Ringwall`s Doom
Page 35
The giant tried to parry Nill’s attacks as he swung his weapons at the younger man’s helpless body. Nill managed to block the blows, but his own attacks suffered from it. It was a strange fight between two thoroughly unequal combatants: a giant of a man with strength to match, but limited magical power, and a mage who could not properly use his magic because body and spirit had been severed.
Nill decided to use magical shields to block the club and knife and concentrate on rebuilding the connection to his body, but his body did not react. At first it felt merely disconnected, but then it was slow, numb, and unable to feel.
Nill began to drain the giant’s life force as he conjured a shield of Fire and Earth to protect himself. The giant paid the fire no heed, and his weapons went through it like cloth, but the Earth seemed to work.
Confusion surrounded Nill’s mind. What was happening? He no longer knew who or what he was fighting. It was no rogue sorcerer. The life force he was draining had barely any magic to it. No wonder he had felt barely any back at the fire. One thing was certain, his foe was no arcanist. But then, what was he?
The longer the fight lasted and the more life force Nill absorbed, the weaker the giant’s blows grew, the less accurate his aim became. The only thing still keeping him upright was his unbreakable will. With a twinge of regret Nill struck again. In desperation, the giant clung to Nill and with the last spark of his life he clawed into Nill’s body. Nill incinerated the dying remains of his enemy, but the last little spark of determination, or perhaps the pitiful remains of the man’s weak magic would not be extinguished. Nill left the Other World and found himself back at the fire. He heard the clanging of steel on steel and tried to look around and locate Brolok in the commotion. His body did not obey his commands. His motions were torturously slow. His eyes showed him images that had little to do with reality. The only thing he could hear now was a deep, dull hum. His tongue felt furry and his skin was rough like an old tree’s bark. And time… there was something wrong with the time. It seemed to have stopped. Nill sat still by the fire and was incapable of anything other than swaying back and forth.
Brolok and Bairne did not witness much of Nill’s fight; Brolok had his hands full with blocking the raging blows that were coming from the armored warrior as he tried to dislocate his engraver-turned-weapon, whose unique curved grip had got stuck in his clothes.
I have to make a sheath for this damn thing, Brolok promised himself as he raised his shield again to block the next attack, at the same time turning on his left foot to dodge his enemy’s shield.
Don’t lose your balance!
The other warriors were still sitting around the fire, and some of them had risen to their feet to cheer for their comrade. They had few doubts in their little minds about the outcome of the fight. The stranger could not rely on help. The girl was no fighter, and their leader would keep the oddball in the robe busy enough. They were all experienced fighters and saw Brolok’s natural strength, but a small round shield was a rather one-sided affair compared to a sword and pavise. And so they bellowed their support and drank and enjoyed the show.
Bairne sat petrified on the ground. The only thing that showed she was alive was her eyes as they darted from one to the other. She saw Nill suddenly flinch, and one of the warriors in the background was reloading a dart into his blowpipe. Bairne closed her eyes for a moment. The assailant froze, grasped his head in both hands and collapsed. The others might have thought he had fallen asleep in boredom at the one-sidedness of the fight.
Brolok had finally managed to detach his weapon. He leapt backwards and switched his shield to his right arm, and grasped the custom-forged hilt tighter. The odds were evened now: weapon against weapon, shield versus shield. The warrior laughed and sent a mighty slash at Brolok’s head. Brolok almost danced into the movement and parried the sword in its infant swing, and at the same time he slammed the edge of his shield into his enemy’s. It hit the pavise in the exact spot where the metal strengthened the wood beneath. The strike knocked the shield arm backwards at the elbow like an unlocked door in a storm. It was all he needed. Brolok turned with his shoulder beneath his enemy’s sword arm and received a painful whack of the pommel on his shoulder as the warrior brought his arm down, but ignored it; he thrust the engraver’s tip right into one of the metal rings in the hauberk. Brolok put all of his weight into the thrust and twisted the heavy thorn he had drawn from the metal in the hole he had made. The ring burst and the cloth beneath it offered no protection. The tip sank into the man’s soft flesh. The warrior stood for a few more moments. An incredulous expression spread across his face as his hand slackened and his sword fell to the ground. Brolok stabbed three more times into his stomach before the warrior finally fell to the ground. His right cheek scraped Brolok’s armor, but the dying mind no longer registered the scratches. Brolok left his engraver in the wound and picked up his opponent’s sword. He flung the dying body away and decapitated the next foe before he even had time to leap up and draw his weapon. He split the third one’s skull. He had killed three in short order, but now the surprise was gone, and his opponents flung themselves at him, screaming and roaring with bloodlust.
Bairne rolled over to avoid being trampled by the feet all around and mouthed a few silent words. She got to her feet and threw Nill a last look; he remained as still as a statue. To her surprise she noted the giant lying at his feet, blank eyes staring at the sky. All the warriors had leapt up and pounced on Brolok, who stepped backwards as he attempted to overcome this immense disadvantage. Bairne kept whispering and saw to her pleasure that Brolok was mowing down his enemies, supported by a characteristically grumpy ram, who was knocking men through the air. Covered in blood and panting heavily, Brolok struck one final blow and hunched over, supporting himself on his sword.
“Are you hurt?” Bairne asked.
Brolok looked surprised. “No, not a scratch. I never thought I’d survive that, but that wasn’t a fight. It was a slaughter. Not worthy of a warrior.”
Bairne said nothing and turned back to Nill.
“Never thought I’d beat more than ten fighters at once,” Brolok mused. He was talking more to himself than to Bairne, who was checking on Nill. “But they got in each other’s way and were so slow you’d think they’d had too much to drink.”
He went through the corpses and took what he needed. A few copper coins, several long knives. He stood before his first, armored enemy indecisively. The armor was rich in metal, which he needed; on the other hand, they still had a long way to walk and heavy luggage would kill their already slow pace. Brolok stripped him of his armor and wrapped it in leather and a woolen shawl and hid it between the roots of a nearby tree. He took one mail glove. Then he returned to Nill and Bairne.
“What’s wrong with him?” he asked his wife. “Nill? Are you alright?”
“He’s still breathing,” Bairne replied. Nill was not moving, and she pulled a small dart out of his shoulder. “He got hit with a poisoned dart. It’s in his blood now.”
“I don’t understand. A mage can counteract any poison. They all work on the same basic idea. They disturb the balance of elements in your body. Nill just needs to restore it.”
“He might have waited too long, or the poison went straight to his nerves or his brain.”
Brolok kneeled down, laid a hand on Nill’s brow and felt the poison. “You’re right, he’s poisoned and his mind is clouded. Wait a moment… alright. I have changed a few things, I took some Metal and gave him some Fire. All I can do is mend wounds, not remove poisons. We’ll have to wait. There’s no more we can do at the moment.”
“Don’t worry,” Bairne said calmly. “His breathing is already normal again. Once the poison ebbs away he can heal himself. But look here: this is where the giant was lying. Right here, I saw him. And now all that’s left are his clothes. I don’t think he fled naked and unnoticed. It’s as if he’s gone up in smoke.”
Brolok looked around, although there was no real reason t
o do so; the giant’s body would have been immediately noticeable among the dead. “Magic?” he asked finally.
Bairne’s eyes grew wider still. “I don’t know. I didn’t feel anything, but there’s no other explanation.”
Brolok began to empty the abandoned clothing’s pockets and gave a low whistle when he found three slim silver bars in a hidden lining.
“Ringwall,” he said. “Sometimes Ringwall pays with silver bars. Whoever gave these bastards their task paid dearly for it. I’d just like to know whether the task concerned us, or whether we met by accident.”
“It was a trap,” Bairne said. “The bright fire and the smell of food and drink could only attract people out here in the wilderness. And who apart from us is here? I think it was meant for us. And that means someone knows where we are.”
A low groan jolted Brolok out of his thoughts. Nill was rousing and attempting to control the poison in his body. It took some time, but when he had done it he simply got to his feet and said: “We must move on.”
“You’re right,” Brolok answered, “but for one, it’s the middle of the night, so there’s no point in walking off, and for another, you sit right back down and tell us what happened. Some sort of magic went off here, but neither of us felt a thing.”
Nill’s eyes were expressionless He tried to gather his thoughts, which caused him visible difficulty.
“The magic was in the leader, the giant, but it wasn’t his own. It was borrowed and well-hidden. He himself was no arcanist, but he possessed a bit of power over the five elements and the Other World and something else I couldn’t recognize. We fought in the Other World, not here.”
“And you won,” Brolok said appreciatively.
Nill closed his eyes and screwed up his face in the effort to remember.
“I think so, but I’m not sure. He wasn’t a sorcerer, so it shouldn’t have been hard to win the fight. But I was handicapped. There was something in me that broke the unity of body and spirit. But now I’m here, and my opponent isn’t. So I suppose I won.”
He was really not sure. Something troubled him. Behind his eyes and the root of his nose something was scratching, something that did not belong there. Nill shook his head as if to shake off a swarm of flies, but the strange feeling stayed.
Brolok flung some earth onto the fire to reduce the blaze. There was no point in keeping the fire alight; it might attract unwanted guests. Then he dragged the bodies of the slain onto a pile. No time to bury them, he reasoned. The scavengers would pick them out anyway.
All the same, it was not a pleasant feeling to spend the night next to a mound of dead men whose souls had not yet come to rest.
It was a short night. Brolok slept deeply; Bairne whispered all through the night, and nobody knew whether she was casting spells or giving herself courage; and Nill slept badly. He had bad dreams that night. Many voices shouted in his mind. At first he could not understand them, but then in the ruckus one voice grew louder and stood out, and Nill heard a triumphant laugh.
“Finally I have you. This time you did not escape. The last fight to decide everything… how long have I waited for this moment. Your death will be painful and very, very slow. As I have always intended.”
Nill listened to the voice intently. It was powerful and pierced his skull like a magically-sharpened arrow. Nill did not know whose voice it was, but he knew that his enemy wanted more than to simply kill him. There was a feeling of superiority, of power and satisfaction. The voice’s owner was in Ringwall, spinning his webs, and it seemed to grant him joy to tug at these threads. Amargreisfing had been the first sign of his enemy’s character. Nill was certain that the voice would return.
They continued their journey early next morning, keeping to solid ground as they did. One path was as good as another. Nill was strangely calm. His gaze focused inwards, his ears were shut. Suddenly he looked up.
“Where did you get that sword, Brolok?” he asked.
Brolok looked taken aback. “I took it from the warrior who thought he was entitled to my wife and armor.”
“And the others? There were too many of them. You can’t have killed them all.”
Nill’s agitated voice was at odds with the slack mouth it came from. Brolok’s eyes went from Nill to Bairne, who had also adopted a worried look, and back again.
“I don’t know,” Brolok said finally. “Ask Bairne. I can’t shake the feeling that she helped me in some way.”
Nill looked at Bairne and forged a connection between their eyes that made the young woman stumble. But then his gaze crumbled and retreated behind his eyes, back to the confusing chambers of his mind. Without another word he tramped on.
“Nill, this way,” Brolok said and gripped his friend by the shoulders to steer him in the right direction.
Bairne looked almost desperate as she glanced from Nill to Brolok, who merely shrugged helplessly.
Nill’s condition worsened as they marched. He thrashed around at night, shouting incomprehensible words. By day, he was tired and absent-minded. How could his friends know that he was locked in a constant battle with the voices in his head? And that laughter, again and again. Evil. Triumphant. “Mine, mine, mine.”
But who was “mine,” the voice did not say.
They walked a fine line between morass and solid ground and edged around the great swamp that way. One day, Nill simply stopped walking and began to curse loudly, causing even Ramsker to leap aside in alarm. Brolok decided that the time to act had come.
“We need help. As long as we don’t know who’s after us and what’s wrong with Nill, we can’t enter the cities of the Waterways or Ringwall. I’d most like to find a shaman or druid who knows their way around the healing arts. But I’m no better at finding people than a muckling. Can you feel anyone around us?”
Brolok’s eyes sought Bairne, but Bairne did not reply, instead retreating further into her oversized cloak. She looked back along the path they had come from, looked at the path they continued to walk on and slowly turned in the direction of the swamps they had avoided. Without a word she pushed her way through the bushes. Brolok followed her, dragging Nill along. Ramsker made sure that Nill did not stop walking and drove him onwards with the occasional gentle push.
The land stayed firm and mostly dry. The water had convened in its own spots rather than covering everything here. They crossed several rivers, some larger, some smaller. Nill did not want to enter the cold water at first, then, when he was waist-high in it, did not want to leave. It was so bad at the last river that they had to wait for the coldness to sap all his strength before they could carry him out. They had no choice but to make a fire in the middle of the day to dry Nill and their clothes.
With the warmth, Nill’s strength returned and he stomped and hopped around the fire, yelling out strange and wild noises that had lost all resemblance to human language. Even beetles and flies avoided him. Within a heartbeat he sat down on his blankets, still as a rock. Between his fits of raucous exuberance he had lucid moments in which he tried to speak to his friends.
“I’m sick. Must have caught something bad.”
Brolok nodded.
“Where are we? Is the mage still after us? Sneaky fellow. We’ll have to plan our next move carefully.”
“What mage?” Bairne asked.
“Don’t know. Other World. Ancient magic maybe, not the one I know. Bad magic. It’s all so…” He hit himself in the head.
Some of his rambling was understandable; then, he mentioned things neither Brolok nor Bairne knew about. Sometimes, his words and thoughts were separated completely, leaving him to stutter and shout at random. The young witch decided they had to move faster.
“We haven’t much time left.”
One early morning they reached a small settlement that lay between a coppice, two small brooks and a few muddy fields. The huts looked bleak and dreary, but the women that walked between them seemed strong, healthy and jovial.
“Oas!” Brolok gasped.
It did not look like it. The women did gather round, but their joy seemed to evaporate as they came closer, and there was no geniality in their faces. Instead their expressions were serious; disapproving looks were cast on Bairne, and more than one finger pointed at Nill, whose eyes were rolling uncontrollably in their sockets. Only Ramsker received a few curious glances. Brolok, Bairne and Nill stopped.
“We need aid,” Brolok shouted.
“Wait, our eldest will come and speak with you.”
It did not take long for a woman with a light step and youthful stride to come out of the small coppice to meet them. Only her white hair gave any hint of her age.
“My name is Haraak. Be welcome, come into our midst and warm yourselves,” she said, but her voice was without warmth itself, and the greeting sounded more like a formula that no longer meant anything but tradition.
“And I always thought the Oas were generous hosts to all strangers,” Brolok muttered to Bairne.
“Not to a sorcerer of Ringwall, a mad mage and a witch, you dunce,” Bairne replied. “But who else can we turn to?”
They sat down beside the fire. Brolok held Nill with the tenderness usually only afforded small children or lovers, and Nill took it without complaint. However, the next moment he tore away from Brolok and began to screech again. Brolok despaired and, with a silent sigh, aimed a punch right at Nill’s chin. Nill was knocked out cold.
“My apologies,” Brolok said sheepishly. “He is my friend, but sometimes I just can’t take his fits anymore. How could I ask you to? We came here because we need help. We’re on our way to the Oas of Woodhold to visit a close friend of ours, but we’ll never make it there if you can’t help us.”