by Awert, Wolf
Brolok nodded. Whytcrystals were a special sort of quartz. They refracted light like barely any other crystal could; they were of a glowing white, completely opaque. But their most memorable feature was their shape. Long and thin, seldom growing thicker than a child’s arm, often reaching lengths up to the height of a man. Were they not so precious they would have made a great base for swords and lances. They were not directly usable in a forge, but they could be cut sharper than a sword could ever be and were capable of inflicting the most grievous wounds. The crystals were lighter than steel as well, but brittle and easily broken, rendering them useless in battle. There were some kings who had swords made of whytcrystals, but they never used them in combat, instead preferring them for ceremonial events. Brolok wondered what whytcrystals were doing in a forge at all, and what exactly Mirx meant with “growing.”
Mirx seemed to have found what he had been looking for. He looked around carefully, and then he grabbed Brolok by the sleeve and set off hastily. Brolok could now see directly into one of the small grottos, but all he saw was the shadowy silhouette of a man sitting motionless on a bench. “Watch this,” Mirx breathed. Another shadowy figure approached the grotto from the right side. A mage entered and sat down next to the first figure he had seen. A few quiet moments passed. The first silhouette stood up slowly, stepped aside, turned around and left the grotto. In that exact moment the mage who had just entered the grotto shifted sideways on the bench onto the position that had just been vacated. For the slightest moment during this exchange Brolok had an unimpeded view of the whole grotto. On a pedestal by the opposite wall there was a whytcrystal as long as an arm, slim, graceful, sharp and fatal. Then the mage had found his position and Brolok’s view was interrupted.
“The mages make the crystals grown. An Earth mage sits in front of each crystal. This one here’s no older than one winter. It’ll have to grow for at least another winter. There are always enough Earth Mages ready to take turns growing them. It’s hard work, and if a single rotation gets messed up, the crystal’s ruined.”
All Brolok knew about whytcrystals was that they had existed since the birth of the world and had kept growing in the depths of the earth. They were the crystals of eternity, and Brolok was deeply impressed with what Mirx had shown him here. He still did not understand why any of this was necessary.
“So… why do you grow crystals here?” Brolok asked.
“I’m probably not allowed to tell you, but the master has found a way of fusing whytcrystals and steel. That’s only possible with magic, because crystals can’t be forged and steel doesn’t grow. The result is a blade that never has to be sharpened, as sharp as a crystal and as pliant as steel. They go black in the process but still refract the sunlight. A properly timed swing with a sword like that and your enemy’s blinded. We don’t know yet if the blinding can ever be reversed, so the wielder is in danger too. You have to fight with your eyes closed, and that means you need the third eye, the magic eye. Only very few people could ever wield such a blade. So far we’ve made three weapons, two swords and a long-ax. The Magon owns one of the swords, the Archmage of Metal has the other, and the master kept the long-ax for himself.”
Brolok could see clear signs of distress on Mirx’s face. Perhaps he was already regretting divulging these secrets. Brolok attempted to send out an aura of peacefulness, but was not sure whether he had succeeded.
“A long-ax.” His thoughts raced in his head. The legendary Black Dragon. A weapon none could resist, if it was swung properly. There were not many heroes in Pentamuria who could boast of their prowess with a long-ax. And this one had to be wielded blindly! What an extraordinary warrior Galvan must be.
Mirx and Brolok returned to the noise of the main hall in silence and entered the first stock chamber they passed. Here were kept thousands of iron rods of all shapes and sizes.
“Most of this is black iron,” Mirx shouted through the racket.
Brolok took a dark, shiny rod of about three steps length and swung it around a bit. It was pleasantly pliant and whistled slightly as it cut through the air. Almost a perfect weapon already, but too heavy.
“Do you have any magical knowledge?” he asked Mirx.
Mirx shook his head. “I know metal like almost nobody else here, but the magic is for the mages.”
“There must be some way of taking some weight from this rod.”
Mirx nodded. “That’s done occasionally. But taking the weight out also takes the kick out of the strike.”
“But you gain a lot of speed for it.”
“Take wood instead, that’s lighter by nature,” Mirx called.
Brolok shook his head. “No sword can break a metal rod. The advantage outweighs the missing strength,” he yelled, but he was not sure if Mirx could hear him properly.
“Here’s the leather. The Wood-brothers bring it to us. Good for armor and shields together with metal.”
Brolok’s eyes shone. He saw a set of leather armor before his mind’s eye, just waiting to be made by him. Unlike most other blacksmiths he dismissed the idea of iron armor and chain mail. “They slow down a good fighter too much,” he would say when asked. “A good set of armor is tough and light.”
Leather, wood or bones were his preferred materials, but getting the right wood was not easy. It became even less easy with bones.
He would certainly need help in this endeavor, but a set of leather armor whose plates were lined with metal and connected with chain was a king’s armor. He would have to take care for it to look inconspicuous. Otherwise he would not keep it for long, or have to defend it constantly.
Mirx went deeper into the chamber and passed through a door.
“We keep the meteorite iron here,” he said shortly, as though it were the most normal thing in the world. Brolok froze with awe at the might of the cosmos. He had seen meteorite iron one time in his life and felt its magical power flow through him. It had been a tiny piece, a decoration on the queen’s necklace as she had passed by him with her company. And they kept the same material here in large chunks.
“Who uses this for forging?” he asked once he had calmed his awestruck trembling.
“Only the master and sometimes his two prime students.”
“The master takes students?” An expression of hope spread across Brolok’s face.
Mirx grinned again. “Masters die someday like all of us, and when they do they need a replacement. His prime students are still rather young and only just became Grandmages. They are still an entire level below him. The master turns the ore into blanks and gives them life. That takes a whole lot more than just forging amulets or weapons.”
Brolok felt his hopefulness evaporate and fell back to earth with an ungraceful thud. “Can I have a place to work, a small hammer, pincers and a blank sheet?”
Mirx nodded. “Come.”
Sweaty and tired, but beaming, Brolok returned to the caves later that night, where he found an equally good-humored Nill. Tiriwi alone seemed not as radiant, but the nervous flickering of fiery flames in her eyes had given way to a calm glow.
“Ahh, that was good.” Brolok spread his arms wide and stretched his back, making his leather tunic creak. “Not sitting or standing about for once. How was your day?”
Nill grinned a telling grin. “Not much, but I’ve got an ache in my shoulder,” he said while rubbing said shoulder, which was still dutifully reminding him of Growarth’s friendly touch. “I got my hands on some parchment and other things for drawing.”
Brolok looked bemused. “And?” he asked gruffly.
“I want to draw a map of Ringwall to show every entrance and every portal. That’ll save us a lot of time when we have to run back and forth in this city.”
“Waste of time,” Brolok commented shortly. “The few portals we’ll actually need are easy enough to memorize.”
“True, if it stays such a small amount. I’m afraid there’s a lot more of them and some are probably hidden. You’re the only one of us three w
ho can sense them. I’m less interested in the portals themselves than in the places they lead to. Would you help me?”
“Sure!” Brolok answered, enjoying the idea of being needed. “There’s something to your words. There are a lot of dark and unknown places around here – too many if you ask me. A warrior should know his territory.” He paused for a moment. “Can you teach me how to draw?”
Nill raised his head in astonishment. Brolok the Blacksmith wanted to learn drawing? He nodded hesitantly and gave Brolok a quizzical look.
Brolok squirmed a little in embarrassment. “The thing is, I want to draw a suit of armor. With all the little details so I don’t forget later. It’ll be a very special suit of armor. The plan is to have separate leather plates connected, not with aglets, but with loose chain rings. I thought that up earlier. The armor will go down to your knees but it won’t stop you from leaping, kicking or running.” Brolok beamed. What a day!
The sun sank, disappeared and rose again, unnoticed by the students in the cave who only felt the time as a back and forth between calm and activity. The morning, along with the expectation of finally learning his first spells, pushed Nill out of bed early that day. In his anticipation he felt magical energies coursing through his body, ready to be let loose to change the world and destroy all enemies. Well, his possible enemies probably knew magic as well. But anyone who lets a thought like that ruin their mood has nobody to blame but themselves.
Nill rubbed his face. What time was it? A slight golden sheen emanated from the walls and was enough to light the small cave. Small cave, hah! Nill had never had so much space to himself in his entire life. He looked around, feeling rather princely.
He poured some water from the jug into the bowl, listening to the animated splashing. He took the bowl and emptied it back into the jug. It sounded completely different. It was a gurgling, hidden laugh from deep within the water’s throat. Nill poured it back into the bowl.
The water is speaking to me, but I don’t yet understand its language, he thought merrily. All the things that had happened… Back in the village every day had been like the one before. And now? Each day was full of its own surprises. Nill took another deep breath and exited into the main cave. He wondered whether the others were still asleep.
Brolok certainly was not. He stood in the center of the room and was dancing. Or so Nill thought. Brolok stretched skywards and fell down again, spread his arms wide as if to command every corner of the cave and pulled them back in. He leapt, pirouetting, through the air, landed flat on both feet, or on one, or on one hand. Nill was surprised.
“That looks really nice. I never knew you could dance.”
Brolok lost his inner rhythm, stopped moving and looked at Nill, bewildered. “Dancing? No, I’m getting rid of the last remnants of sleep. It always gets stuck in your joints during the night and if you’re not careful it can stop you from moving properly all day. Dancing, huh?”
“I thought it might be,” Nill grinned sheepishly. “Looked like it, at least.”
Brolok snorted. “You can tell you’re from a village that’s way out the way of the main roads. Fighters consider their bodies their most valuable possession. It’s the only thing that decides between survival and – well, not survival.”
“And in the village your survival depends on if you can find enough to eat and if you’ve got friends to help,” Nill said somewhat grumpily. Brolok was capable of annoying him despite his genial manner – his fighting nature, he supposed. He quite forcefully disliked being the youngest in Ringwall, not being noble and barely knowing anything about magic. He really did not need to be the village boy to the city folk on top of that. But this short twang of annoyance passed quickly, for too magnificent was the prospect of doing real, strong magic later today.
Nill, Brolok and Tiriwi (who had gotten up far later than the two boys) made their way to the wall top of Ringwall where Gweddon had said goodbye the day before. They arrived slightly earlier than expected so they wandered around a bit and gazed down at the land to Ringwall’s feet. Nill was beginning to wonder whether they had not perhaps mistaken the meeting spot when Brolok called out: “There he comes!”
With slow steps an old mage, clad in Fire’s red robes, came their way. Once he reached his students he kept walking. A muttered “Come along” from the corner of his mouth was the only sound he made. Nill, Brolok and Tiriwi followed him. He led them to one of the smaller buildings atop the wall of Ringwall that consisted of only one room. Nill attempted to find traces of magic but the room showed nothing apart from colorful blotches on the walls. The room was bare. What little light there was came from the entrance where the door was missing. A heap of brushwood was the only distinguishing feature, propped up with dried grass and yellow leaves.
The Fire Mage gave his students a short glance and said: “You are to burn the brushwood. You first.”
He pointed at Brolok.
Nill stared in disbelief. How are we supposed to light a fire without being shown how? he wondered.
Brolok gave a bow and said: “My name is Brolok and I will do my best.”
The mage gave no reaction.
Brolok straightened up, lifted his arms slowly and took a deep breath. He stretched out his hands, raising his fingertips slightly so that his palms pointed directly at the brushwood, and shut his eyes. For a long time nothing happened, but then Nill could make out some smoke coming out of the dried grass between the twigs.
The mage nodded with no change in his expression. A short gesture with his hand extinguished the fire.
“You next.” The mage pointed at Tiriwi.
“Fire is easier to make with a flint and steel,” she said.
The mage said nothing for a while. Tiriwi returned his gaze in equal silence. After a few painfully long seconds she lowered her gaze.
“There is always more than one way. Today we will be choosing magic,” the mage said to her.
Tiriwi faced the brushwood with some reluctance, raised her eyes again and immediately several small flames burst forth between the branches. The mage quenched the fire again.
He nodded again. “Now you, Nill.”
Nill was surprised that the mage addressed him alone by name. He was even more surprised at being commanded to do magic with no prior explanation. He had felt the magical energy of the Sanctuary. He knew that Fire spoke, but he did not know how to call upon it.
Nill rose up from his crouch and stood straight, legs apart as he had seen Brolok do it. “Burn,” he thought, “burn!” He set all his concentration on the pile.
Whoosh!
Rustling filled the air and the twigs flew apart. Tiriwi giggled while pulling grass out of her hair. Brolok was grinning. The mage’s face remained expressionless and he said casually: “We have a lot of work to do. You seem not to know how to awaken the Fire.”
Nill kept a dignified, if insulted, silence. How was he to know? Up until now he had thought he would learn magic along with the others here in Ringwall – what a fool he had been.
“Listen to me,” the teacher’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “I dislike repeating myself. You have enough heat within you. Send it to a single part of your body, preferably something pointed. A finger will do, or your nose for all I care, if you think it can handle it. Collect your energy there until it is strong enough to break free, and then let it go and send it to its destination.”
Sure, Nill thought bitterly, easy enough for someone who can do it already.
“And how do I send the energy to this particular part of my body?” he asked out loud.
“Imagine it wandering there. That will do for a start.”
Nill imagined all his bodily warmth creeping towards his right index finger. It became warmer and warmer and began to glow. Brolok’s grin returned. Tiriwi’s eyes grew wide and she let out an amazed “oh.”
The mage did not seem to be amused by this accidental spell, but he did not seem annoyed by it either.
“You turned your heat
into light. That does take a reasonable amount of skill. So then, Brother Lightfinger, today you will practice making the warmth move about in your body. Success is a matter of practice. Now, on to the next task.”
The mage was relentless. One task followed the next. Nill’s pleasure at the floating plant trick had completely evaporated. He was not even capable of making a tiny ball of fire. “Brother Lightfinger”: the ridicule wounded him deeply. He understood barely anything of the mage’s lackluster explanations and had long since departed within. Brolok had his share of difficulties with Fire magic and Tiriwi was trying to argue with the teacher about whether the task was even worth doing, could she not do it without magic and so on. The mage reacted to none of her objections. He simply repeated the task in a manner that belied all the claims that Fire Mages were hot-blooded or irascible.
The second phase of their training was continued on the battlefield. Brolok succeeded in heating the ground. Nill stood there, simply watching.
The mage repeated his task. Tiriwi did not react, and the mage turned towards Brolok and Nill.
“This is what I want to see.”
He raised his right arm to the sky, and as he raised it the earth before him broke apart; flames as tall as a man rose into the air, charging forwards like fiery horses. The mage lowered his arm, the flames died down, and had they not left behind a wide path of black-burned quickgrass nobody could have told they had ever existed. Not the slightest remains of magical energy were left.
“There,” Tiriwi said accusingly, pointing at the burned earth.
“Next task,” the mage said.
The following days were not enjoyable for Nill. Earth magic was as little his as Fire. To his annoyance Brolok excelled at this, delighting their teacher with all sorts of tricks. Tiriwi’s face had become further clouded. Her displeasure at this sort of magic had not stopped at her face, but dug beneath her skin. Her big, green-gray eyes had taken on a piercing quality. This, along with her permanently clenched mouth, turned the slender reed into a haggard branch, slightly hunched over with both arms crossed, locking out the rest of the world.
