by Awert, Wolf
He slid his fingertips along the wall, as Brolok had shown him. Every stone block breathed differently from the gaps between them. Block, gap, block, gap, nothing. Block.
Nill froze. He had suddenly had the most peculiar sensation that his hand had dipped into a stone block. One step further his fingertips touched solid rock again, and the feeling of emptiness disappeared. Nill turned around and felt for that particular stone again, and once more his hand went straight through it.
If this is a secret door or portal, it’s a very strange one, he thought. He glanced left and right to make sure nobody was watching him, and he stepped through the invisible gate.
He collided painfully with a something decidedly solid. Suppressing an outburst, he decided to investigate. The wall was not letting him through.
He considered for a while. First his fingers had been able to pass through, but now the wall was unwilling to let him pass. Again he reached towards the strange stone. His fingers passed right through, as though nothing was there. He reached further, leaning forward until not only his arm, but his entire body had traversed the mysterious stone. It seemed as though fast movements made the illusion impassable – if someone were to stumble and reach for the wall for support, they would find only stone.
Nill looked around. This, too, was a very narrow corridor, no wider than the stone block that had hidden it. From where he now stood, he could strongly feel the gate he had just moved through. It was very dark.
I need light, he thought and attempted to make a light sphere that was to float in front of him, illuminating the path. He did not think it would work, but it was worth a try.
He concentrated and allowed his energy to flow into his palms, cupped his hands and let the energy out. He heard a small sound. He had certainly done something, but he did not know what. It certainly had not been a light sphere, for the corridor was as dark as ever.
Nill remembered that, during his countless attempts at incinerating the brushwood, he had managed to create light. This time he guided the energy into his fingertips, not caring what sort of energy it was, and let it escape. Ten greenish-white little dots appeared in front of him. They were dim, but enough to light the way. “I suppose being Brother Lightfinger has its advantages,” he thought, grinning.
He followed the path straight downwards, and it seemed to lead deep into the mountain with no twists or turns. The slanted floor was slightly damp. Before long he reached a small chamber at the end of the corridor. Nill shook his head, confused. The whole place made no sense. All the rooms in Ringwall had been used at some point; this one was presumably no exception. If they were no longer in use, various things were left over. Nobody bothered to clear out a room they no longer needed, especially not the unimportant things. This chamber, however, was completely empty and had no exit apart from the one he had just come through.
Nill slid his hands along the walls in the hope of finding another secret passageway, but the stones were solid and held no magic at all.
Nill stretched and checked the ceiling. As he went around the room, searching for hidden exits, he felt something at his right foot. One of his steps had been accompanied by a groan, or had felt different. Unevenness? Sound? He was not sure. He inspected the floor thoroughly, but had as little success as with the walls. He repeated his steps and concentrated on his feet, felt the uncomfortable dampness of the stone beneath his soles, and something else – there was some sort of magical pattern in the floor. He felt it quite clearly. There was a door in the ground. Once he had found the outlines of it, it could not be difficult to open.
The trapdoor had no handle, but he imagined it becoming very light, the heavy air pushing itself under it. The door shook almost as much as Nill, but it did not move. Exhausted, he sat down. The door was made of stone, not wood. It was too heavy to lift – it could only be opened with magic.
Think, Nill, think. Stone slab, stone belongs to Earth, not Metal. Earth is my friend. He remembered the wonderful feeling of sinking into the Earth, quite different from being buried alive. The memory cast a fleeting smile over his lips. He stepped onto the slab and began to sink. He could not do it. The feeling of sinking was there, but he was hitting a barrier. Nill began to lose patience, stamped with his foot, and the stone slab trembled. That could not have happened, but something had changed. Nill laughed out loud.
“Well?” he called into the darkness. “Awake yet? How long have you been asleep down here?”
Nill lifted the heavy slab up. Now that it was no longer locked into place it went quite easily. Door light, air heavy. He was so elated and proud at having opened the door that he nearly fell down the hole it had hidden. Yet another black corridor was before him.
“Will it never end?” Nill sighed. But without hesitation this time he began to descend a few damp steps. He heard the stone slab slide back into place, giving an ugly crack as it locked back into its frame. Keep sleeping, Nill thought. I hope I don’t have to wake you again. He followed the path further downward. The stone became softer, the walls earthier, the ground wetter. His feet were ice cold from the water that covered the floor down here.
The water dripped from the walls, filling Nill with cold and a strange mixture of feelings. He saw himself standing next to Brolok and Tiriwi. No, there’s nothing there. But he had felt something, just not recognized it. It had been cool and musty, as though it had been in a hidden chest for a long time. Images of processions striding through the mountain, old, bent figures and he, Nill, standing in the middle with clay stuck to his legs. There is no rock in the clay, Nill protested. His feet splashed in the water. It was cold, but clear. No clay, no earth, no mud. Mud! A memory came to him of dirt, smells and the immovable faces of five mages. Telling the magic of Knor-il-Ank isn’t easy. Nill was jubilant – he had not imagined anything at all. The strange magical power from the past came from here. That had to mean that it had found a way to the surface somewhere around here.
Nill scanned his surroundings for another door, but found nothing. There were about a hundred paces where he could clearly feel this ancient magic. Before and after that area it decayed, yet still hung in his clothing as a heavy scent. But he could not make out any sharp outlines. No doors or portals.
Nill did not know what to make of this. He had little choice but to keep on walking. After what seemed like an eternity he reached the end of the hallway. Once again he felt around the walls, and this time he found the exit. He pushed against the soft earth lightly, and with a small plop he was outside, standing on a patch of grass. “A gateway,” Nill thought. He could still sense that strange energy, although it was a lot weaker than it had been down in the tunnel. Now that he had found the gateway he would have an easy time of returning.
“Who knows what I’ll end up needing this entryway for.” He pulled the map out of his shirt to mark the gateway’s position, but thought better of it and put it back.
The sun had long since left its zenith and was sinking rapidly to earth. He would have to hurry if he wanted to reach his cave before dark. He had to run around half the mountain. Nill cursed his stupidity at not remembering which portal the teachers had taken him through to leave the city. He decided to take care of that matter later and began to make his way. He was cold and tired, but his mind was wide awake.
That magic of Knor-il-Ank! I can actually feel it. But a terrible doubt had begun to pierce his happiness. If it truly was the magic of the mountain, why could the mages not sense it? They knew Knor-il-Ank and they knew that its magic surrounded Ringwall. What if he had found something else entirely?
Unlike Nill, Brolok had little aspiration to further his magical abilities. His body was more important to him. Today he was sweating and felt rather good about it. He had just finished giving his new staff that which made it different from all other staves. It was a lot harder to give a staff magical properties than to actually forge the metal. But it had been worth it. This staff was no heavier than a bough of aspen wood, it was as pliant as flower-wood
and could easily resist heavy blows from any blade. Good black iron, Brolok thought, satisfied.
He found a quiet spot in the shadow of the inner wall and began to swing his new staff with wide, twirling motions. What an incredible feeling! Brolok changed his hands’ position to the bottom of the staff and began to swing it around his head. His entire body was being pulled by the force of the staff, which seemed to be attempting to fly out of his hands. He pulled down slightly, and the tip left the eagle’s circle and went into a nearly vertical dive. The strength of the blows was much more evident when struck from above. Not much later and Brolok’s forehead had begun to sweat again, but he was completely relaxed. He smiled. This was how it must feel. Every movement left him relaxed. That meant speed, and speed was more vital than strength.
Brolok adjusted his grip again, this time to the middle of the staff, whirling it around like a paddle. He guided the tips in a small circle which became larger, then smaller again, all at top speed. All fatigue left Brolok’s body and now he could begin the proper training. He searched for a place where it was safe, and began anew. The staff shot in front of him, then behind him, and with a small turn of his body his sides were easily reached as well. Every time Brolok did not get a thrust quite right he shook his head unwillingly. He did not yet have the right feeling for the staff, because it looked as if it should feel so different. A bystander would not have recognized these mistakes, but to Brolok the smallest difference was easily evident. Every fighter who lived their life with their weapon had to know these things. Brolok closed his eyes to ignore their misguiding influence. And now his strikes were true: fast thrusts into the air, up and down, with the occasional hit from the short end of the staff in close quarters. A person unfamiliar with the technique of staff combat would have been unimpressed, but the entire force came from the body, not the arms. And Brolok’s body was big and strong.
“Are you trying to ward off evil spirits or just practicing how to keep the birds off the crops? I’ve quite a few better ideas for both.”
A slender figure had left the shadow of the wall. A broad-brimmed hat was pulled low over the person’s face, adorned with gold and red feathers. A short brown cloak covered the upper part of a sturdy but light set of leather armor. The leggings were tightly fitted. A long leather sheath hung from the stranger’s left hip, a light blade within it. An ornate dagger hung by their right leg. Apparently the sheath was built into the clothing.
“Let’s train together, shall we?” the noble boy said.
“Sure,” Brolok answered. “Find a good spot, and I’ll stay far enough away to not get in your way.”
“Oh, I have no intention of playing around like you. I’m looking for… a friend, to help me with a little exercise.” Brolok did not like the way the noble emphasized the word “friend”.
“You have no staff or lance, how are we to practice together?” Brolok asked, feigning ignorance.
“Isn’t it obvious? I’ll use my sword. I’ve got it on me all the time anyway. I hope you don’t mind.” The noble began to enjoy the game.
“Sword against staff is a rather odd match,” Brolok said.
“Are you afraid? I’ve a lot of practice with my sword. I’ll take care you don’t get hurt too badly – even if my blade is sharpened to diamond-point on both sides.” With these words he unsheathed his weapon in a smooth, quick motion.
“I’m not worried about your blade,” Brolok retorted. “I just don’t want to hurt you.”
The young noble gave a mocking laugh. “A proper battle-taunt! Perhaps it works against the other farmers’ boys, but you don’t expect me to fear danger from a long bough, not if I’ve got a sword.” The boy took position, pointing the tip of his blade at Brolok’s heart. “Enough words. Let us dance. I will hunt you – let’s see how fast those legs are.”
He swung his weapon from the wrist. The sword circled to the ground, then back up again, with the end of the circle falling towards Brolok’s head as if to cleave it in two. Brolok could have dodged the attack easily with a back step, but he did no such thing. The noble registered this and closed his last two fingers around the haft, giving the swing an unexpectedly deadly force. This blow could have ended Brolok’s life in a fraction of a heartbeat.
But Brolok simply lifted his staff and blocked the attack. The sword hit the black iron with such force that it sang.
“You see? I’ve no war to fight with you. Leave me in peace, please.” Brolok’s voice was calm and quiet.
“I’ll do no such thing. I give you the honor of a sparring match, and you decline. Are you insulting me? Let’s try again.”
The noble struck again, but this time without the swing. It was a much faster and less predictable attack. Brolok sighed, lifted his staff, parried the strike and swung the left end of it against the attacker’s knee. The boy was forced to perform a low parry. Brolok brought the right end of his staff down towards his opponent’s temple. The sword had a long way to travel. The noble yanked his right hand up, high above his head, and pointed his blade downwards, blocking the blow. Brolok had put little effort into these attacks, as they had been nothing but feints. The second parry had been too hasty and had opened up the noble’s entire right side. Brolok simply swung the left side again. Clack – clack – whomp.
The noble yelped. Brolok had hit his ribs quite softly, but the attacker’s honor and pride were deeply wounded. The pain was exacerbated by the insult of being hit by a half-arcanist with a stick. The young noble could hardly bear it.
Brolok had stepped back two paces and now held the staff in front of him, the point facing towards the earth. When the boy attempted to attack from the ground, he simply lifted his staff and pointed the end at his chest. “Enough is enough,” he said.
“Who are you to decide what is enough and what isn’t?” the noble asked. “Watch closely.”
The sword came from above and struck the staff at an angle. The boy turned towards the staff, but then spun in the opposite direction to make sure he was covered. He let the tip fall toward the ground, readying a whiplash against Brolok’s head. All this happened with no hesitation, though not too quickly.
Brolok took a step backwards and twisted his staff so that the short end pointed forward. The only difference to his previous stance was that now his left hand was guiding.
“Don’t try that again, lad.” With these words the noble gripped the staff with his left hand, held it tightly and thrust his sword with the full intention of injuring Brolok.
Brolok dropped onto his left knee. His right hand remained steady as his left made a small circle. The tip of the staff turned slightly and the noble had to let go to avoid his wrist being broken. Once again, Brolok’s staff was pointed at his chest.
Blind rage is the enemy of caution. The noble pushed forward, attempting to strike Brolok’s head with circular motions. Brolok took another step back. His opponent used the momentum of the sword’s swing to bring it around his body and down onto Brolok’s head with a figure-of-eight movement. The attack was well-chosen, as it gave the blow much strength whilst requiring little from the fighter. Every single blow could have split a helm in two.
“I see you’ve found your legs,” the noble mocked after Brolok had dodged five or six consecutive swings. Brolok stopped moving and parried the next attack with the staff high above his head. The noble had been expecting this, and the last hit had been quite light. The sword bounced off the staff and gave him the opportunity for another attack. This one was a mighty blow aimed at Brolok’s temple, but once again, Brolok blocked it, this time with the left end of his staff. This was such a strong and desperate maneuver that Brolok’s arms were now in a crossed position. One end of his staff was stuck under his armpit with his left hand, the other stuck so far out that the noble laughed. His prey was powerless now, and he struck from the other side.
Brolok did not try to whip the staff around with his free arm. Instead he turned his hips with all the strength he could muster, rising from t
he ground like a screw. Black iron and steel kissed in the air. Sparks flew from the point of contact, and a wave ran through the staff, the sword shook. The blade’s hiss went down in a bang, and the shaking took hold of the arm that was holding it. In the moment of silence that followed, Brolok twisted his staff and pulled out the short end from under his arm, pushing it forwards with his right hand.
Thud. The end of the staff hit the noble’s breastbone, causing him to stumble backwards.
“It’s not easy to stop the staff at that point. I could have broken your breastbone. Let us stop.” Brolok was enjoying the fight less and less.
The boy laughed again. “That was good! I’m properly warmed up now.” With a grand movement he swept the feathered hat from his head and let it sail through the air, tossed his sword from his right to his left hand and wiped the sweat from his brow. Brolok breathed in, relieved. But the brow-wiping had been a ruse. The sword shot upwards from the noble’s left hand and would have sliced Brolok’s torso open had he not managed to turn to the side, pushing away the blade with his left arm. The fabric of his shirt tore open and a red line showed on his lower arm, dripping blood.
Brolok gasped, pulled his staff closer and placed his hands evenly on it.
“Now we have a proper distance for sword fighting.” The sword was back in the right hand, swinging towards Brolok’s head, flying to his chest, dancing around his head again and finishing with a direct plunge to his stomach.
Brolok lifted his staff above his head, swung the left end down and twisted his body slightly to cover his right side, turned the staff, parried left and then thrust the bottom end forward. He missed his opponent’s sword hand by a finger’s breadth, but successfully blocked the attack.
“You think those twirls can impress me? A sword goes right through all that nonsense.”
The noble searched for the still point in the middle of the circles. They could perhaps block any swing, but a thrust was quite different. He had all the time in the world, for both combatants were in waiting position, barely a sword’s length apart. With the arrogance of all nobles, this particular one was of the opinion that a staff could never beat a sword, as staves and lances were a footman’s weapon. They were farmers, nothing more. The boy had never faced an experienced lancer before. His contempt for the simple folk’s weapon cost him dearly.
