Ringwall`s Doom

by Awert, Wolf

  “Sit,” the archmage said, and Sergor-Don had no other choice but to sit by his feet like a child. Soft cushions were plentiful, but it was still humiliating.

  “Now then… tell me all you know about the Olvejin and the founder’s scriptures.” The voice was impatient and gruff and had little in common with the constantly-tired look the archmage liked to adopt.

  “Where to begin… the Olvejin really does exist,” the king said slowly. “It is a stone, similar to the symbol of Metal in the Sanctuary. It is a broken pillar, standing in the Other World. It is easy enough to find, provided you know where it is.

  “The founders’ scriptures are a myth. They left no books, merely some strips of parchment that led to the Olvejin and other obscure fragments of forgotten prophecies.”

  Sergor-Don’s lie left his mask intact. Robe your lies in a cloak of truth and they will grow forevermore, he thought. He would never relinquish the scriptures. That treasure was his and his alone.

  “Lead me to it. Now. We have no time.”

  “I would be honored, archmage,” Sergor-Don replied. “If you would give me your hand?”

  The magical bridge was formed anew, but this time Sergor-Don led, and Murmon-Som followed. They left the here and now and arrived on the Plains of the Dead; they vanished from there and reappeared in the Sulfur Gardens, leapt over streams of molten rock, crossed the dried-out Riverbed of Oblivion until they finally reached an ashen field, where the ground bubbled like water on the brink of boiling.

  “This is our way,” Sergor-Don explained and pulled the archmage along. They ran through the ash and sank deeper with every step until they were utterly surrounded by the gray dust. Once they broke out of it, they were again on the Plains of the Dead.

  “Every path leads us humans to the Plains of the Dead. Every step taken, every leap made. We all must return here someday,” Murmon-Som said. “Why did you not lead me straight here? Where is the Olvejin?”

  The accusation in his voice was not to be missed, and Sergor-Don bowed his head. “I took you along the path the founders left for us, archmage. There might be a more straightforward route. Perhaps not, and the plain we find ourselves on now is just one of many such plains. Please remember that I am no mage of the Other World. What little I know of this place, I know from you. The Olvejin you seek is over there. See!”

  Murmon-Som, who had been steadily losing patience throughout Sergor’s groveling speech, turned around abruptly and saw a dirty-brown, rounded column. Across its surface, faint purple shadows flitted. The archmage stepped closer and ran his fingertips over the dull surface. A tiny crack split the stone down the middle. From within this crack glowed a weak green light. Murmon-Som dug into it with the nail on his little finger, and the stone opened.

  “It is as I thought,” he murmured.

  Inside the column, crystal upon crystal was packed densely together. The light that shone from the surfaces gave the impression that the crystals were alive and moving. Some were the size of a fingertip, but upon closer inspection they turned out to be made up of many smaller cubes.

  The green light was soothing, but in the earthen surroundings strangely uncanny. Along the edge of the crack, the crystals had changed color. They were red, or blue, and reflected the green light like metal.

  “There is magic in this stone,” Murmon-Som remarked, impressed. “A great amount of magic. But I cannot understand it here. The magic of the Other World obscures it. We will take the Olvejin back to Ringwall.”

  Under the archmage’s gentle caress the stone eased shut again. Murmon-Som flung his arms around the pillar and took possession of it like a commander takes his slain enemy’s woman after a victory. Intoxicated by his triumph, hungry for flesh, thirsting for the smell of her skin.

  Murmon-Som’s aura began to flicker, then to pulsate stronger and stronger. Sergor barely dared draw breath. The archmage’s outline dissolved.

  King Sergor-Don stared at Murmon-Som. He took a deep breath and fought the urge to laugh. If only you could see yourself, archmage, he thought. Clinging to the Hermits’ Stone like a toad on his mate. A dung-fly has more dignity than you.

  Sergor-Don had quickly recognized that the pillar did not want to leave its place on the Plains of the Dead. Unlike the archmage, its outline remained clear. Murmon-Som returned faster than he had gone and slid off the column. A wet streak on the surface showed where his mouth had opened in a slack kiss.

  “The stone does not obey my magic,” Murmon-Som whispered in disbelief.

  “I feared as much. I was, of course, not able to move the Olvejin either. I assumed it was due to my lack of experience in the magic of the Other World, but if even an archmage as powerful as you cannot do it…”

  Sergor-Don had difficulty in maintaining his mask of reserve over his delight at the archmage’s failing, but Murmon-Som was too preoccupied to notice the malice in his student’s voice. All his attention belonged to the Olvejin.

  “The founders brought it here. They will have known a way to get it back. We will study the scriptures together and find it.”

  We will, will we? Sergor-Don smirked, and then he was whisked back to Ringwall. Somewhat dazed from the rushed departure, he found himself standing back in the archmage’s quarters – no, sitting. Again. He would pay for this.

  Sergor-Don clenched his teeth and mustered every ounce of conviction he had to maintain the smooth expression that hid his thoughts. For a long time, he eyed the fine silk covers of the cushions as though there was nothing more important in existence; he focused on them, gave himself up completely to the weavework until his entire world became a few strands of silk. Only then did he attempt to adopt the correct balance of expressions: obeisance, as was proper for a young student facing his master; pride, befitting a young king who was used to being in command; and the calm confidence of a warrior who saw in the archmage an equal partner. He was not very successful in balancing them, though like many powerful men the archmage was too busy with himself and his own visions to pay Sergor-Don any heed. Finally, he raised his eyes to look at the young king.

  “We have enemies on all sides: eight archmages, several hundred elemental mages and as many White mages. Compared to that: You, me and Catsilver. You have some town tricksters behind you and perhaps a few elementalists who might be prepared to join us. Power is so unequally distributed that no one will suspect a takeover. First we must free Ringwall of the White mages. They are loyal only to the truth, and will follow neither you nor me; they will fight for Ringwall and its library until their last breath.”

  “Free, you say?” Sergor-Don repeated. “Apart from our allies, I wish to see every last mage in Ringwall destroyed. Spirit, soul and body shattered, with no possibility of reprieve. Dissolved and annihilated! Forever wiped from the face of our world!”

  Odioras, the Demon of Cold Hate, seemed to have followed Sergor-Don from the Other World. The voice coming from the youthful mouth was so terrifying that Murmon-Some made a quick, startled gesture.

  “Seen and banished, return!”

  The hastily-spoken spell made the air in the room cool down considerably.

  “You must control yourself, young king. Would you endanger all we have worked for before we can even begin?”

  The archmage’s voice thundered through the room, nothing in common with the tired old man of Sergor’s memories. The archmage had risen from his chair, his aura inflating to fill the whole chamber. Sergor-Don felt pressed and powerless. He knew the archmage was right; but anger, and more importantly, hate would give him the strength he needed to carry out his plans. His momentary powerlessness and the fresh humiliation would anchor his hatred even deeper.

  A mage like all the others, Sergor-Don thought. Once you have done your duty, you too will bow before your master. I promise you that. Sergor shut his feelings away, compressed them all into a tiny ball of willpower and swallowed them, along with his retort. His body did not take the unexpected concentration well and responded by sending pois
on through his veins, making him buckle up in pain. But at least now he was calm. Sergor-Don wiped the sweat from his brow before continuing in a voice as normal as if he was asking for the next day’s supper options.

  “So what do you suggest, archmage?”

  Murmon-Som had begun to pace around the room, his focus inwards, and when he finally spoke it was more to himself than to Sergor.

  “The Olvejin. To the White mages, the Olvejin is like light to a moth. You will let them – none too willingly – talk you into showing them the way to realizing their deepest dreams. Tell them they can only see the Olvejin from the Other World. Tell them you don’t know whether you can touch it. Your magical knowledge it not vast enough, that will work as an excuse. Tell them – oh, tell them whatever you want.” The archmage whipped around and glared at Sergor-Don. “The White mages will flock to the Olvejin and then we’ll have them all in one place.”

  The archmage’s hand clenched as if he was crushing a walnut, and he punched into his empty hand. The resulting clap was lifeless and dull and not very impressive.

  Sergor-Don frowned.

  “What use is it? The White mages are capable of returning to Ringwall at any time to fight for the magon. If we are to gather them in the Other World, we must destroy them there. You are the Archmage of the Other World. Is your strength not enough for such an act?”

  The archmage’s aura exploded and red tips appeared in the wavering gray. Sergor-Don was knocked back and hit something hard with his back; the back of his head met the floor and he saw stars.

  “You will not talk to me like that again, your Majesty.” The royal address felt like a slap to the face, quick, painful and loud. Aggravating an archmage was a dangerous game.

  “Forgive me,” Sergor groveled hastily, “but I still don’t see where you’re going.”

  “I will greet them wherever you lead them and scatter them across the Other World. Some will find their way back here, no doubt, but many will not survive the journey.”

  “Enough might live to make our lives difficult,” Sergor-Don argued cautiously, but the archmage shook his head.

  “Only if there is something to fight for. The White mages’ loyalty is to Ringwall, not the magon. The only thing that keeps them here is the knowledge in Ringwall’s depths. If we could convince them that the library has fallen victim to a stray blast of the elements in the struggle, they will not bother.”

  Sergor-Don nodded slowly. We won’t have to convince them, my friend. Sergor-Don’s plans were not the archmage’s. They never had been. “And the elemental mages?” he asked.

  “They will follow their leaders into the abyss or they will join us. You will see. Once the High Council is broken, the elementalists hold no sway. Only the eight Archmages and the Magon count. Overcoming them is the true challenge.”

  “Seven,” Sergor snapped. “The Nill boy doesn’t count either.”

  Murmon-Som indicated a muttered assent, though he decided not to confide that it was “the Nill boy” in particular who worried him. Like the magon, he feared what he did not understand, and there was no greater riddle in Ringwall than Nill and the Nothing.

  “Seven, as you say. Nill left Ringwall some time ago. We do not expect his return any time soon. We need not care. Seven or eight, with the magon at their front the council has monstrous power.”

  “It does bother me, though, that Nill has disappeared. I would have liked to see an old schoolmate again… and freed the world of his pathetic stain at the same time. Where did he go?”

  “Forget the boy. He left Ringwall fireward and nobody seems to know where exactly he is. We will take care of him later. Only a fool takes the second step before the first foot is on the ground. And our first step is the council. Nobody will expect a former little student like yourself to go against the archmages. That is an advantage, albeit small.”

  Murmon-Som, for the first time, consciously contemplated Sergor-Don’s lean, muscled figure. His eyes were cold, like a bird about to dive at its prey. You will provide the distraction, he thought. And to make sure you don’t die in the first two heartbeats, I will empower your magic. I hope you last long enough. Enjoy your life while it lasts, stupid boy. It won’t be long.

  Murmon-Som felt a secret joy rising in his chest. No matter the outcome, Sergor-Don’s attack on the magon would cause considerable uproar. The magon would no longer be the same, even if he survived. With any luck, the council might be caught in collateral. Murmon-Som had planned everything precisely. They underestimate the power of the Other World. It’s stronger than anyone knows. Even Tofflas, Mah Bu’s successor and his own predecessor, had not been able to protect himself against his own magic. The archmage slowly turned his attention back to the young fool before him who called himself king.

  “Our success hinges on whether or not you can defeat the magon. You will challenge him. That was the plan, correct? I hope you are not banking on my involvement in the fight proper, for I will be busy shielding you from the archmages. Tell me how you mean to kill him.”

  “It is simple, really,” Sergor-Don said, and he explained his plan. “You see, I have only one attempt. I must make it count.”

  What Sergor-Don did not share was his backup plan. Contrary to what he had said, he had considered the eventuality of failure and done his best to cover it. Only a fool put all their eggs in one basket; a greater fool still if he felt brave doing it. Murmon-Som was nothing but a useful servant to him, a shield against the archmages and completely disposable once the council had fallen.

  “I admire your courage, but a lot depends on the correct moment,” Murmon-Som reflected. “We must find a way to finish Keij-Joss before he can return his attention to more earthen matters. The Archmage of the Cosmos is a formidable opponent. Luckily for us, he spends little time in this world these days. If we are fast enough…” He left his sentence hanging in mid-air.

  “Bar Helis and Ambrosimas also give me reason for concern. Both have terrifying reputations. Bar Helis will be taken out by Catsilver. He has been lusting for his master’s rank since the day he was promoted to high mage. I myself will take care of Ambrosimas. I will have to utilize the demons from the Other World to aid the magon and the council against you, sire. Do not wonder if the unexpected should happen. My brothers will be caught off guard if my servants suddenly do not do as they are told.” The archmage hid his face and thoughts behind his dense, spiraling aura. “Once the fight is over, Ringwall will bow to me; you will receive, as a sign of my gratitude, dominion of all of Pentamuria. Do with the people as you please. I care not.”

  Catsilver, High Mage of Metal, upon whose shoulders rested the expectations of King Sergor-Don and Archmage Murmon-Som, dipped a dagger into a red, shimmering liquid. So close, after so long… He had been the one to take up Sergor-Don’s patronage, to general surprise, when he had been merely a prince and a neophyte. He had taught him the secrets of advanced Metal magic in secret, knowledge far beyond what students were usually allowed to learn. And he had forged the connection to Murmon-Som, the weak-looking mage of the Other World. The high mage’s thoughts wandered around in the past; while there, he thought the mage’s rapid ascension to the rank of archmage was a little abrupt. But this, he reflected, was only proof that his dreams could become reality. He, too, could become an archmage, just like Murmon-Som. Archmage of Metal! Was it all he could wish for? Perhaps… complacency was dangerous… why not aim for magon?

  Catsilver had been carrying a dagger in his robe for the past few days. It was no ordinary blade: it had a hollow tip, now filled with Purple Poison. One drop of the poison was all the hollow could take, but it was all he needed. Purple Poison contained large amounts of Fire and melted Metal. A lunge at Bar Helis in the commotion… his body would fall apart, and it would cause great pain to force it back together. Cautiously, he laid a thin layer of Water energy on the blade. It would weaken the steel and control the Fire within.

  “As the Earth bears Metal, iron sweats Water and Water e
xtinguishes Fire,” he recited part of the Circle of Energy.

  His master’s call was suddenly in his head. Catsilver looked around. Had the fight already started? Had Murmon-Som successfully scattered the White mages?

  The high mage ran to Bar Helis’ chambers, robe flapping wildly behind him. The doors flew open as he approached as if invisible servants were standing at attention. Before him now lay the last room, the center of the lodge and his master’s meditation chamber. He slowed his pace and breathed deeply. He must not fail. He stepped over the threshold and came face to face with Bar Helis.

  “I do like it when my call is obeyed so quickly.”

  Bar Helis stood in the small room like a commander, and the room itself seemed to shrink at his presence. He had not bothered with a shield and his hard face was unobscured. His mighty aura filled the room and expanded further and further. It went straight through Catsilver’s own aura, as he noticed painfully, and devoured it. Crippling fatigue crept into his bones.

  “Did you honestly believe your scheming went unnoticed? Did you truly think you could have taken over Sergor-Don’s patronage without my consent? Secret lessons in dark places, eh? You must have felt so grand, showing a lowly student a little of your own power. I could tear you into countless pieces right now. The Metal you have gathered in your body would fly apart in a million directions and all that would remain would be a shred of bloody meat and bone shards. But no. I will demonstrate my generosity. You will not be punished for your betrayal. Quite the opposite. Are you prepared to serve me, unflinchingly?”

  Catsilver gulped and bowed his head. He could not move his arms. “Drop the dagger. You won’t need it anymore.”

  Bar Helis turned and reached into the air, and in his hand a two-handed sword appeared.

  “This is your weapon,” he said as he passed the sword to the high mage. “I will make do with a simple saber today. You may begin.”