Ringwall`s Doom

by Awert, Wolf

  Catsilver circled the sword above his head to get a feeling for its weight. His breath was shallow and his mind was in chaos.

  I am a mage, his sense screamed at him. My weapon is magic, not steel! But magic did not help him. Not against an archmage, far less against one of his own lodge. A memory of a long-forgotten past resurfaced, and he recalled his combat training as a youth. Now he depended on what he had always scorned.

  Out of the circling, he brought the blade down and cut a line from Bar Helis’ shoulder to his hip. The archmage merely took a step back and listened to the whistling of the sliced wind.

  “You must try harder. Perhaps you have not yet understood: you are fighting for your life. I have taken your magic but given you this wonderful sword. I do not need magic.”

  Catsilver brought the blade down again with more force. Bar Helis slipped diagonally ahead and raised his saber; with his other hand on the flat side of the blade, he parried the two-hander just above the hilt. The other sword reverberated from the unexpected inertia. Bar Helis took another step, past the trembling mage. With his right hand he brought the blade down onto his opponent’s body, with his left he pushed the back of the saber down into his flesh. He twisted on the spot and made the cut. The blade went through Catsilver’s body like a hot knife through butter. The two-hander clanged as it fell to the floor and a spurt of hot red blood followed. Then there was silence.

  “A mage is still a warrior, and a warrior should master every weapon. You have learned that lesson at last, my friend. A pity you can never apply it.”

  The implications that arose from the finding of the Olvejin were not immediately clear. The magon took his time in considering it, and only once he was done would he call a council meeting. But the magon overestimated the White mage’s patience. The rumors grew every day and soon began to take strange forms. Every day, a hidden voice brought more details to the surface, and soon no one knew fact from fiction. The mutterings grew so loud, and King Sergor-Don was accosted from so many sides, that he finally had to cave in and promise the White mages to show them the Olvejin. The magon and the High Council had still not met. It was therefore happenstance, rather than his own mandate, that caused the magon to issue a formal invitation, and so Sergor found himself alone in the tower that was home to the highest power in Ringwall, and all of Pentamuria. Gwynmasidon was irritable. He was not in the habit of asking others for information. The fact that a mere sorcerer held secret knowledge he knew nothing about tormented him like hot needles on his skin, king or not.

  “Why did you not come straight to us with your knowledge of the scriptures? No one else need have known.” The magon’s voice was terse and a vein was throbbing in his temple.

  “I reported my arrival to you, as is tradition, your Excellency. I told some mages of my findings and left nothing out. Everyone would have found out in the end anyway,” Sergor-Don replied somewhat defensively. The weight of that terrible golden aura threatened to crush him.

  “And where are the Olvejin and the scriptures? I demand you hand them over this instant!”

  “I will do whatever I can,” Sergor-Don said obsequiously. “The Olvejin is in the Other World, as you no doubt have heard. I can lead you there, if you wish, but I cannot remove it and bring it to Ringwall. I simply do not have the means. The White mages can barely contain their anticipation. I have had to promise to lead them there as well. If I promised rashly, I beg your forgiveness. Or should I inform them that you believe my actions were premature?”

  King Sergor-Don put on a slight smile, full of pride at his own magnificent portrayal of a groveling student.

  Black clouds gathered around the magon’s head and his aura lashed out more wildly than a roc’s wings before a fight. “You will do no such thing. You will not speak for me. You will bring me the scriptures and we shall decide on the Olvejin at a later point.” The magon’s voice thundered like breaking rocks falling into a chasm. The young king felt as though the words were grinding him into the ground, and it took more than a deep breath before he felt ready to respond.

  “The books are in Worldbrand, my new capital. I can have them delivered in less than a day. I have just received word that the copies have arrived safely in Gulffir.”

  The answer was unexpected and the magon fell into silent brooding, to Sergor’s silent satisfaction. What has seen the light of day is no longer a secret. All he can do now is limit the damage, he thought, and decided to continue acting the vain fool.

  “Then you will hand over all the writings you have found and all the copies you have had made to the council. When the circle has had time to examine them, we will return your copies and keep the originals. Having copies made was a foolhardy mistake. There are more hidden counterspells than you can imagine, and I am sure the founders of Ringwall did not leave their most sacred treasure unprotected. Furthermore, I wish for all those who have been in contact with the books to come to Ringwall forthwith. We shall keep them here until we decide otherwise.

  “That includes you, your Majesty.”

  The magon was determined to regain control of the situation. Sergor-Don kept his head bowed demurely until he was utterly confident in his ability to mask the sudden delight at this unexpected stroke of luck. He could bring more people into Ringwall without arousing suspicion. His thoughts raced around his head and a new plan to remove the magon began to form.

  Who to choose? Who can I claim was in contact with the scriptures? My archers, or perhaps warriors, better suited to indoor combat?

  He slowly rose to meet Gwynmasidon’s gaze and furrowed his brow as though he was trying to remember something. “Surely you cannot mean my warriors? The brave men who guarded the books?”

  “Every last one. No exceptions.”

  “As you wish, your Excellency.”

  A few days later, King Sergor-Don, his court sorcerers and a small troop of soldiers appeared in the Hall of Ceremony, which was already half-filled with White mages. The rumor had spread that today was the day they would finally see the Olvejin. Sergor-Don had had a table set up by one of the walls that was part of Ringwall’s inner wall.

  “I have the founders’ scriptures with me, and I have come to report on the Olvejin as the magon has demanded,” he called, and a hush fell over the White mages.

  The echo had not quite died when the air began to vibrate in several places around the hall. The magon and his archmages entered the room. Sergor-Don looked around. All the archmages were here. Only Nill was absent, but he did not count anyway. The magon had a look of ill humor on his face. The time and place for this historic event ought not to have been determined by a mere sorcerer; but before he could raise a hand, Sergor-Don started to speak as if he was the one in charge here.

  “The Olvejin is in a place the founders called the Other World within the Other World. It is similar to the Plains of the Dead, but more difficult to enter from the here and now. I can lead anyone there who wishes to see it; but I have barely any knowledge of the magic of the Other World. I know little of what the founders left us. Is it possible, honorable magon, that you or one of your archmages might lend me support in this difficult task?”

  Before the magon – torn between the wish to see the Olvejin and peruse the ancient texts, and to tear the impertinent little king to shreds – could reply, Murmon-Som stepped forward.

  “You have my support, King Sergor-Don; but I must remind you that checking the scriptures is at least as important. I wonder whether we might not postpone our visit to the Olvejin?”

  Sergor-Don could not believe his ears. What nonsense was Murmon-Som up to now? It had been his own idea, after all, to trap the White mages in the Other World.

  But Murmon-Som had correctly anticipated the mages’ reactions. A murmur grew louder and louder all across the room, and the first irritable shouts burst forth. Now that Ringwall knew the Olvejin was in reaching distance, even the magon could not keep the White mages under control. So he nodded, raised his hands and rumbled to the
hall at large:

  “The High Council is glad that Ringwall’s long hunt for the Olvejin is finally nearing its end, and we understand the impatience in our brothers’ hearts. Yet we must not act rashly and ruin everything in the hot-headed haste of discovery. We shall review the founders’ scriptures and attempt to find out whether they say anything about access to the Olvejin, its magic and its meaning. Meanwhile, every mage who wishes to see the relic may do so under the guidance of Archmage Murmon-Som. You are to share any observations you make. We hope this will help us understand the ancient texts better. The council cannot risk your lives by allowing you to touch the Olvejin; but, my dear Brothers, the Olvejin is a stone. I should not worry about it running away while you are not there.”

  Little clouds of disappointment converged above many heads, but dispersed again quickly at the prospect of seeing the thing the very existence of which had only yesterday been the subject of debate.

  When the murmuring had died down again, Murmon-Som raised his voice. “I would ask Ilfhorn for his aid in this matter. As Archmage of Wood, he will be less preoccupied than I, having to keep watch over everyone; he will be able to report to the council in far more detail. I must concentrate on our safety.”

  “I agree, but I must insist that Ilfhorn stay here by my side. Perhaps Bar Helis would like to accompany you?” the magon suggested.

  “As you wish, magon, but Bar Helis is the Archmage of Metal, and Metal energy is very strong in the Other World. It could complicate the trip.”

  The magon’s eyebrows rose. “I do not see the problem you seem to, but you are the Archmage of the Other World. If you say Metal magic might endanger you, then perhaps the Archmage of Water would go with you. Her element is scarce in the Other World. Queschella, are you prepared to seek the Olvejin with Murmon-Som and the White mages?”

  “I would be flattered and honored,” Queschella said with an indication of a bow as she took her place beside Murmon-Som, who turned to address Sergor-Don.

  “Your Majesty, how would you like my assistance?” he asked.

  “We will have to take the journey to the Other World with spirit, soul and body. Else we will not be able to leave the Plains of the Dead.”

  Sergor-Don secretly wondered why Murmon-Som had insisted on this little scene. He personally would have preferred the White mages to follow them with spirit only, leaving their bodies behind. After the fight, the vacant bodies would have been easy to burn to cinders with a normal fire-wave. Why did Murmon-Som want them to take their bodies? Did he really believe that the White mages would follow him, turn their cloaks like the elementalists?

  The White mages had leapt up from their benches and chairs, and their shuffling feet blended with the chatter to form a sort of dull buzz, leaving no voice distinct. The only sound that broke through was the scraping of chairs on stone. Ecstasy was visible on more than one face; on others, vacant expressions instead, as their owners prepared inwardly for what they were about to do.

  “Follow me,” Sergor-Don called ceremoniously, and in the blink of an eye he, the White mages, Murmon-Som and Queschella were gone.

  Most of the White mages had experience with the Other World. In their quest for the truth they had entered the Plains of the Dead often enough to find that the secret of magic, the world’s order, the mysteries of the past were to be found in their own world. They stood around, a little disoriented, waiting for Sergor-Don to lead the way.

  “We must form a chain. Clasp each other’s hands or shoulders.”

  Murmon-Som laid his right arm around Queschella’s hip and pulled her closer. With his left he reached for the closest hand.

  “Stay close, Sister,” he whispered.

  “Now, think of the Olvejin,” the young king’s voice rang out. “The Olvejin is a stone. Imagine a pillar, a column, a memorial. Search your memories until you find such an image, or you will never reach your goal.”

  Sergor-Don stood on the plains, his arms open wide as if he meant to embrace the entire group. Suddenly the air shook and the king was gone.

  Murmon-Som let out a shout. “Treason!”

  Five or six White mages broke away from the chain and fell to the ground. The rest disappeared. Murmon-Som pulled Queschella close and pierced her heart with the blade he had just pulled out of his sleeve.

  She opened her mouth for one last spell, but nothing came out except blood.

  “Six left,” Murmon-Som laughed. “And to you, White Brothers, a good journey do I wish. Should you ever find the way back to Ringwall and accept me as your new lord, you will be most welcome in my new kingdom.”

  He turned to the few White mages that had not fled.

  “You, my loyal subjects, will guard this place and kill every mage who returns. I have business to attend to. We have not won yet. The hardest battle lies yet before us.”

  Sergor-Don had returned to the Hall of Ceremony from the Other World. He pulled a stack of parchments out of a sack and put it in front of the magon.

  “The books, your Excellency.”

  His hasty grip betrayed the greed he concealed in his face as the magon grabbed for the parchments. He cut the band that held them together and spread them apart.

  Empty.

  “There is nothing here,” he gasped as his aura inflated to a frightening size. “What is this? What sort of game are you playing?”

  Sergor-Don stepped forward and seemed to tower over the magon. His eyes flashed as he looked around, then back to Gwynmasidon. His voice rang through the hall as he said loudly and firmly:

  “The books of the founders I hereby pass on to the High Council for intensive study. But not to you, Gwynmasidon. Your time is over. Ringwall needs a new leader. I challenge you. Taste my Metal!”

  With the last word, Sergor-Don’s voice rose to a scream. The magon and the council were frozen for a heartbeat. It was not the first time a magon had been challenged, but never before had a former neophyte, barely a sorcerer now, done so. It had always been archmages. The challenge was almost as endearingly pathetic as the small, agitated aura of the young man compared to the mighty magical barrier that surrounded the magon.

  Sergor-Don threw his hands forwards and sent out a barrage of arrows, black iron all, with blinding bolts of lightning. Despite his surprise, the magon needed only a small wave of his hand to make them all burn out before they reached him. All but one. A sharpened branch of the springnut bush, with a tip of hardened steel, buried itself deep in the magon’s heart. The only magic in this arrow was a glamour that hid it from the mages’ eyes, and even this magic only worked as long as it was close to the bow that had fired it. The magon threw a last, colorless spell at Sergor-Don, but his five court sorcerers had already barricaded him behind their powerful shields. The old body collapsed.

  “The magon is dead! Are you prepared to acknowledge me as your new magon, and to follow me?” King Sergor-Don shouted.

  “NEVER!” Bar Helis roared. He had opposed the magon on the council because Gwynmasidon had appeared weak in the last few winters. His wounded pride and arrogant nobility had driven him to have Nill killed. He despised most of the archmages for their fickle opinions and allegiances; but he would never be known as a traitor. Bar Helis stood firm for a Ringwall of the past, for its traditions, and he would never bow.

  “That was no duel,” he snarled. “Treason and falsehood won for you. Your magic did not kill the magon. One of your archers did.”

  Bar Helis sent out a wave of Metal energy. Uul, one of the Kingsguard, had slightly angled his shield. That way, any direct blow would be redirected without shattering him, especially if it took the shape of a spear or bolt. But this was a wall, and it pushed Uul to his knees. Bar Helis raised his hands again. He would need no third spell against the boy king and his jesters. Sergor-Don felt fear rise like bile in his throat and his eyes darted around for Catsilver.

  “Where are you, you dog?” he coughed as he flung meaningless fireballs at Bar Helis. The Archmage of Metal took his time.
He was enjoying the moment before the kill, like any predator does. Beside him stood Ambrosimas, his hands open, mouth wide, singing a tuneless song. Nosterlohe set the part of the hall where Sergor-Don and his follower stood on fire; Skorn-Vis had his hands full keeping them from being burned. And at Gnarlhand’s command, Ringwall shook and the floor cracked open as his magic pushed the stones apart. Only Ilfhorn did not fling himself into the fight – his magic was contrary to Bar Helis’ Metal and Nosterlohe’s flames would burn his plants to ash.

  In that moment, Murmon-Som returned, in the middle of the uproar of magic, the howling tempest and the screeching stones. A quick step and he was behind Bar Helis, and he plunged his dagger into the Archmage of Metal’s back over and over and over again.

  Bar Helis stiffened. His hand still raised for the final stroke, he stood petrified, attempting to muster one final spell. Then the archmage fell to the ground. The blood streaming from his abdomen was soaked up by his robe. Murmon-Som took his place and aimed his hands at Sergor-Don, who was putting up a decent fight.

  “When one of the archmages falls, another takes their place, traitor!” he yelled out loud. “See the demons, and despair!”

  But his attacks were not meant for Sergor-Don. A legion of small demons, Thorwags and other spirits streamed into the hall from nowhere and caused such chaos that no one could tell friend from foe anymore.

  Nosterlohe had cloaked himself in flames. Fire burst from the walls. The ground Sergor and his sorcerers stood on was aglow, but Skorn-Vis held the heat back and even initiated a counterattack. His chosen shield was not as obvious as ice or cold water. That would merely have melted in the face of Nosterlohe’s considerable prowess. Instead, he used hot water; a mere lick of the flames and it turned to vapor, boiling the air and making it impossible to breathe. Nosterlohe ceased his offensive. In his stead, Ilfhorn’s Wood broke through the stones and left a ruin of rock and dust in its wake. Ambrosimas still stood and sang, but Sergor-Don and his followers could not hear him. What sort of magic was the Archmage of Thoughts working?