by Awert, Wolf
This Ringwall had to be humongous. From a distance it looked like a thin braid on a giant’s head. That head just happened to be the legendary Knor-il-Ank, a mountain with a round peak, deep ravines in its roots and the large ruins of collapsed caves. Even though its peak could be reached in less than a quarter day, the mountain exuded power.
“The deepest roots of the mountain dig deep into the core of the world, and some say they even reach beyond this realm,” Dakh whispered.
The thin crown appeared to be dancing, though Nill knew that to be impossible. Here and there parts of the wall were swallowed by a mystical mist. Other parts of it broke through the fog and jutted out with hard angles against the mountain. Nill could not see where the entrance to the city was, but Dakh was already walking a winding path upwards. The wall’s height was not always even, and so the top of it looked ever more threatening the higher they went and the darker the sky became. Like fangs, Nill thought. The zigzag line was broken at one point. Where the wall would meet the rising sun the next morning a dome was built on the wall, like the nest of a swift cloud-arrow. Above it the view to the stars, below it the thin air of a free fall and all around it the free, endless far sight. Nill gaped, amazed.
But the wondrous construction that so gripped the boy was a source of discomfort to the druid, one he could not quite grasp. He gave himself a shake as if to shake off his foreboding thoughts and wondered whether his decision to bring Nill here had been the right one. Perhaps, though, it was just the concentrated magical energy below a small dome that caused his unease. For there, at this moment, the High Council held a meeting, led by the Magon.
Gwynmasidon, the Magon and spiritual leader of the archmages, sat at the top end of a long oval table made of smooth, gray onyx. Rust-red scars dug into the rock, looking more like dried blood than aged iron, yellow sulfurous lines criss-crossed over it. Above all, green shades billowed over the surface and gave the stone an irregular life.
Across from the Magon sat the five archmages of the elements: Ilfhorn, the young one who watched over Wood, Nosterlohe and Gnarlhand, keepers of Fire and Earth, Bar Helis, commander of Metal and finally Queshalla. Queshalla was the only woman at the oval and after the Magon the oldest member of the High Council. She presided over Water.
On the Magon’s left and right sides, respectively, sat Keij-Joss, the star-reader, and Mah Bu, who was reputed to always be in the Other World with a part of his being. Keij-Joss and Mah Bu were war-names, honorific titles, in recognition of extraordinary deeds. Some believed war-names were purely coincidental, chosen on a whim – a sentiment shared throughout the halls and corridors of Ringwall and by the common folk in the five kingdoms of Pentamuria. But in the world of magic things do not often happen purely by coincidence. A mage whose real name had become too trivial for anyone to use it any longer had reached the highest rank of recognition. The only thing left for such a person was the title of Magon.
In the middle of the table, between Keij-Joss and Queshalla, Ambrosimas resided – Archmage of Thought and third master of the spheres. Whispers behind his back called him simply “the word.” If addressed directly, however, it was always respectfully, with his proper name. Ambrosimas was one of the perpetual mysteries of Ringwall. Of stately corpulence and with a constant smile playing around his mouth, he was as suited to playing the fool as he was to being part of the council. His wit was scathing and his advice was profound. But as so often with high mages, appearance concealed truth; his smile seldom reached his eyes.
Across the table from Ambrosimas there was a stool wedged between Mah Bu and Bar Helis. The stool belonged to the Archmage of Nothing, the incomprehensible and mysterious magic that had not had a place in Ringwall for long. Nobody knew where the magic came from or who had welcomed it here. The space between Bar Helis and Mah Bu had always been slightly larger than between the other mages, and it had grown larger the stronger the Nothingness became. One day the Circle of the Council had broken at this precise place and the Magon had ordered that the magic of Nothing be accepted into the council to fill the gap. The plain shape of the stool – a round surface and three thin legs – was a general sign of disapproval. But what had originally been designed as a sign of disregard now contrasted with the ornamental chairs of the others and served as a constant reminder to keep focused on the origin of magic.
As the Magon’s gaze wandered along the oval, the Onyx awakened. Pale lights erupted from the center, ricocheting off the edges and burning out in sizzling sparks, or else simply extinguishing before the throne of Nothingness. The stone slab had begun to absorb the magical fumes in the room and release them again.
Gwynmasidon looked around at the Circle, and the longer he stayed silent the more his presence filled the room. When he finally spoke, his whisper reached every crevice.
“We have Keij-Joss’ sharp senses to thank that we know of the changes coming to Pentamuria this early. But the glimpse into the future is denied us – a glimpse we know from legends we once had.”
Nobody who laid eyes upon Gwynmasidon would have guessed that he was the spiritual leader of the Mages of Ringwall. He was of medium height, and his muscular build, not entirely covered by his luxurious robe, and stocky neck told of more than just strength of mind. His hands, which he kept motionless and slightly curled on the table, were callused like those of a fisherman or a farmer. They seemed not to fit with the golden robe which he wore with the same serenity as the pressing burden of his title.
His face was angular, as though it had been hewn from rock. The nose stuck out from under a broad brow, casting a shadow on his mouth that nobody had ever seen crack into a laugh. He seemed like a wild beast in a king’s clothes but for his eyes. They stared with a strangely broken, empty gaze, like a dying person before they pass through the great gate. Some of the archmages considered the Magon too old. But who knows of the images only the Magon sees, who knows the burden he must bear; of what importance are eyes to someone directly bound to the magical world? Only those brave enough and close enough to him to look into his face took with them a gaze into nowhere, where magical forces collided, fused and dissolved again in a silent storm.
“We know that a Magon can find a way into the future, and we know that you can do the same. But the cost,” Nosterlohe interjected, sending dark red clouds across the onyx surface that died down in the middle.
“It is not the price of knowledge that has stopped me from taking that step thus far, Nosterlohe. But what use is a glimpse into the future if we do not know what we are looking for? The future contains not only what will be, but all that can be.
“Change has always happened, none can escape it. But never has change meant the downfall of a familiar world. On the other hand, the Circle of mages is the first example in Ringwall’s history of a force that can make its own destiny. Fate itself chose for this to happen, made our Circle ever stronger and gave us the Onyx around which we hold council. And so we may well ask whether the foretold change is unavoidable, and if it is, which role Ringwall will play in it.
“I see a war with many battles. But I do not see an enemy. For five winters our sorcerers wandered Pentamuria, they spoke with the sages of this world, with the arcanists of the five kingdoms, the shaman who look for answers in the Other World, with the eldest druids and the wise women of the Oas. We have collected the tales of the founding of Ringwall and we have found ancient prophecies. We heard the legends of the encounters of men with gods and demons, myths of old Earthen powers and Air spirits. Not all of those we sent have returned, and we still know too little. The knowledge of the future lies in the knowledge of the past. But the past, too, is uncertain and vague.”
The Magon frowned, causing black clouds to appear above his brow, and the Onyx became even darker.
“Stories for children and old women seem to be all we have left of the old wisdom. As though the wisdom of our forebears had wilted away to become part of common gossip, lullabies for children and songs of praise for unnamed heroes
. And so one single legend remains, for which we have to thank our brother Ambrosimas, who picked it up from the anglers in Waterworld. It is the song of the man from the mists. If this legend still holds even a shred of truth, then a time of change is coming, led and executed by a single man. A single man, alone, with no ancestry and no history, is to make Pentamuria and all those who live in this world reel as the mightiest storm could not. I call this man the Changer, the bringer of alteration. We must know what the other peoples of Pentamuria know about this person. This, and only this, is what caused us to open the gates of Ringwall last winter.”
“A choice that has doomed us all,” a cold voice rang out. Bar Helis had risen up. If the element of Metal had not existed, nature would have created it anyway just for this mage. He combined Ilfhorn’s resilient strength with the Magon’s inflexible toughness. His face was smooth and had a matte sheen to it. The long nose was curved downwards, the eyes almost hidden under heavy lids, and the corners of his mouth accompanied the points of his thin beard downwards. If there was something Bar Helis despised, it was weakness, and he saw weakness in everything. His magic, the magic of Metal, was very simple. It was of great, piercing power, and he never had to perform a second summon.
A pale blue wave was emitted from his seat. His resentment was so strong that for a moment all lights and sparks on the Onyx were overrun by it.
“There will be a battle, but I do not fear it. The successful general chooses the time and place of his victories. The place is Ringwall, the center of the world and the spring of our power. And as for time, it will have to leave its hiding place before long. We will recognize it with ease as long as the enemy is outside of our walls. With our powers combined we can resist all change and even deny fate. We must only be prepared. But if we break all rules and traditions that have protected us thus far, blind and deaf to the consequences of our actions, we will set change in motion ourselves. We will become our own enemy. In the end we will fight amongst ourselves. Mark my words; remember them when the time has come.”
Silence spread through the room. Nosterlohe and Gnarlhand sat still as two rocks at the table and even Ilfhorn had lost his ease. The Onyx was almost black now, only in front of the stool of Nothing was it still unchanged and gray.
“Well,” a quiet voice emerged. “The enemy must enter Ringwall by the gate to defeat us. If it does so in the shape of a student of nobility, not all of our traditions will save us, and it will be in our midst, unseen. If Ringwall’s gates are opened, it may dare enter as a stranger, as a guest or as a magical presence. We would see it for what it is in that case.”
Mah Bu, the Archmage of the Other World, was an unimposing man with a dry, passionless voice who lay rather than sat on his chair. His long, outstretched right leg scuffed along the floor with its ankle, as though he wanted to make sure he was actually in this world. His voice was always quiet and he never raised it, nor did the pitch ever change when he spoke – if he even spoke, that is. He looked at Bar Helis as though he intended to add something, opened his mouth but decided against it. He shook his head begrudgingly.
The Onyx remained unchanged, dark. Mah Bu’s thoughts had not reached it.
Dakh gave Nill a light push and said in a bright voice quite at odds with his serious expression: “Come, we do not want to spend the night out here.”
Nill did not notice Dakh’s wariness. He stood, enthralled, before the unfamiliar building, the sheer size of which outclassed anything he had ever imagined back home in Earthland. It was less the height of the wall that kept his attention so raptly than the blocks it was made of. From Earthland Nill only knew the flat bricks made of mud and straw, baked in the fire, and the strange light stones from the quarry that the villagers had brought to build the well. The stones of Ringwall were dark and smooth, as wide as he was tall and as tall as a ram. No man except a sorcerer could have moved these blocks.
The gate itself was decorated with magnificent carvings of defensive spells and strange symbols, and had neither guards nor bolts. To Nill it seemed like a special display of strength, confidence or recklessness on Ringwall’s behalf that the gate was half open. It opened to the outside, which made it look as though the left part of it was beckoning visitors inside. If locked it would probably be difficult to break open, even with a heavy battering ram. In the right part a small door was built into it that opened to the inside, easy to defend and as a preventative measure to make sure the residents of Ringwall could not be trapped inside the city by attackers. Nill admired the construction, although he knew that the war times had long since passed Ringwall. These days, apparently, no threat was felt, and the right part of the gate stood comfortably in the evening sun.
The gate separated the bleak path leading up the Knor-il-Ank from the equally dismal footpath connecting the walls of the inner and outer circles. It’ll be completely muddied up here in winter, Nill thought.
The look Dakh-Ozz-Han was giving the half-opened gate was anything but sympathetic. “A gate that welcomes its newcomers should show it, too,” he muttered to himself, frowning. “And not just stand open a tiny, treacherous bit. I see no guards and nobody to report our arrival. I have seen worse traps than this half-opened wooden beast’s jaw.”
The druid closed his eyes and allowed his other senses to take over. Ringwall’s walls breathed magic, the gate was enchanted with numerous protective spells, and the footpath smelled of countless bearers of magic who had trodden it. It was all as the druid had expected. Apart from that he found nothing to give weight to his mistrust, but nothing, either, to make him let down his guard.
“Wait,” he said, as Nill attempted to wriggle through the open crack in the gate. He struck the wood with his staff and it opened wide with a deafening sound, allowing a better inspection of the space between the outer and the inner wall.
“Now we may enter, and you can be certain that everyone knows now that we have arrived. It is good manners to knock when entering a room or building that is not one’s own.”
Ambrosimas hummed contentedly and gave an apologetic smile as he lifted his mass. Nothing about his movements was reminiscent of the elegance that surrounded Bar Helis. Ambrosimas required the aid of his mighty arms as he stemmed his weight against the table. His chair slid backwards noisily and the Onyx sent sparks in all directions in protest. Ambrosimas’ dulcet voice was quite at odds with his cloddish shape: he was not only an Archmage, but also a singer of ability unparalleled in Pentamuria.
“One or two of you may have wondered why, in the time between the last two winters, I barricaded myself in my quarters and barely appeared at the meetings of our council. Well, I had left Ringwall and was wandering in the guise of a traveling sorcerer around Pentamuria. I can tell you that I have rarely undertaken such a momentous effort and that I was nearly starved to the bone.” Ambrosimas patted his enormous belly, but the airiness in his words went to waste. The Onyx exploded in cascades of light, flying in all directions. Time itself stood still in light of the pause Ambrosias had thrown into his speech. Breath froze in the air, hearts forgot to beat and the magical power of the archmages sitting at the table retreated, for a moment, into the deepest depths. The Magon alone seemed untroubled. Suddenly, the spell was broken and muttering broke out, as if to regain the moments lost. Bar Helis, Gnarlhand and Nosterlohe gave each other disparaging glances. Queshalla and Ilfhorn seemed not to know what to do, and even Mah Bu shifted in his seat. It was more than unusual for an Archmage to leave Ringwall. There were plenty of magical ways and possibilities to travel, and it was not necessary to endanger one’s body doing so. If a person was accepted into Ringwall, they did not leave at their own decision. In rare cases the Magon sent out one of the mages as a sort of trial, and every mage hoped never to be picked for one of these tasks in their entire life.
But Ambrosimas was beaming. He enjoyed the moment and absorbed the attention like sunlight, like a butterfly in the sunshine after the rain. Bar Helis and Gnarlhand, who deeply disapproved of Ambrosi
as’ peculiar ideas and general fooling about, looked expectantly towards the Magon, hoping for him to be reprimanded. Nosterlohe’s gaze was fixed on Ambrosias. His fists opened and closed again, the only actors in the play of his inner struggle. Nosterlohe was angry, for in Ambrosias’ folly he saw only irresponsibility. Ringwall needed its archmages and could not afford weakness. The Magon, however, remained silent.
Ambrosias waited for the commotion in the room to settle down. Then he continued: “As I was saying, I wandered around in the guise of a sorcerer, and I visited the tablets of Sonx, listened to the songs of Kryll along the water roads and I found the broken pillars near Asrax. It was an uncomfortable amount of climbing up there in the mountains of Metal World, I can say. I looked for magical traces of truth in all the songs and myths I collected on my journey, and…” Ambrosimas paused for effect before continuing, “I found them. These truths are in… how did our Magon put it? Gossip and lullabies, that’s where. The old truths still exist. They are hidden deep down, and I cannot tell whether it is possible to bring them all back from down there. Too many worthless elaborations have been laid upon them by generation upon generation, and too much that does not belong together has been mixed up. What I can report is this.
“In the magical traces left by the thoughts of this world we can see that all thoughts evolved from a single word. From that word came a sentence, and from the sentence came a story. This story is older than humanity, and parts of it are recognizable in plants and animals. It is hidden so deeply that I can neither read nor understand it. But much points to the conclusion that this story was the content of the first book in our world. The Book of Wisdom, or as it is also known, the Book of Creation.”
