was surrounded by fertile acres. The river that had once carved this valley into the land must have stormed here countless ages ago. It had gnawed at the mountainsides to the left and to the right in the fruitless effort of escaping its boundaries. Nature had let it rampage until it found an exit on the far side of the valley, where it fell to the depths over a rocky threshold. Water that calms down loses not only its anger, but also its burdens; and so the gargling giant had refilled the space it had dug with earth. This was a blessing to the people who lived there, for it granted them unparalleled amounts of fertile land, the lifeblood of any city. With each fruit that grew and was harvested, the ground gave a little of its strength, and just when it seemed exhausted, the river overflowed again and revitalized the earth.

  The farmland was not the only basis for the legendary wealth of Fugman’s Refuge. The metal of the mountains, the diligence of its inhabitants and the infamous cunning of its rulers were simply less visible.

  The trade kings of Metal World all came from the lineage of Fug. Only twice in the land’s history had the long line of Fugs been interrupted by temporary regents, and both times their rule had lasted only a few short winters until another Fugman sat upon the throne. This family lent the capital its name.

  As power and influence were concentrated in Ringwall, Fugman’s Refuge amassed gold and silver, sparkling jewels and thick, densely-woven brocade cloth. When Nill first glimpsed the city from atop a rock in the mountains, he saw none of it; no gleaming rooftops, no extravagant buildings, nothing to suggest the legendary wealth of the city. Most of the houses were mere dark blocks of unvarying height. They stood close together in the center, by the trade palace, and further apart as they reached the outskirts of the city. Nill noticed something else, too: this city had no walls and was completely unprotected. The only other city he had ever seen without a city wall was Raiinhir, the great circle that surrounded Ringwall. But that city at least had the mages’ watchful gaze.

  What would happen if an invading army burnt the farmland and the farmer’s huts to the ground? Nill wondered.

  Fugman’s Refuge seemed to invite not only merchants, but conquerors. According to what Nill had read, the city had never been taken. Something must have been protecting it. Nill looked around. Perhaps it was its unique position? Several roads led to it, and each road went through a pass. Mountain passes were far easier to defend.

  Nill raised a hand to his brows to block out the glaring sunlight. As far as he could tell from this distance, there were no buildings in any of the passes that would have warranted the description of a mountain fort. Only a few small houses that collected tariffs, or else checked on the lowlifes that usually lurked around cities. They were always the same, always on the lookout for easy prey, people too stupid, weak or sick to protect themselves. It was the first law of nature on a much smaller scale: only the strong and clever survived.

  Nill decided to enter the city with special caution, for what looked weak but had never been defeated must have powers beyond his reckoning.

  He was not quite
sure at which point he felt like he had left the land outside behind and entered into the city proper. It could have been when he reached the first house with three storys. The lowest one was half sunken into the ground, and instead of windows Nill saw a number of small holes in the wall, about the size of a child’s head. It looked vulnerable to arson. The middle story was the first to have real windows. Small and narrow, they reminded him more of crenels than gaps designed to let the daylight in. A stair led to this floor rather than to the one below, and at its top there was a large, colorful wooden door. This door, too, looked as though it offered little defense against a well-swung ax or hammer. Nill’s wonder grew.

  The living quarters appeared to be on the top floor. The windows were as big as Nill had come to know them in other cities, and they let plenty of light in. They were latticed with strong metal bars, anchored deep into the masonry. The house was topped with a flat roof that extended a little beyond the walls and blocked the sunshine from the street below. Nill was baffled as to the purpose of this odd decision, but he was certain that Brolok could explain it to him – once he had found him.

  The wide streets were full of merchants attempting to shout over one another. Long, narrow carts were pushed everywhere, and a biting stench came from the holes in the wayside. The city waited for the next rain to come; it was long overdue and would finally rinse the streets of the filth and rubbish that had accumulated there. Nill dodged beggars, whores and cutpurses with well-honed precision.

  “Say,” he addressed the person closest to him, “where is the blacksmith’s in Fugman’s Refuge?”

  “The blacksmith’s? Where do you think you are? There are more than two dozen blacksmiths here.” The man eyed Nill contemptuously, his gaze lingering on the threadbare clothing and shabby boots. “Just pick any. They’re all over the place.” The man snorted, turned back to his business and left Nill standing.

  As Nill was considering his next steps, a young woman approached him cautiously from the side. She was thin, with sunken skin above her collarbones that made her slender neck appear even longer. Her long, blonde hair was unkempt and fell lankly to her shoulders. Her eyes looked huge in that thin, bony face, but Nill detected no hint of weakness. Something he could not quite make out flickered around the young woman.

  “Some strength and warmth for me and my husband, kind sorcerer, please.”

  Nill had to laugh in spite of himself. Although neither his village nor Ringwall had known beggars, they were everywhere outside of his sheltered world. The hopeless, the outcast, the poor. In the Fire cities, begging was an acknowledged art, or at least a skill that stood in some regard. Here in Metal World, it seemed contemptible; the beggars stank and were clad in filthy clothes; they smelled worse than the streets they lived on. They begged for bread, for coin, or sometimes even for drink. But begging for magic? For strength and warmth? Nill had never heard of such a thing.

  “Do I not detect magic within you, Sister?” he therefore asked slowly.

  The girl winced. “A little, m’lord, a little. But nowhere near enough. Would you help us?”

  It cost Nill a considerable amount of effort to follow the girl. He did not know this city and was sure everyone could see it, making him a singularly easy prey for all sorts of criminals. He would not be the first person to get lured into a trap by a woman. But, he reasoned, he looked poor, and he had no personal wealth to speak of. Perhaps that would lessen the danger. Nevertheless, he conjured a basic shield of Metal and Fire energy to protect him. It was difficult to do surreptitiously, but at least it would shield him from a surprise swing with a short-range weapon.

  “Don’t worry, there’s no danger here,” the girl said.

  “I’m not worried,” Nill replied.

  “Your shield says otherwise.”

  “You can see the Fire and Metal?” Nill was surprised.

  The girl shook her head. “No, m’lord, just the shield. Not the elements.”

  Great, Nill scolded himself, now she knows what elements I used for it. You talk too much. Brolok would have told me to think before I speak, and by the elements, he was right.

  “There!” The young woman pointed at a bundle of rags, cowering at the corner of a house.

  Nill approached it cautiously. More than once he had known rags to spring into unexpected action. Magical shield or not, he was not keen on being attacked from below with a knife, although that was less likely in daylight anyway.

  His steps grew ever shorter until he stopped, still a considerable distance away from the bundle. Nill closed his two corporeal eyes and opened his third, incorporeal, one, and Fugman’s Refuge transformed. The people around him went transparent, their edges undefined. Their auras were all the brighter for it. The rags in the corner had an aura too, bright and dancing like a fire. What frightened Nill was the gaping tear in the aura. Now he understood why the girl had not asked for bread or money, but for strength.

  The tear went from the man’s brow along a wild zig-zag across his heart, down past the navel and ended just beneath the sad figure’s manhood. Several spots showed signs of inexpert healing, but the wound had reopened every time. This man would soon lose all his magic if no aid came to him. Whether that meant his life force too, Nill did not know – he was no healer.

  The young woman crouched beside the hunched figure and stroked the man’s hair lovingly.

  “I’ve brought help. You’ll feel a bit better soon.”

  The man looked up at Nill and grunted: “I’d’ve preferred to welcome you properly, as befitting an archmage. Well, at least my kingdom’s big enough for you to rest; it’s every street in this stinking place. True, the pantry and kitchen aren’t up to scratch, but still.”

  Nill jumped as he recognized the voice, but he forced himself to remain calm. “The stones are hard when you’re used to the glamour of underground caves, but at least here you don’t have to deal with arrogant nobles.”

  The girl’s eyes flitted back and forth between the two; she heard the words but understood nothing.

  “It’s about time you got here, old friend. I’ve been better. You got any food? You know, alms for the desperate and poor?”

  “You don’t sound too desperate to me. Not nearly desperate enough for people to give you things. I detect a trace of hubris in you still. You’re a lousy beggar, my friend. Get up and find proper work. How about… blacksmithing?”

  Nill grinned. The bundle of rags with the shredded aura was all too familiar to him. It was Brolok, his friend. The only person he felt he could truly trust. Well, almost: there was still Tiriwi, but they had only become friends a little later. Here before him sat Brolok, a sorcerer of Ringwall, and master smith, trained under the watchful eye of Master Galvan in the mages’ forge. Brolok the warrior, with the cunning of the cleverest muckling and the combat experience of the most privileged nobles.

  Brolok’s dirty face grinned back at him.

  “You’re right, I’m rubbish at begging.”

  Nill dug around in his bags and pulled out something to eat. “Here – it won’t fix your aura, but it’ll fill your belly for now. How did it happen? Didn’t Empyrade teach you to nurture your Wood magic?”

  “Of course she did,” Brolok replied with a full mouth. “But isn’t it every good piece of advice’s fate to be thoroughly ignored? Or did you always do what you were told?”

  Nill laughed out loud. “Not entirely. I remember a certain Brolok telling me time and time again not to get on the nobles’ bad side, and to leave the archmages well alone. Today I know that I was extremely lucky. Things could have gone very differently.”

  Brolok grinned again and scratched at his scalp; he caught a few lice and crushed them beneath his thumbnail. “Easy to see why people gossip about you being a ‘chosen one.’ That kind of talk is easier to believe than assuming that there’s something high above that shits luck and hits you with it.”

  Nill gave a theatrical sniff. “Luck doesn’t stink.”

  “Oh, y
ou.” Brolok gave Nill a friendly punch to the ribs, but it was nowhere near as strong as once it had been. Despite their joking, Brolok was a mere shadow of his former self. No amount of laughter and joy in their reunion could hide that fact.

  “We’ve got to fix your aura,” Nill said, suddenly serious. “You’re losing strength by the day. Imagine you’re in a fight with an enemy who’s sapping your strength, and you’re just lying around, letting it happen. Would you? No. So stop lying around. Do you have a home?”

  “Not anymore. We live in the streets now. No strength for work, no work for money, no money for a home. As you said yourself, I’m not the best beggar. Before you can make it work, you have to tell your pride to get lost. Maybe I could do that much, pride isn’t worth much to begin with. But then you have to forsake your dignity, and I can’t do that. What are you when you’ve lost your human dignity? Doesn’t make a difference at that point whether you stay alive, or starve because nobody’s giving you food. You’re not human anymore.”

  Brolok’s voice grew steadily bitterer throughout his tirade, and the laughter that had surrounded them only moments before had slunk away in a huff.

  “By the way, I think you’ve met my wife. Her name is Bairne. She’s a witch.”

  Nill looked at the girl sitting next to Brolok and chewing a piece of dried meat from Nill’s supplies with difficulty. She made no attempt at standing up again; her wide eyes were still flitting back and forth between the two men.

  “Hello, Bairne. I wouldn’t have thought Brolok would get married so soon,” Nill said.

  Bairne did not answer.

  Brolok did. “It’s good to have someone around you. Helps with loneliness, and it’s good to have a warm meal when you get home from work.”

  “You could have married a commoner.”

  “No. That was my father’s mistake. The arcanists shouldn’t mingle with those who aren’t. The children born of such unions suffer too much. Even though I can’t feel all the elements perfectly, I’m still a sorcerer, even as a half-arcanist. I don’t want my children to suffer like me.”