The Reign of Magic (Pentamura Book 1)

by Awert, Wolf

  “The Book of Wisdom is a crazy idea that many fools have tried to follow, my dear brother,” Gnarlhand growled. “I doubt it was ever written, and even if it was, I doubt a story from before our time can offer advice on how to avoid the future held in store for us.”

  “Oh, that is of course possible, brother Gnarlhand.” Ambrosias’ eyes glinted mischievously. “Whether it was words in the early time or pictures, nobody knows for sure these days. Maybe there were only thoughts, and because these thoughts had a beginning, middle and an end, the first humans called it a book.

  “The story of creation is probably lost to us forever, but I suppose it wouldn’t help us either way – unless we found the Book of Wisdom in its earliest form, with all the magic contained in creation.”

  “I believe, brother of many words and debaucherous thoughts, that you have entertained us for long enough now, although I always find new appreciation for your abilities with the spoken word.” Bar Helis’ mouth was even more earthbound than usual. As a man of actions he detested words, especially if he could not see where they were leading him.

  Ambrosimas chuckled. “The first of the magical men denounced idleness as much as you do today, Master of Metal. They retreated into the wilds and their tracks were lost. But of one thing I’m certain.”

  He paused again, looking over the people around the table. Once he knew he had their attention, he spoke on.

  “It was their hands that took the Book of Creation and crafted from it the five Books of Prophecy, or as they are known in some places, the Books of Speech and Auguries. Five books there were. They were Eos, Arun, Cheon, Mun and Kypt. And one of these books contains our future.”

  “So it is true, then? The Books of Prophecy, mentioned in only a few leftover hermits’ scriptures, are real?” Queshalla sounded hesitant, as though she were still considering whether this was good or bad news.

  “All of Pentamuria’s legends are based in the Books of Prophecy. And it looks quite like the legends concern the books Eos, Arun and Cheon. The legends are, in fact, history. So our future is written in Mun or Kypt. Those are the books we must decipher. Unfortunately the Books of Prophecy are lost too, although some arcanists are sure that parts or copies of them may be found near the Borderworlds.” Ambrosimas sat back down without interrupting his monologue. “Some of the old knowledge from the Books of Prophecy was known to the hermits, our forebears. Something must have happened in the past that enabled them to leave their caves and hideouts and return to the surface of the world. Something that gave them the strength to found Ringwall. What was this ‘something’ and why did they break from their past so completely that our history only begins with the founding of Ringwall? Let me tell you.”

  Ambrosias’ voice sunk to a whisper.

  “They took their strength from the magic of the five elements that reigns over Pentamuria now, and of which we are now the masters. Before that, however, there was a different magic, an older magic, as when the world began there was yet a different magic. Our future lies in a new magic, and in the coming kingdoms our magical powers will mean not much at all.”

  He fell silent. The Onyx had exhausted its liveliness and was once again a simple, spotted gray stone slab. The archmages sat in shock of the announcement of a future in which Ringwall’s power was taken away, in which the innermost order of the world was changed and even the will to live was not spared.

  This future was too alien, too unimaginable for an Archmage to accept it as fate’s will. Nosterlohe arose first and disappeared behind a column of fire spewed out by the Onyx. One Archmage after the other protested against Ambrosias’ words until the Onyx was spitting flashes and sparks too high for them to see each other, and the crackling and sizzling drowned out the sound of angry voices.

  It took a long time for calm to return to the small room in the tower so that clear thought was possible again and words and sentences could be formed. In this very moment Nill and Dakh-Ozz-Han stepped through the gate.

  The path from the outer gate into Ringwall led them across a bright, plain stone terrace to a wide, flat flight of stairs made of white marble that connected the path with the dark inner wall and an even darker corridor. The stair, sprinkled with yellow flecks of sunshine, was the last bright spot before the dark gloom of the city.

  “There it is again.” Nill stopped abruptly.

  “What is there again?” the druid asked, becoming rapidly less patient.

  “The feeling I got in the Valley of Unhappy Trees. A kind of pulling and pushing at the same time as if it’s trying to tell me something, the smell of dust and mold, the strength of an ancient wisdom, barely covered by false and thin surfaces.” Nill stopped. “Oh, I don’t know.”

  “Whatever you felt in the forest, boy, you will not find it in Ringwall. You can be sure of that,” the druid said. “Let us keep going.”

  It took a while for Nill’s eyes to grow accustomed to the semi-darkness of Ringwall, but Dakh denied any respite. With long strides he hurried down the corridor, at the end of which they had to choose whether to go left or right.

  Compared with the lonesomeness on the narrow path in the hills there was quite some commotion in this corridor. People of all shapes and sizes, clothed in long cloaks with loose hoods walked every way, entered and exited rooms, disappeared behind doors. Dakh placed a hand on Nill’s shoulder and turned around. From their elevated position they could see through the gate in the outer wall onto the path that had led them here. Dakh said nothing, but Nill could not hold back: “That is the world we came from.”

  The druid nodded and added: “And the world I will be returning to shortly.”

  In these plain words lay everything the two of them felt. For Nill one life was over now, and another about to begin. Mysterious and dangerous, perhaps, but maybe also full of strength and achievement.

  Dakh stood there for a moment and then walked a few steps to the left, guiding Nill down a flight of stairs. “So then,” he said, “this is where I leave you. Someone else will take care of you now.”

  Nill was slightly startled. In secret he had hoped for Dakh to stay with him, but he knew that this was but the wish of a frightened heart. Why can’t you stay with me? he thought sadly.

  As though Dakh had read Nill’s mind he said: “I do not belong here, and quite apart from that… if I happen to be in the area, which happens rarely enough, I might as well visit Rainhir and a few of the citizens I knew of old.” Dakh gave him another encouraging smile, hugged Nill tightly and went before the boy could say anything.

  Nill had not quite left the entrance hall when he heard a scratching noise, the clacking of quick footsteps and a subdued scolding. Nill turned around and saw a shod foot kick a ram, who had somehow found his way here, in the backside. Nill laughed. Even in Ringwall they had problems with those stubborn animals. It could have been his own ram – he would not have put it past him. But to reach the hall before Nill he would have had to be able to fly. The ram looked over his shoulder in disgust, gave an angry stare with his slanted eyes and toddled off.

  Gnarlhand, stocky and steady as the Earth he was connected to, was never easily convinced. “With all this talk about ancient, old, new and future magics you forget one thing, brother Ambrosias: according to the tale, the man from the mist will herald in the change, or even cause it. It is vital that we find out who this faceless man is and where he comes from, rather than wondering about the magic he uses or this nonsense about lost books. Is the legend concerning the man from the mist not a story that contains the magic of truth, Ambrosias?”

  Ambrosias chuckled. “The man from the mist is the horseman who rides across the land, sweeping it with war, he is the green wanderer who embraces the land with such caress that everyone forgets where he came from and who he is. He is the white general and defeats the wild hordes of the Borderworlds and is crowned king for it, bringing with him peace and freedom. Do you want to hear more, Gnarlhand?

  “There are many similar legends in th
e kingdoms and among the peoples. At one point they are all identical. No matter who is the subject of the tale, they are always alone. The Magon called him the Changer or the bringer of alteration. That is a good name. The man is strong and mighty. He is strong enough to destroy everything and raise a new world from the ruins. Whether he does it all by himself or whether he simply causes the reigning order to be eliminated, upon which the people fight amongst themselves in ignorance and madness, is not told in the legends. But as Pentamuria uses magic and weapons for defense, it will be magic and weapons that cause its downfall.”

  “If what you say is true we shall have an easy time of it. We will keep our guard up and be on the lookout for strange people, perhaps an arcanist or one from the Borderworlds. Maybe a mighty warrior with magical abilities? We should not be overly taxed with discovering such a person, not if they differ so wildly from their surroundings. But I have my doubts. It seems too easy to me.” Ilfhorn had begun to pluck apart a swamp twine, listening to the squelchy sounds it made as though they contained all the truth of all worlds.

  Ambrosias nodded. “The man from the mists does seem easy to track down, but only if it is actually a human. But what if the human is merely a symbol for some force we do not know? And so we must look not only for a person, but also for patterns, changed habits, broken traditions. New allegiances, strife and discontent.”

  “So we shall use the winters before us to tie a net of spies everywhere in Pentamuria, a net to catch all who know magic,” Queshalla said. “Having opened Ringwall for strangers with magical gifts seems to me one of the best possible traps.” She shot a challenging look at Bar Helis, who grumpily stayed silent.

  “Had a good trip?” A man of indefinite age, clothed in light gray and brown, stood suddenly next to Nill and eyed him up and down. He looked no different to all the other people hurrying through the corridors. But Nill felt a piercing gaze from this man. “Come with me, I’ll show you where to go,” said the mage – or perhaps he was merely a sorcerer? He opened a side door and walked ahead silently, but quickly. They walked along narrow halls, crossed paths with other corridors, ascended small sets of stairs and went back down some again. It seemed an endlessly long way to Nill until they finally reached a plain, large door.

  “Before you lies the cave of the hermits. These are the ancient settlements of the first Mages of Ringwall. You will live in the sacred part of the city.”

  “Who else is there except me? All the students?” Nill asked.

  “No, just the three of you.” Nill opened his mouth to ask what he meant by “the three of you,” but before he had the chance, the mage made a wide, circular gesture with his hand and the door opened. Nill stood before a large, dimly lit room, from which yet another path led even deeper into the mountain. Nill could not see much more than a dark spot, but even from this distance it smelled odd. Nill had no other way to describe it. Age, history and greatness, but also ruin, neglect and desertion coalesced into a smell that reminded Nill of some hidden corners in Ambross’ workshop. Four more dark spots seemed to lead into other, smaller caves.

  “The chamber on your left is already taken,” the mage said. “You may choose one of the other three.”

  “And the path in the middle there? Where does that lead?” Nill asked.

  “To the old storerooms that belonged to the Circle. A Magon closed them off a long time ago. Be glad about it, I heard it’s easy to get lost in the old tunnels down here.”

  Nill had the impression that a grin had flitted across the serious face, but it might have been a trick of the flickering candlelight.

  “Have you ever been down there?” Nill asked. “I mean, in the old tunnels?”

  “No, I haven’t,” the mage answered, quite unimpressed by the boy’s curiosity. “I don’t know anyone who has. The lock on the door to the storerooms is strong and mighty and the tunnels are blocked off with good reason. You can be sure that our forebears, who lived down here and built the early Ringwall, took everything with them when they left. They left nothing behind, not even their secrets.” Nill’s broad smile ebbed away when he saw the pensive expression that had taken hold of the face beneath the gray-brown cloak. “Enough of all that.” The words came out harshly and told Nill quite clearly that the mage’s thoughts had landed in the present again. “Which entrance do you want?”

  Nill thought that all the holes looked good enough for him. He chose the first cave from the left.

  “You just need to make a circle in the air with your left hand and your chamber will open. Do it in the opposite direction to close it again. Water and food are already in your chamber. There is enough water to drink and wash with. The lavatory is shared between you three and it’s over there in the corner, not in your chambers. You can empty your pot there as well. It will replenish during the night. And don’t forget to put the cover back on the lavatory once you’re done.”

  Who would ever consider building a toilet in their bedroom? What sort of idiot did this mage think he was? Nill squinted. In the semi-darkness he could see the cover vaguely. There had been something like that at home, but it had been for the whole village and lain far outside the village. One lavatory for just three pupils seemed somewhat strange to him.

  “Someone will be here to pick you up tomorrow.”

  And with those words the mage disappeared by simply dissolving. He left behind a surprised Nill, who had not even had the chance to ask what he was going to be picked up for.

  Nill eyed the entrance to his chamber distrustfully. It was not really a chamber… it was a cave. His hand reached out until it could not go any further. The cave was blocked off in a way unknown to Nill. Not a door, but rather a force he could not penetrate. Nill made a circular motion with his hand and the entrance to his cave glowed red and opened up. Nill saw a bed, a few quilts, a pot he could relieve himself into during the night and a large jug of water next to a shallow bowl. That was all.

  Nill nodded, satisfied. He had not had much more at home, either. He was a bit surprised that the mages lived in a similarly plain way.

  “Hal,” said a broad, dark figure that blocked what little light there was coming through the doorway.

  “Hal,” Nill answered.

  “You just got here, right? My name’s Brolok.”

  Nill nodded. He could not make out much against the light. Brolok seemed not much taller than him, but definitely stronger.

  “Are we the only ones here?” he asked.

  “I think someone’s still supposed to arrive, there’s still space here after all.”

  “I thought we’d be more than just three students.”

  “Ha.” Brolok gave a short, booming laugh. “Yeah, we are, but only three soks. The nobles are all upstairs.”

  Nill did not know what soks were, but judging by the contempt with which Brolok had spat out the word it was not a desirable thing to be soks.

  “Upstairs means with a view to the outside, with beds and light,” Brolok explained. Nill shrugged. He was not used to any different. Apart from the light, which he would miss. The light and the birds. But a decently comfortable cave was not bad. He had never had so much room in his life, and the earthy stone smelled good and felt secure.

  “So you’re not noble either,” Nill stated.

  “Nope,” Brolok answered, “much worse than that.” He was grinning, but there was no joy in it. “My grandfather was a great, respectable sorcerer until he fell from grace. I’ll tell you that story sometime else. My father was a sorcerer too. He studied here in Ringwall as a young man. That’s why I know a bit about the city. That was before all the trouble we had. Later he met my mother and they married.”

  “So?” Nill asked.

  “My mother was a sok too, and that makes me a half-arcanist.”

  This time the word ‘sok’ carried much less venom with it.

  “And?” Nill pressed on.

  “Man, where have you lived your whole life? There’s no greater shame than being a half-arca
nist. Most of them don’t live for long, they go mad or are cast out because they’re thought to be dangerous.”

  “You don’t look mad to me.” Nill had begun to like the fellow.

  “My father and his father did their best to help me cope with my magic, but neither of them are mages – they’re just sorcerers. And you, what about your parents?”

  “I don’t know.” Nill shrugged. “Ramsmen found me. They folk said I was running around in the wilds.”

  “Oh my, that’s even worse than being a half-arcanist. Not knowing your own parents, I mean. But why are you here now? Someone must have realized that you have the gift.”

  Nill shook his head. “Don’t know. My mother, I mean, the woman who raised me, she’s a truth-teller and the herbalist of the village. She told me once that I lived rather close to the Other World.”

  He thought it safer not to mention the dancing rune bones or the threatening demons.

  “Well, one day a druid came by and said he wanted to accompany me to Ringwall.”

  “So a druid came by, just like that?”

  “Yes.”

  Brolok looked skeptical.

  “If you’re really an arcanist, then you’re really lucky. Arcanists without parents usually go mad or die even earlier than someone like me.”

  He looked every bit the authority on who was to go mad when and where.

  “Why should I lose my mind?” Nill asked.

  “Because magic always finds some way out. And then it bursts forth wherever you are weakest. Without proper schooling you’re lost. And who can school you in time? Hmm? Your parents, of course. And if you don’t have any, you’ll go mad. Simple as that.”

  That sounded rather convincing.

  “And you came here so you wouldn’t go mad?” Nill asked cautiously.

  “No, I would have managed with my father’s aid somehow. But learning here in Ringwall will help me fulfill my dream.”

  Nill was about to ask about Brolok’s dream when the boys’ attention was drawn by voices in the great cave. The mage had come again and was explaining the chambers, the water and the toilet in the exact same words he had used earlier, and vanished as quickly.