Ringwall`s Doom

by Awert, Wolf

“Oh, he was.” An elderly Oa laughed and handed Dakh a large leaf sheer dripping with sweet syrup. “That sounds just like him. Very tall, very thin, hair whipping in the wind. I remember him well. He always seemed to stumble over his own feet and we often laughed at him. Still, he somehow managed to win AnaNakara over. That was a lot less amusing and caused quite a ruckus around here.”

  “Oh yes, strangers can make odd things happen,” Dakh mused. “They bring a fresh breeze into town and sometimes that’s not too welcome.”

  The Oas nodded, and for a while everyone was silent. Nill decided to ask. “Has anyone here ever heard the name Perdis?”

  The older Oa looked bemused. “Perdis? I’ve never heard that before. Are you sure it’s a real name? It sounds so strange.”

  Nill had some difficulty in hiding his disappointment, but Dakh pulled him back to reality. “I wonder what the sorcerer was after here.”

  “No one knows,” the Oa answered. “He was just there one day. He came a few times, but not since about… oh, fifteen or twenty springs must have passed since then. I was still a child then, and the whole ruckus passed me by. It’s more the stories I was told than actual memories for me.”

  “Stories?” Nill wished the Oa were not so keen on having them ask for every detail; short, concise and to the point would have been preferable. Perhaps there was something in these stories that would help him. Perhaps the strange sorcerer was indeed Perdis. It was not unthinkable.

  “After his last visit, he left with AnaNakara, and neither ever returned. They had a child. That child caused bigger problems in the village than you could ever imagine.”

  Nill held his breath. A child. It could have been him. Everywhere I go, I seem to cause trouble, he thought. Why, though? The thoughts chased each other back and forth through his brain, but he did not dare voice them.

  Dakh-Ozz-Han did not ask either; he knew what must have happened. Brolok was the one to finally break the silence when he shook his head and asked: “Why would a child have caused problems with the Oas? Oas have children all the time, right? If it was any different, there’d be none left.”

  The elderly Oa smiled.

  “It seems you do not know our customs, dear sorcerer. Our children stay with their mothers only as long as they are dependent on their milk. It seldom takes more than two springs. If the child is a girl, another mother will take her in, and if it is a boy, a druid will fetch him.”

  “So?” Brolok still did not understand.

  “AnaNakara, it is said, kept her girl with her quite a bit longer than two springs and chased away any Oa who came near.”

  Nill felt as though a thorn had pierced his heart. A girl. He had been so close… his disappointment went deeper than Knor-il-Ank’s roots.

  “The girl stayed with her mother for four whole springs.”

  “So?” Dakh echoed Brolok.

  “It wasn’t really a girl, you see,” the Oa sighed. “AnaNakara had disguised her child. It was a boy, and boys simply do not belong with the Oas.”

  Nill sat straight as a stick, his eyes burning with yearning.

  “Worse still, the father wasn’t a druid or even a warlock, that would have been understandable. No, it had to be that sorcerer. No one knew where to find him. AnaNakara should have abandoned the child or left with him. Tradition said so. Fate would have decided whether they were worth living. There was a lot of conflict in the village at the time. There were a few sisters among us who considered the old ways barbaric and cruel and outdated. But the wise women did not listen. It wasn’t the first time, either. AnaNakara and the wise women had differing viewpoints on the subject of magic and were constantly at odds. They are our highest authority, the wise women. Perhaps they were glad to have an excuse to finally be rid of the troublemaker, maybe that’s why they were so harsh. But like I said, I was just a girl back then.”

  Brolok’s face was expressionless. He seemed upset. Nill was beaming. A boy! he thought.

  “So, this man, was he a sorcerer or a mage?” Dakh knew he had finally found Sedramon-Per, but if he did not want to lose him again – which he did not – he needed to know what happened to him, and whether Nill had anything to do with it.

  “Sorcerer, mage, what’s the difference? I don’t know. Ask Lianina. She was AnaNakara’s best friend, back then at least. Before they fell out.”

  XVII

  AnaNakara pummeled the stretched skin with powerful, regular blows. Only the strongest Oas were capable of beating the big vertical drum with both sticks so the sound was not drowned out by the wild clattering of the smaller drums. The way her back muscles moved was accentuated by three long, thick braids that fell over her shoulders. She preferred to wear her hair in a single long braid over her right shoulder, but the rhythm made her body vibrate so much that her thick hair could not keep its shape. Three braids, then, though not exactly pretty: one on each side and one on the back. AnaNakara did not care much. She was not a vain woman. Three braids were simply more practical.

  The drum’s rhythm appeared to new arrivals as monotonous. It was the most basic pulse of life, the heartbeat of nature that gave a reference point to all the other drums in the group. Two smaller drums to either side took the rhythm and played with it, each in their own fashion. They were set a little further, so that each drummer could see exactly what AnaNakara was doing. Even though the pulse remained the same, the beats could grow louder and quieter; the sticks could hit the skin in the middle or around the edge, changing the pitch, and even the angle of the stick imposed its own unique flavor on the sound. Once a change from the big drum had made it all the way to the smallest, it was a completely different tone.

  AnaNakara let the last beat echo away and wiped her brow. Her headband, made of woven bast and dried moss, was drenched. She wore no jewelry except for a thin golden band on her arm that made the muscles on it stand out all the clearer. She was stocky, short, strong and wild, and yet, despite her ferocious appearance, there was no doubt that she was a woman - although not one to be trifled with.

  Like almost all of her sisters, her father was a druid, but none of the others had as much of their father in them as AnaNakara. Most of her friends had light hair, silver or blonde, and often little more remained of their father’s looks than a slight red sheen.

  Her name was similar to a bird’s call, she had been told. The story went that, after her birth, she had screamed louder than all the other babies, and ‘AnaNakara’ had been adapted from the brighthorn’s call. With its wide chest, thick beak and pompous plumage, the brighthorn spent its time mostly on the lower branches of trees, where it fended off other competitors for food with its loud screech. Even the cats avoided it.

  Yet it had not merely been her name, her hair and her figure that had given cause for talk behind her back. She was not only strong, but wild, deft and brave; she enjoyed climbing up the tallest trees and never avoided a fight. She was popular with the builders, as she was not afraid of swinging an ax and shouldering a log. But her true notoriety came when she disagreed with a brulabar about a portion of honey. People whispered that she had grabbed it from behind, put her arms around its neck and broken it with just a slight tug. AnaNakara covered her ears at this nonsense. She explained that all she had done was leap at it from behind. That had frightened the brulabar into dropping the honeycomb and charging away. No one believed her, though. Who would be mad enough to pounce on a brulabar for some honey? Besides, it made for a better story. And AnaNakara was renowned for her love of fighting.

  “I will never take a man who cannot beat me in a fight,” she would say whenever she was asked about family matters.

  “You want to be careful,” her friends would say. “There’ll be none left in the end.”

  And so it was. The passing druids had no desire to prove themselves against the plain woman for the right to bed her; after all, there were so many prettier, younger women, all of them more willing and less likely to break their jaws. Although she had never broken a jaw, all o
f her potential suitors left with bruises and scars as their only trophies.

  And so passed day after day in the small village, until one morning a strange wanderer appeared by the forest’s edge, incredulously ogling the group of women. He was tall, with long legs and arms, and he did not seem to know what to do with his hands.

  “I didn’t know that only women lived here. I hope I’m not intruding,” he said quietly. “I seek a fire to warm my cold feet and fingers and a place to sleep. And perhaps something to eat other than baked grass and greenleaf. Healthy as they are, they make me retch,” he joked. He pulled a face as if the mere mention of them made him feel sick all over again.

  “Sit with us.”

  The Oas’ hospitality towards men who did not come from Ringwall was almost boundless, but tonight there was a certain uncertainty in the air, and no one could tell where it had come from, why it was there and when it would go. Perhaps it was the young man’s odd appearance.

  He stood there, his tall frame towering over them all in front of the meadow. He was skinny like the reeds that grew in the water and his hair was distinctively light, and so silky that it blew in the softest of winds. If the wind changed direction, his hair stood on end, and when the sun was in his back the silver color gained a golden shimmer and fused with his aura in a sort of cloak that gave the awkward young man a touch of the otherworldly. This only lasted until he moved, however, as his long, swaying arms and funny gait looked almost like a jester’s act. The man was not a druid. Quite apart from his looks, every druid knew the Oas or had at least heard of them. Druids and Oas were two parts of the same whole, like a bird and its nest, like dew drops and leaves, like clouds and the wind.

  Nor was he a shaman. His clothing was too plain; and his open, somewhat dreamy gaze drew absolutely no comparison to a wild warlock. Unfortunately, it stood to reason that he was, indeed, a sorcerer, hailing from hated Ringwall.

  In spite of this, the stranger was treated well. They listened to his stories with keen interest, although he did not have many to tell. No one tried to put sweetened berries in his mouth during supper or play any other sort of game with him. The girls did not accompany him to the river to wash, but only showed him where he could do so himself. He slept in the common house, like all visitors.

  “He’s the one,” AnaNakara said, pointing her strong chin in the stranger’s direction, making her look even more determined and wild than usual.

  “Who?” her friends chorused.

  “Him. He’s stronger than me.” AnaNakara’s voice was quiet and sober.

  “Him? I’d wager my bracelet that you can see every rib on his chest when he gets undressed. You could fold him over like a reed, pour syrup on him and eat him for dinner.”

  “Her heart’s the only thing making her weaker than him right now.” “She’ll come round.” “Our sister’s in love!” “About time.” These and many other jokes were made by her friends, but she did not care. She gazed at the spot where he had been standing.

  “He’s strong and powerful. A giant unlike any other. Even the Metal beasts with their scythes and sickles would run screaming.”

  Her friends tittered. “I think your eyesight is waning, sister. He’s not big, strong and powerful, he’s long, lanky and gawky.”

  “Don’t even try. He’s mine.” With her teeth bared, AnaNakara looked positively frightening.

  “Don’t worry, dear, don’t worry. I don’t think anyone else is after him. None of us would be crazy enough to take a sorcerer into bed.”

  It did not occur to AnaNakara to introduce herself to the stranger in the common house that night, and her friends kept clear as well. The stranger had expected no less, for he did not know the Oas or their traditions. So he sat, the only man amongst the women, at the fire, eating his meal with the children, mothers and eldest. AnaNakara sat silently beside him, and he said nothing either – he would not have known what to.

  After a long, shared meal, AnaNakara asked him suddenly: “What’s your name?”

  The stranger looked up from the wooden spoon onto which he was vainly attempting to coax a smoothly cooked root in the soup. His eyes found hers and he frowned, as if remembering his name was causing some trouble behind those eyes. After a while, he answered slowly: “Sedramon-Per.” He looked a little confused and repeated it a few times silently, like in some absurd lip-reading game. Then he nodded vigorously, as if to emphasize the meaning of the word and said it again out loud. “Sedramon-Per. That is my name, and you may call me that if you wish.”

  AnaNakara looked satisfied. She seemed to like the name. She did not give her own, and Sedramon did not ask for it. The young sorcerer stayed with the Oas for a long time, much longer than he had initially planned. AnaNakara told him about the drums and the kind of magic she felt in them, but she avoided all other questions about the Oas’ magic.

  “Our magic is simple and rests on three perspectives: one down, one up and one on ourselves. I personally don’t really believe in it much. You’d be better off asking the elders, or better yet, the wise women.”

  And so Sedramon asked the elders and the wise women. The answers he received were all similar: “The Oas’ magic is not meant for sorcerers. It would only confuse you,” and other such sentences met him everywhere he asked, accompanied by an understanding smile.

  Sedramon and AnaNakara grew closer, despite the many warnings and raised eyebrows in the village. AnaNakara cared nothing for the village gossip and it did not take long for the two of them to be spending every waking moment with each other. In the night, they always returned alone: he to retire in the common house, she in her own hut. Three full moons passed until he disappeared as suddenly as he had arrived.

  “So does anyone know where he went? And what happened to AnaNakara?” Nill asked breathlessly. The story had quite an impact on him.

  “What do you think happened?” the Oa said. “She stayed here and bore the scorn of an abandoned mother. She spent more and more time in her hut. Drumming was the only thing she had left. I wasn’t very interested at the time. My friends and I spent our days collecting flowers to weave into wreaths. You should really ask Lianina if you want to find out any more about AnaNakara.

  “And the sorcerer… no one knows where he went. No one was that interested. Had he gone waterwards or metalwards, we would have seen him. The path toward earth is difficult to hide on as well. The most likely explanation is that he vanished in the forest or left for the Mistmountains. Although both are still unlikely, as the way to the Mistmountains is dangerous, and that’s just in the parts where the path still exists.”

  “Well, he could have passed through the Mistmountains into the Fire Kingdom,” Nill suggested.

  “Why would he have done that? The plainsroad is a much easier way.”

  Nill did not know what to say to that, so he said nothing.

  “Speak with Lianina,” she said as she stood up. “She’ll be able to tell you a lot more than I can. Good night to you all!”

  Sedramon had indeed crossed the Mistmountains, and was resting under the last tree before the vast open plain of stones, sand and bleakness. The sun was at its peak, causing the landscape to lose its usual yellow and assume a blueish gray similar to hammered iron. This was not what Sedramon had expected. His eyes sought yellow and red, the burning fires he had seen on his flight through time. With a sigh he picked up his bags and walked on.

  He did not know how long he traveled. To his left, there was stone; to his right a wide, dead wasteland; and ahead of him sand, rubble and every now and again large patches of grayish white salt. Suddenly, he stumbled into a depression, where a body was hunched in silent suffering.

  Sedramon leapt down the sandy slope in hugged bounds and bent over the man, gently patting his bony back.

  “The poison has taken control. Let’s see if we can’t change that,” he muttered softly.

  The back began to stretch, the cramped muscles relaxed and the blue shade on the man’s face lost a littl
e of its menacing darkness.

  “Too much Earth isn’t good,” Sedramon said. “Neither is too much Metal, especially when there’s a lack of Water. You will have some pain for a while, my good man. I have strengthened the Fire and made the Wood loosen the Earth. But now, you must drink.”

  Sedramon held a shallow bowl of water to the man’s lips which he had found under a nearby stone from which water dripped.

  The man tried to resist and mumbled something – Sedramon caught only the word “trees” – but he was too weak. Ignoring the coughing and spitting and rattling breaths, he forced down sip after sip into the dry throat until the bowl was empty. It was quite a large bowl, despite its shallowness.

  “There,” Sedramon said, finally happy. He did not add anything, but rather let the man sleep as he prepared a small meal for himself. He placed the bowl back under the dripping spring. He had enough water for himself.

  When Sedramon woke up the next day, he noted that the hermit had been up for quite some time. He watched the old man carry the bowl to the roots of the trees; his dragging feet left long gouges in the sand. The first bowlfuls must have been the hardest.

  “I am the keeper of the spring,” the man explained when he noticed Sedramon’s inquisitive glance. “The trees are my children, my task and my fate. Call it what you want, it’s all the same to me. But you – I owe you my life.”

  “I’m sure you’ll save mine if fate sees fit,” Sedramon replied calmly.

  “I will spend my entire life here,” the hermit said.

  “I will be moving on soon.”

  “Then I must give you something other than the promise to be there for you in times of need.”

  “I need nothing more than information.”

  “Very well, ask.”

  “I seek a place of fire, heat and embers. The flames rise high in the sky, touching the clouds.”

  “No such place exists. It must be in the past, or yet to come.”

  Sedramon sighed. “You’re very probably right.”