by Awert, Wolf
The Grand Mage nodded again, and in silence left the room.
After the tension of their trials, the Neophytes enjoyed some happy days of leisure. Ringwall was expecting new students, and Tiriwi, Brolok and Nill were curious to see how many non-nobles there would be this time around. There was only one free chamber down here. Where would they go if more than one student joined? But these thoughts were quickly banished and replaced by a sense of happy expectation. The trial was not just a mark of completing a part of life, but also the beginning of an even greater event: the sorcerer’s tournament.
Every day new men and women arrived in Ringwall, clothed in long cloaks, robes or cowls. These were those who had honed their skills in years of wandering, or else in service of their masters, and they had come to learn the deeper mysteries of magic or to help the archmages shape the destiny of Pentamuria. One or two of them might have dreamed of becoming an Archmage themselves in the distant future. Word had got around that students from the common folk lived in Ringwall, although the reason for this break with tradition had not been revealed. There was muttering and speculation of how many new mages would be accepted into Ringwall. The sheer amount of people who had come indicated that the competition would be fierce.
A mage’s age could rarely be told by a glance at his face. Aura, behavior and sometimes clothing were clearer indicators. The eldest among them were easily recognizable by their hair. They kept it long like the druids. Unlike the druids, though, theirs was well combed and neither matted nor scruffy. Their beards, too, were long, often reaching down to their belts. These eldest appeared calm and solitary, they spoke little and usually ate alone. If all tables were already taken, they would pick a free seat and stare at their meal, not looking left or right. But a sorcerer did not need to turn his head to pick up on things.
“Do you see the tired warriors,” a voice said. “They’ve already spent most of their life, witnessed the unfathomable wickedness of the human soul, and now they wish to find peace in the study of magic. Won’t they be surprised…”
But the eldest did not fear. They had nothing more to lose and were feared by all others. Magic grew with experience and knowledge, not with youthful strength and physical ability. Some old mages were still gargantuan in their power even on their deathbed.
But not all new arrivals were old. Some were quite young. They talked fast and much, waved their hands around a lot and were generally indistinguishable from the students apart from their clothing. Most of them had come straight from their first wanderings, where they had done little other than strengthen their powers and try out new things. They wore leather or woolen garments, like most people who spent their time traveling. Their hair hung about their shoulders, occasionally cut to length. They sat together in noisy groups, entertaining the tables with their stories. They had little combat experience and very rarely did they achieve the rank of mage– and if so, then more due to sheer dumb luck than skill. What brought them to Ringwall were the challenge and the opportunity of comparing their powers to others. They were not afraid of the risk, for every fight carried such.
The largest group of newcomers were those who had gained first experiences in service to kings and princes, or as adventurers that craved the power that lived in Ringwall. These were those who were afraid the most, for they had something to lose. The reward was being allowed to stay in Ringwall. But no prince would take back a sorcerer who had failed in the tournament. Failure meant a new, long wandering with no hope of close salvation. But the hunger for power was stronger than self-doubt. Fools! A simple mage following an Archmage was far less meaningful than being counselor to a prince or king, but their hope was not to be quenched. They dreamed of having an important post in Ringwall someday – even the position of Magon seemed attainable to some. These newcomers also tended to sit with the others, attempting to converse with anyone and everyone, always in hushed voices. They would put their heads together to listen in on others, while the young sorcerers would occasionally burst out in laughter or break into song, the thirst for power causing disquiet and intrigue.
The newcomers were not necessarily forbidden from talking to the Mages of Ringwall, as there was many an old friendship from days long past, but it was rather frowned upon. The young and old kept to themselves – the young out of fear, and the old out of respect. The others did not.
And then there were those who drew suspicious glances and quiet whispers calling them “black warlocks.” The life out in the wild had not failed to leave a mark, and many could have mistaken them for beggars. But they lacked the submissive posture and all that goes along with creating a sense of pity for the poor. They walked upright and never avoided a gaze.
On the day of the tournament all windows, hatches and ramparts that offered any view of the battlefield were occupied. High up on the battlements there were more spectators, mostly Neophytes who had failed to secure a better spot. Although they could hardly make out a thing down on the ground, it did nothing to hamper their excitement. For many students this was the first time they were to see sorcerers giving their best. Tricks and illusions would not help them on the field. The tournament meant everything, and nobody was fooled by conjured images. The mages were setting wagers on their favorites, for not everyone who had arrived was an unknown; many had interesting stories to tell. Any spell, no matter how powerful, was easily parried once it had been recognized. As such, cunning was vital in defeating one’s enemies. The attack had to be hidden, sneaking up on the victim behind a parade of lesser magics. Often the contestants would combine separate summons with one another, causing one spell to destroy shields, another to weaken the aura and a third to poison the enemy. After such preparation the sorcerer could easily crush a victim with a simple attack.
Unmoved, spread evenly around the area so they could keep the entire battlefield in their sight, the archmages stood by the doors of the inner wall, well and visibly protected by a gray-silver aura that surrounded them all. The contestants could feel that this tournament was not like the previous ones, and a few of them regretted their decisions.
The magical wind section began their concert. From the earth rose a great whistle made of clay. Metal transformed into a horn, and out of a piece of wood there came a long pipe like a hollowed-out tree, emitting deep, buzzing noises. Nill and Tiriwi clapped their hands over their ears, for the racket coming from the instruments was not music. It was a chaos of noises and whistles with no sense of coherence or shape. Very slowly the tones seemed to find one another, and, it seemed almost accidentally, the first harmonies and melodies came together, finally resembling song. It was not the sort of music Nill knew from the village parties, where drums were beaten and strings were plucked. The village music made people dance, and once they were tired and no longer wanted to dance, they would instead sing along. This music, on the other hand, was pure magic. It penetrated skin, muscles and bones, easing its way into everyone’s brains. This music made the people shiver, leaving an impression of a boundless world.
The Magon stepped out of the shadow of the wall, surrounded by some of the archmages. He raised his hand and his voice was clear for everyone to hear, although he did not speak loudly.
“Friends of Ringwall. The Earth and Fire lodges wish to take two new mages into their ranks. In the last two winters five of our friends have left us forever to live in another world. Another mage made the decision to head back into the five kingdoms and turn his back upon the world of magic in this city. Our best wishes and thoughts are with him.”
The contenders were counting along. There were ten openings in Ringwall. The contest would be tougher than anticipated. These thoughts were wasted on the spectators, however. Their attention was captivated by something else. It was rare enough that someone left Ringwall, and nobody could ever remember the Magon giving a leaver his blessing. Nill and Brolok looked at each other, wondering whether it might be more a curse than a blessing. Tiriwi, meanwhile, was gazing transfixed at the face of the man standing
next to the Magon, shivering all over. Too much gorb juice shot through her head as she thought of Empyrade.
Every combatant had their spot on the battlefield, arranged in a pattern that only the tournament’s conductor and perhaps the Magon knew. There they stood, in full view of everyone, and strained to the edges of their twitching auras. They had one more chance to study the situation, making note of their neighbors and opponents, making up strategies in their minds. Heads turned from one enemy to the other, eager not to miss anything. Eyes were rolling, but there were also those whose expressions seemed empty; some even looked as though they were sleeping. “Those are the most dangerous of the lot,” Brolok whispered.
A small star rose above Knor-il-Ank and burst into a flaming chalice.
Nill, Brolok and Tiriwi were able to see about ten sorcerers from their position. Two of them had immediately run to different spots, because theirs seemed too unsafe. The others moved just a little. Two old sorcerers stood across from each other, apparently in conversation; two others were merely glaring at each other in silence. For a long while, nothing happened.
In the bottom-left corner, barely in their field of view, three fighters had formed a triangle that was in constant motion. One of them, a young adventurer with a very short beard, broke the balance by throwing a glowing green ball at his enemy, catching the latter off guard. It had to have been an enormously powerful attack, as the man struck by it flew a few paces through the air and skidded along the ground after landing. But even while he was in the air, he had begun a counter-attack. The short-bearded man blocked it with a yellow shield, throwing another ball at his opponent. And now the third sorcerer entered combat. His flame bolt struck the second man, who was still on the ground, attempting to stand up. He collapsed. With a triumphant look on his face, the young adventurer looked around. His breathing was heavy, as the two attacks had cost him much strength. Too much, as it would soon transpire, as he was struck by a flaming scythe. Its sharp edge glowed white and radiated a terrible heat. But it was more than just Fire; Brolok could smell the Metal all the way up here. It took all of Short-beard’s remaining strength to avoid being sliced clean in half.
Two of the many contenders were already out.
“Did you see that? What a devastating blow!” Nill said in amazement.
“It was stupid,” Brolok commented. “In a three-way fight the first to attack is always the first to lose, and the last one will nearly always win. You learn this stuff while training with branches as a child.” He gave a derisive snort.
The two older sorcerers seemed to have stopped their conversation. One of them shouted something at the other, and then ran away. The one who still stood was shaking all over, beating the air around him with his hands. Whatever was happening down there on the magic-infused ground of the battlefield, the Neophytes could not discern it. They only saw that the victim seemed to have blocked the attack with his wild hand movements, and was now readying himself for a counter-attack. Shaky-hands threw a gray, shapeless mass at his fleeing enemy. Nill was surprised – it had no hint of an aura. It hit the second sorcerer in the back, where suddenly a blue light appeared: a shield spell. It threw the mass into the air where it evaporated. The fleeing sorcerer kept running and had soon vanished from their field of view.
The first man opened his mouth and screamed. Small drops of blood sprayed from his nose and mouth, spattering his gray robes.
“That’s awful,” Tiriwi said in horror. “Can nobody help him?” The screams grew louder, the droplets larger, and two other sorcerers, having been concerned with each other, clapped their hands over their ears, buckling over. One of them threw his hands up in the air and stood straight as a candle, the other fell to his knees. The screaming man grew hoarse, his robe now a dark reddish-brown from all the blood. He pointed his staff towards the upright man, and the earth began to quake. The man managed to stay upright, and slowly brought his hands down. An incredible weight seemed to land on the no longer screaming sorcerer, pressing him to the floor.
“What wouldn’t I give to know what they’re actually doing,” Nill said. “Their auras change so fast and are so complicated that I can’t understand them.”
Another combatant came limping into their sight from the right. He seemed hurt. As he saw the sorcerers before him, two defeated and laying on the ground, the other proud and tall, he knew that he would not find the rest he needed here. He sat down on the ground and formed a sphere that seemed to blossom from his body, enveloping him.
“There!” Brolok called. Behind the newcomer’s opponent a black presence grew, towering over him and then crashing down on him. A shout rang out from the tower, the black shape dissolved and the remains of an almost transparent sorcerer floated towards a small door where two of the archmages stood. One of them was Mah Bu, Archmage of the Beyond, who took care of the loser immediately.
“The exhaustion was a feint,” Nill stated. “And his limp. I’ve never seen such a powerful gray aura, except on archmages. Does either of you know this fellow?”
At that moment the music began to play again. The duel was over. The actual combat in the tournament never lasted very long. Very rarely two similarly skilled sorcerers would end up incapacitating one another through attacks, defense and counter-attacks. Then the duel was decided elsewhere and both would be on the winner’s side, provided they could stay upright.
From the ramparts and the windows cheers and applause rang out. Chatter broke out, and would probably last until every move had been thoroughly discussed. Nill saw the Magon conversing with Mah Bu and would have loved to be able to listen in. The Magon gave the winners a welcoming gesture and then disappeared in a flickering pillar. Some of the mages had made their way onto the battlefield to congratulate old foes or to comfort old friends. Once the archmages had left the scene, everything was back to normal. Everyone was talking over one another. The winners were received and taken in. And yet there was a hint of mistrust between the new and the old mages. Through invisible barriers curious and distrustful eyes kept watch for suspicious signs of change, and many of the returning sorcerers quickly came to realize that Ringwall was not as their memories had painted it.
Ambrosimas seemed to have taken his patronage quite seriously. On the first day after the tournament a mage with a gray robe came to the Hermits’ Caves. The black and white symbols on his cloak danced a wild dance, his eyes darting around curiously.
“So these are the caves of our ancestors,” the mage said. “Too easily do we forget where we came from.” He sighed deeply, as though the sudden realization of how time was fleeting was pushing him down. Nill tried to read his aura to see whether the feeling was true or fabricated, but the aura of a mage of Spheres was difficult to interpret.
As if he had only just remembered why he had come, the mage gave himself a shake. “The Archmage of Thought is expecting you, Nill. Come!” Nill saw no way of disobeying, for an Archmage should not be kept waiting. He threw an anxious glance at Brolok and Tiriwi and then followed the mage.
It was not a long way. It seemed that Brolok and Nill, despite their best efforts, had still not discovered all the shortcuts and portals in Ringwall. “In here.” With these words and a slight push Nill found himself in a gigantic room, with Ambrosimas sitting at one end like a fat, wide-mouthed forest toad. He seemed not to be receiving Nill in private, but in his full capacity as an Archmage of the High Council. Nill had not imagined the center of the Thought lodge to look like this; he did not know what he had expected. Nothing this open and big.
The room was similar in many ways to the Hall of Ceremony. The walls were difficult to make out, and the ceiling was lost in the clouds. Nill was standing in a room, but it felt like outdoors. Ambrosimas was impatiently indicating with his fingers for Nill to come closer.
It’s all illusions, Nill thought as he began to move.
Definitely illusions, he continued his thought as he found himself at the far end of the room after only a few steps. He was alr
eady right before his mentor.
He gave Ambrosimas a polite bow, who had stood up as if to honor a king.
“Why did you choose me as your pupil?” Nill asked, as straight-forward as he could. “It must have been a very special… um, gesture, because everyone seemed so surprised. Please forgive me if I can’t quite appreciate it, because many things here are still so foreign to me.”
In spite of Brolok’s dire warnings Nill was grateful to Ambrosimas and took care to choose his words as politely as possible. Ambrosimas’ reaction, however, took him by surprise. He widened his eyes and began to laugh. Nill went quiet, somewhat irritated. As always when he did not know the reason for laughter, he presumed that he was being laughed at.
“Why do you laugh?” Nill asked after a while.
Ambrosimas wiped a tear from his eye and answered: “I’m laughing at you, or would you prefer me to get angry? It seems like nobody told you to hold your tongue when standing in front of a higher-up until they address you. No, nobody ever told you. And you’re asking me a ‘why,’ of all things!”
“What is so bad about asking for why? How am I to understand Ringwall or magic itself without asking why?” Nill asked aghast.
Ambrosimas’ laughter had calmed to a benign smile. “Think, Nill, think. You can ask why something is, or why something happens. But asking the why for a deed is always a foolish question. Who knows why they do anything? And so you will always get the wrong answer if you ask why. And the few dangerous people who actually know why will lie to you. The knowledge of why someone acts is the weapon you need to disarm them.”
“But…”
“Hush when I’m talking. I will grant you an answer, and it’s at least a part of the truth. I like the idea of you staying alive for a while yet. We’ll see if I can manage, shall we?”
