Ringwall`s Doom

by Awert, Wolf

  “I can do magic for myself,” Gerk snarled. “I have mastered the Fast Farewell, even if sometimes I still need my hammer to help out.”

  Brolok had had enough of this farce. He did not have an eternity. He gestured towards the fire and the flames grew tall.

  “I would keep a better eye on my coals. It burns faster than it used to. Even the coal’s changed with time.” Brolok’s voice was icy cold.

  Gerk’s face drained of color. “A sorcerous blacksmith or a forging sorcerer. Alright, by the eternal fire’s demons, fine, you can use my forge. But reduce the damn fire!”

  Brolok lowered his hand, stepped towards the anvil and took a short piece of iron out of his sack. He laid it in the embers until it softened and then beat it into a hook. In the lower part of the hook he hammered a few small dents, just big enough for his fingers to fit comfortably. He drew a spur from the outer curve of the hook.

  “What’s this?” Gerk inquired.

  “A grip so it doesn’t slip. I can hold it like a hand in greeting. An undying friendship’s handshake, if you will,” Brolok replied with a grin; he dropped the glowing iron in one of the tubs, where it sank into the water with a hiss.

  He pulled out his engraver and with his hammer and tongs he extracted a long, glowing tip from its strengthened end. After retrieving the grip from the water, he put both pieces back into the fire. Very lightly he pressed the engraver against the grip and to Gerk’s astonishment both pieces flowed together without a single blow of the hammer.

  “Metal and metal, easy to combine with simple magic. Very useful for blacksmiths,” Brolok explained.

  “You frighten me. Are you a warlock?” Gerk’s voice had lost any trace of impudence.

  “Warlocks don’t bother with forging,” Brolok answered. “It’s probably best if you pretend I was never here.”

  “Be sure of that, Master Brolok. I will not breathe a word of this to anyone.”

  Brolok was certain that Gerk was already calculating how much money he could press out of someone for the knowledge of a magical blacksmith, so he gave a spiteful smile and asked: “Did you get a good price for my weapons?”

  “Certainly, they were well made. Although not quite the price I was hoping for, but you know it yourself, times are hard.”

  Brolok nodded thoughtfully. “I forgot to tell you then. They were magical weapons. Remember that the court sorcerers aren’t too fond of any magical weapons beside their own. Pray they never find out that those particular weapons exist, or that you sold them.”

  “You are a demon,” Gerk cursed.

  Brolok laughed. “I will not visit again. Unless you decide to sell me out to the sorcerers. Then I might find myself forced to…” Brolok looked over Gerk’s shoulder into the rocky landscape, “find refuge somewhere here in the mountains. Not with you, but somewhere close.”

  “You can rely on my word. Only a fool endangers himself willingly, but say – that thing about the durability spell… is that still an offer? I did help you, after all.”

  Brolok was unfazed. “Of course it is. I keep my promises, good and bad.”

  “Yes, yes, I understand. I have this scythe here, and it’s a headache to sharpen it every time I want to use it. Besides, I’ve already worn away half the blade.”

  Brolok sharpened the scythe on a turning whetstone and made the metal grow denser. Then he picked up his sack, tucked his newly forged weapon in his belt and left. He could only hope that Gerk was as good as his word.

  A piercing feeling in his guts told Nill that he needed food. Whoever was keeping him down here did not seem too interested in his well-being. Nill knew that he would get weaker and less capable of escaping with each passing day. He had to act. He could wait no more. His wild attacks on the magical walls surrounding him had cost him much strength, strength he now desperately needed. Nill retreated into the Nothing.

  Contrary to his expectations, he was able to leave the first plane of consciousness easily. At first he still felt his body, but he left it behind soon enough. The shapes around him disappeared. The last things to go were the growling of his stomach and the murmuring words of half-thought thoughts. A veil of magic remained, and it covered everything: his spirit, the stone blocks in the walls, the door, the air he breathed. It was impossible to dive into himself and dissolve his innermost being. He surfaced, irritated. Someone had done a good job here. He tried a second time, this time letting himself fall towards the Nothing. He expected the sorcerers’ magic to hold him again, but he simply glided past the magical construct towards the Nothing, into the Nothing. Mysterious, archaic thoughts rose inside him.

  Boundless

  The shape decays

  And drifts away

  In Nothing’s haze

  Thoughtless.

  Everywhere

  Lose themselves

  Your, my, me, mine

  My self and I

  Falling there.

  The world forgets

  What was and is

  The world forgets,

  Forgets, forgets.

  Nill’s thoughts were interrupted suddenly. Dissolving into Nothing leaves no memory; something that is nothing cannot remember or be remembered. “The world forgets, forgets, forgets.” The words that formed over and over again when the Nothing embraced him, the ancient verses of a magic, of which he never knew where they came from, where he knew them from, and how he spoke them, had no substance.

  But this time was different. He had been able to hear his thoughts; he had felt his lips move and thoughts turn to words. The Nothing had long since released him and Nill returned to his body. Nevertheless, he remembered. He could feel as he found his self. He had still not regained his form, was no more than consciousness a little outside of the Nothing. And yet he felt himself. He could remain somewhere between the Nothing and his body.

  There was nothing around him except his self and the patterns of the entombing magical veil that lay on his cell. The stone blocks were as distant from his self as his body, but the magic of his enemies went beyond the visible world. Nill did not understand the spell, but he had noticed soon after his first attempts at regaining freedom that the web had no beginning and no end in the world of senses.

  A strength can be a weakness, he thought. He stretched and made the veil part of his self and returned to the Nothing. His self, along with the veil, dissolved anew. Nill began to traverse the long road between the worlds, again and again. With every visit into the Nothing and every return to Pentamuria the magic grew thinner and thinner, losing layer upon layer. It was like unraveling a shirt by a single thread, and in the end it was gone.

  Time passed without his realizing. The encasing magic had been woven with great effort. Many layers of elements had been bound together to block every magical attack. But even all of them combined were powerless against the Nothing.

  Many hours passed in the world of the living until the work was complete. Curious glances through the hole in the ceiling and a small window in the door saw only a motionless Nill lying on the floor in silent self-absorption. No one could see through him.

  Nill was back. Hungry, but not exhausted. He barely noticed the clear outlines of the stones. What were stones and walls and floors compared to the knowledge of Nothing?

  The world forgets. It’s still forgetting. And what it forgets ceases to exist. That is the secret of the Nothing. The answer many a mage has spent his life trying to find. The magic of Nothing is the power to undo things.

  Nill would have liked to cheer out loud at his discovery, but he did not have the strength to do so. He now knew that he could unmake anything he wanted. He could have eradicated the stones that held him down here, or the sorcerers who had brought him to this place, or even the entirety of Fugman’s Refuge. But what then? What would happen if suddenly part of the world was gone? Would there simply be Nothing until some cosmic force decided what to do with the void? Or would it fill itself because Nothing had no place in this world? And if it did, wha
t would it fill up with, and how? A chill ran down Nill’s spine.

  Magic truly is the power that makes everything and holds it together. Nill was frightened of his own power and finally understood what Tiriwi had meant when she had warned him and Brolok about magic changing the world. Nill would never be able to use the magic to undo things, to make the world forget. He was no divine creator. Not a god. It had been difficult enough to dissolve the magic veil and it had not even been old and strong, but new and fresh in the world’s memory. But a stone, part of a house that had previously lived in a mountain – tearing it out and making it vanish was different. The world could not simply forget that stone. It would sooner forget him and all his friends and all the things he had witnessed that were worth remembering. A human’s life compared to a stone’s – it was like a fly compared to a human. He must never dare meddle with these things. But now he had to stop thinking and start acting, before someone realized that he had regained his powers.

  He let his spirit walk. In front of his door there was a guard shifting restlessly in his chair. Nill could not see who this guard was, but he feared it was one of the sorcerers that had captured him. Two more were there, one behind and one above him. Opening the door was no difficulty now – there was only a bar keeping it in place. His captors seemed fully reliant on the veil they had conjured. But he was no match for three experienced sorcerers at the same time. Besides, there were more people in the building: servants and armed guards. He knew three of these to be in his direct area. He needed a plan.

  While Nill worked on his escape, Brolok had returned to Fugman’s Refuge. “I’ve got a weapon,” he told Bairne, indicating his enhanced engraver. “It’s ruined as far as tools go, but it’s a first-rate weapon for close-quarters combat.”

  He grasped the hook on the end and felt the iron slide comfortably into his grasp. The thorn he had extracted from the iron peeked out of the top of his fist and made sure that his hand could not slip. The tip was now a natural extension of his arm.

  “If you thrust with this tip, it’ll go through bones, wood and chainmail. More powerful than a sword in a thrust,” he whispered. “It’s also good for parrying, but you can’t slash with it. More of a dagger than a knife. You’d best take Nill’s staff, with the tip on the top. It’ll work fine as a lance.”

  Brolok doubted that his wife could handle the weapon properly, but a quick blow could be executed even by an inexperienced fighter. As he deliberated this, he was pushed aside roughly. He stared down at Ramsker in disbelief.

  “What’s he doing here?”

  “He helped me find Nill,” Bairne replied.

  Brolok shook his head. “Just make sure he doesn’t get under my feet.”

  “Are you going to storm the house?”

  “Do you have a better idea? If the ram can give us a distraction, it could work. We need to be fast. How many guards?”

  “I saw two. One court sorcerer and a much younger one. I bet there are more.”

  Brolok cursed quietly all the way to the house. He did still not have a cast-iron plan, and he disliked fighting sorcerers. They were easy to take down with the advantage of surprise; unfortunately, they were difficult to surprise. Once the first attempt was over, it was difficult.

  “This one here. With the broken door.” Bairne indicated the gaping hole in the wall.

  “Looks like a trap. Who broke it?”

  “The ram!”

  “Really? I don’t like this.”

  As Brolok weighed up his chances, Bairne explained the layout of the corridors, the winding stair up and the straight stair down. Ramsker grew tired of waiting and charged into the house. Brolok hurried to follow him. So much for surprise, he thought ruefully. The ram clearly had no intention of sneaking.

  Nill sat in his stone cell and found to his disappointment that three guards had come in from the streets. Things were getting even more complicated now. He would have to find out whether they were sorcerers or simple soldiers, so he sent out his senses.

  Sorcerers, or mages. Nill swore bitterly. That was exactly what he had needed, magical reinforcements for the enemy. The first had a mighty aura that was unreadable. It smelled of the Other World, but there was something else in there, something ancient he had only ever known in the falundron. The second’s aura was incomplete. Nill had to stifle the urge to laugh. Brolok! It could only be Brolok, he would know that aura among a thousand others. But who was the third? Someone else was behind him, someone with great powers, but it was all blurred. Nill’s hopes sank again. And if it was not Brolok? He decided to risk it. The sorcerer by the door had risen. He seemed to have noticed the magical field’s disappearance.

  Dungeons are cruel; their walls and doors keep the prisoner apart from the world. Some are kept until the world has all but forgotten them. But this cruelty can be redirected to those relishing in it. When someone who has been powerless is suddenly strong, when the forgotten demands their place in the world again, then the world does not understand. Nill made the magic of the Other World crash through the closed door and it ripped the sorcerer’s aura from his body and absorbed his life force as it laid a case of dark energy on him. The noise around him was deafening; he forced wood, iron and earth apart and their cracking echoed through the underground chambers. The door broke apart; the bar that held it flew through the air and buried itself deep into the wall opposite; the hinges that had held the door left behind gaping holes in the stones.

  Nill leapt out of his cell and rushed up the stairs. He flung himself flat on his stomach when he reached the top; he did not intend to skid right into a fire wall.

  His destruction of the cell door had burst open all the doors in the upper storys as well. Nill had acted a little too early. Brolok, Bairne and Ramsker were too far away from these doors. Bairne flung the staff at the first sorcerer. It impaled him through his chest and the force of it knocked him back into the room he had just left. Brolok stormed ahead, flinging iron claws at them. His skills in Metal magic were considerable, but the more experienced sorcerers merely melted his attacks into puddles with their Fire.

  From his cover at the top of the stairs Nill sent a spell of light creeping along the ceiling, dropping white-hot droplets as it moved. The sorcerers looked up, momentarily unsettled by this strange magic, then extinguished it with whipping waves of Water. But their moment’s hesitation had been enough. With a hideous crack, Ramsker threw his entire weight behind his horns as he smashed into one of the sorcerer’s legs. At the same time, Brolok aimed a powerful strike with his fist. The second court sorcerer had barricaded himself behind one of the doors and was working his spells through it. Brolok and Bairne pressed themselves to the wall. They could not counter it without direct contact. The third sorcerer attempted to climb the stairs behind Nill, but Nill stopped him easily by shaking the very foundations of the house. The sorcerer was forced to guide all his strength into keeping the building intact lest it bury them all alive, but it would not take long before he stabilized and pursued Nill again. He might be able to set him back, but Nill could not defeat the third court sorcerer. It was only a matter of time until his strength caved him. Brolok and Bairne felt similarly. They were trapped against the wall. Any step would bring them in line of the sorcerer’s attacks. No side could gain an advantage, and time was not on Nill’s side.

  Ramsker made the decisive move. He rubbed his horns against Bairne’s hip and Bairne understood. She gave him the strongest elemental protection she could muster and wished him good luck. Ramsker charged. The Fire wall that came his way was broken so quickly that the fire had no time to do any damage, and the following sandstorm could not stop him. Nill felt the new magical presence, and could not believe what he was seeing. This was not the ram he had fought for herd dominance back in Earthland. Nor was it the same Ramsker that had helped him in his battle with Mah Bu.

  Nill sent another Earthen shock into the foundations. His hesitation had given his opponent the time to sink Nill’s feet into the stone
. Nill was stuck.

  Ramsker shattered the door, shooting splinters, rubble and his own considerable weight into the room. Yellow and green flames burst out of the room, bolts of lightning chased each other through the corridor, and one of the walls leaned forward wearily, then collapsed. As suddenly as the outbreak of magical energy had filled the house it was calm. Brolok peered around the corner and saw the court sorcerer lying in a corner, groaning. A long shard of wood had speared him through his neck, although it had miraculously missed the vital veins. Ramsker stood in the middle of the room, his head bowed.

  Nill released his feet from the stone’s cold grip. The sorcerer in the cellar had retreated. He did not dare face this unknown enemy alone.

  “We have to leave,” Nill called. Brolok nodded and approached the injured sorcerer. He dragged off the man’s robe. “Don’t move. With all the ruckus you made I daresay it won’t be long until help arrives.” He gave a dark laugh and threw the robe to Nill. “Here, put this on and draw up the hood.”

  Brolok shook out the contents of his sack onto the floor and stuck together several long pieces of iron to make a long lance.

  “Hand me Nill’s staff, Bairne.” He pulled off the tip and put it on his lance, then handed the simple wooden staff to Nill.

  “In that robe you ought to pass as a court sorcerer. I’ll try and look like a bodyguard. Bairne will take care of the ram. We should be able to leave this place without trouble.”

  Nill nodded. His gaze traveled from his bare staff to Ramsker, whose aura had vanished, and nodded again.

  Their escape was simple. Nill led the motley bunch. Even though they drew inquisitive stares, the court sorcerers were too intimidating for anyone to ask intrusive questions. Brolok was a warrior, and he moved like one; he bore his lance with ease, his eyes caught every movement. Bairne’s eyes were on the ground, as was necessary for her disguise as a shepherd to succeed. Ramsker’s slanted eyes were as sullen as always despite their golden gleam. Once they had passed the last houses of the city, Nill asked casually: “What kind of weapon is that?”