by Awert, Wolf
It took several days before he trusted himself with a longer journey.
Ten steps, pause; ten more steps, pause. He forced himself along the corridor. It became easier the longer he walked, but he felt a dull throbbing in the flesh surrounding his broken bone. It felt as though the magical energies that held it together were being torn open again. Numbness and searing pain lay side by side; a feeling of strength in his injured leg would push him onwards, only for him to quiver in pain at the next step.
What could be working and fighting in my leg, and what is it fighting against? he wondered, giving his hard muscles a light clap.
Ten more steps.
Stop limping, he told himself sternly, and he stopped moving more frequently than every ten steps. But finally, after a long time, he reached the master archivist’s door. Nill was exhausted; he would never have made it all the way without his useful map.
He laid a hand on the door gently and sent an image of a big, strong tree into the wood. The door remembered and began to breathe. Nill unleashed a strong gust of wind, enough to bend the mighty branches, but not snap them. The branches creaked and pulled away from the trunk, and the door answered the creak. Music and rhythm were in the wind. The door’s creaking was not a pretty sound, but the noise brought the freedom of nature into the stone corridors.
“Yes, yes, I’m on my way.” The door opened and Nill looked up at the master archivist’s eyes.
“You’ve learned,” he nodded. “But you’re still easy to recognize. No mage would turn a door back into a tree and make it sway in the wind.”
“How would a mage knock?” Nill asked.
The master archivist smiled. “I’ll not tell you. You’d cease using your method and I’d lose one of my few small pleasures. I like being surprised with new ideas of knocking. Come inside and shut the door, it’ll obey.”
Nill did as he was told.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” he said politely.
“No, not at all,” the master archivist replied, far more polite than most mages would care to be.
“I meant to show you something.” Nill spread out four rolls of parchment in front of him. “They’re just decorations, nothing special,” he said humbly, “but I thought I might ask your opinion on them?”
The master archivist peered down at the first parchment. It was covered in intertwined tendrils. Despite the harmony of the gently swung brushstrokes, the whole thing seemed to move.
“It’s very nice. I could imagine some people might like to hang it up on their wall.” His gaze moved to the second. This one was less harmonious, the brushstrokes rigid and angular. It seemed to form a maze that looked as though it wanted to rise from the page and become an actual structure.
“This one is better made than the first, but the first is more beautiful,” the master archivist said, patiently waiting for Nill to reveal the purpose of his visit, but Nill said nothing.
The third page was the one where Nill had drawn one hundred and twenty-eight symbols surrounding an empty center. The symbols from his amulet.
“Ah,” the master archivist said appreciatively. “Glyphs as decoration. That is a fine idea.”
“Do you recognize any of these glyphs?”
“Of course I do! But they’re old and no longer used.”
Nill’s heart leapt. He remembered something and asked: “Can the Archmage of Thought read them?”
“I should think so,” the master archivist answered. “He reads all the scriptures, carved and written.”
Nill’s stomach gave an uncomfortable squirm. “What do they mean?”
“They mean nothing. Or rather, every glyph has a meaning; together, they make no sense.”
So that was it. They made no sense. Letters without words. That was why Ambrosimas could not make sense of them. But why had Perdis engraved them on his amulet?
Without a word, Nill pushed the last parchment towards the master archivist; this was the one that contained all the symbols he had gleaned from Perdis’ works that were absent from his amulet.
He elicited a low whistle. “Yes, these are magic runes. Wait a moment.”
The master archivist hurried over to a corner of the room, grabbed a quill, a glass of water and an ink stone and began to trace and correct some of the symbols.
“There,” he said, “now they’re correct.”
“You know these runes, you can read them?” Nill asked.
“You don’t know the things you yourself drew? I should have thought as much. These are ancient scripts, long fallen out of use. They were only ever part of the Fire Kingdom, and as the lords of that place are quick with the sword and the bow, but less so with the quill, their magical heritage was not cared for too well. Even here in Ringwall we have barely any texts using the runes of Fire, and I doubt that anyone but the archivists even knows they exist. Where did you find them?”
Nill avoided the question with one of his own. “Could you explain to me what they mean?”
The mage shook his head and sighed. “No, nobody knows how to read them any more. We keep the old scriptures in the hopes of one day finding a text we can use as a guideline for translation. The runes of Fire are the oldest form of writing we know.”
Nill concealed his disappointment. “I found the script in an old sheaf of parchment in the library. Mah Bu was kind enough to lend me his key for a day. Fortunately he seems to have forgotten to take it back, and I can still access the library.”
The master archivist gave him a doubting glance. “You think he forgot? An Archmage never forgets to do something they intend to, remember that, my boy. Especially not Mah Bu. The Archmage of the Other World spends his life on the edge of a sharpened sword. No matter how sharp, you can always sit on the blade. But a single wrong move and you will be sliced apart. No, Mah Bu did not forget.”
“Why didn’t he take it back then?” Nill asked.
“Because he wanted you to have continued access. Don’t ask me why he changed his mind. Nobody can look into an Archmage’s thoughts, but just know that he knows exactly what he’s doing.”
Nill felt a chill run down his spine. Was Mah Bu being generous, or did he have something more sinister in mind? He would have to talk with Brolok and Tiriwi about this, but he already knew their answers. Brolok would smell a devious plan, and Tiriwi would see it as a kind gesture. Archmages did not make kind gestures, but they also did not seek everyone’s demise.
“Do you know anything about a mage named Perdis?” Nill asked.
“Perdis, a mage of Ringwall?”
Nill nodded.
“I’ve never heard of him. I don’t even know if it’s a real name. Maybe it’s from the earliest days of Ringwall.”
Nill’s hopes were crushed to dust.
“I’d hoped you’d tell me he had only just left – or even better, that he’s still here.”
“Nobody just leaves Ringwall, my boy. Not as long as they’re a mage. No, there’s no Perdis in Ringwall, and there hasn’t been for as long as I’ve been an archivist. And that is a very long time indeed. Where did you find this name?”
“In a scripture in the library,” Nill replied.
“Then it’s not an ancient name either.”
Could hopes be crushed any finer than dust? But he did not give up just yet. “Why wouldn’t it be an ancient name?”
“Because the few fragments of text that remain from Ringwall’s earliest days are not kept in the library. They’re all kept up in the Magon’s tower. I have copies of them, so without his or my permission nobody can see them. I know them all – not that there are so many to remember – and the name Perdis is not in any of them. The scripture you found can’t be that old.”
Nill gave the master archivist his thanks and made his long way back, a bundle of parchments under his arm and a jumble of thoughts in his head.
Chapter 9
Tiriwi and Brolok found him asleep and had to wait for the morning to hear of his findings.
“All I have is a name,” he told them. “But I’m certain it belonged to my father.”
“That’s not really certain, is it?” Brolok remarked.
“True enough, he might have been someone who helped my parents, or maybe was just acquainted with them. Either way, it was someone who hid himself and his message. And there is a mysterious connection between the symbols and me. I can feel it.” Nill smiled. “I’ll ask him when I’ve found him.”
“So you’re going to look for him?” Tiriwi’s voice did not tell him what she thought of the whole story or his plan.
Nill hesitated. “Yes, I will, but I don’t know when. Until I know his true name and what drove him away from here, I can’t start looking.”
“The fact that he wrote about magic and beauty is hardly a place to start,” Brolok interjected.
“Indeed. A thousand people might be Perdis, and there might be a thousand reasons why he left Ringwall. If I’m to look for him, I need to know where to look. All I know is that it’s in the Fire Kingdom.”
“Sergor-Don’s homeland? That’s a bad place to be at any time. The prince won’t like you running around his birthright. Why the Fire Kingdom?” Tiriwi asked.
Nill told them what he had learned from his earlier conversation. “Perdis must have learned the runes there. And that’s why I have to go.”
Brolok gave a low whistle. “So… now what?” he asked.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Nill asked in reply. “My amulet is connected to the falundron. Why else would the markings be identical? I’ll find my answer in the catacombs. Somewhere along the Walk of Weakness. Are you coming?”
Tiriwi shook her head. “I don’t think we can, Nill. You’ll have to go alone. The walls down there devour our energy.”
“We should at least try again,” Nill nagged.
“What are you talking about?” Brolok snapped. “Generations of mages have failed to walk down there. Not even the Magon is able to protect himself. I still don’t know how you can. Why do the walls sap our power and you’re completely immune to them?”
“I think it might be the falundron, or the venom he left in me. Since it bit and stung me I’ve changed. I don’t know what it is, but I can feel it.”
Tiriwi nodded. “Your aura has grown paler and more transparent. At first I thought it was because you got ill, but that was quite a while ago. No matter what it looks like, your aura feels very strong.”
“Alright,” Brolok said. He had forced himself to stay calm. “We’ll try again. But don’t expect too much of us, we’re probably going to collapse after about three steps.”
They walked down to the gate. Nill removed the seal and took the falundron on his hand. Brolok opened the door and the dark, endlessly long corridor lay before them. They could make out the holes in the walls.
Brolok and Tiriwi immediately noticed the strength leaving their bodies and minds and hastily stepped back.
“We can try something,” Nill said suddenly.
He bent down behind the door, took his amulet from the bundle and hung it around Tiriwi’s neck.
“You shouldn’t do that,” she said. “It’s your amulet. Yours alone.”
“And that won’t change, but today you will wear it.” Then he took the falundron off his hand and handed it to Brolok. “Do you dare?” he asked.
“More than you any day,” Brolok grinned. He took the falundron, its tail wrapped docilely around its body, carefully from Nill’s hands.
“Follow me,” Nill said. “If you feel the magic leaving you, go back quickly.”
Hesitantly, with uncertain steps and their entire consciousness within their bodies, they walked after him.
The thought of getting lost in the labyrinthine cave and tunnel system was not an inviting one, so Nill decided to stay on the main path. He slowly moved forward, each step deliberate and careful. He had to take frequent breaks, but rather due to the weakness in his not yet recovered muscles than due to any magical interference.
Brolok and Tiriwi, having entered the hallway for the first time, were in awe. The walls emanated a slight glow, just enough to illuminate the path in front of them. The light spell Nill had used on his previous visits was no longer necessary.
“Look over there. There are more entrances, but they don’t seem to fit.” Tiriwi indicated the black holes in the walls.
“That’s what I thought. It’s as though the hermits just carved their caves into the rock. This path here appears much older.”
Brolok peered into the darkness. “It’s dark in there.”
A jet of white flame erupted and Brolok could see.
“What’s in there?” Tiriwi asked.
“Nothing, just more tunnels. It’s a right labyrinth down here,” Brolok called back to them. His voice was strangely muffled.
“Where do you plan on going?” Tiriwi asked Nill.
He shrugged. “No idea. When I said I knew the solution to be down here, I never said where. We still have to figure that part out.”
“Let’s keep moving. I’ll lead from here,” Brolok said with a grin as the others looked astonished.
The falundron, having sat motionless on Brolok’s hand the entire time, was fidgeting. It raised its head and stuck out its tongue. It was more reminiscent of a snake’s tongue, with a fork, than a gecko’s rolled-up and sticky one. It seemed to taste something upon the air. Nill stopped and sniffed. He closed his eyes and tried to sense the magical vibrations in the Hall. All he could find was the cold wetness of the walls and floor, and the faint unfamiliarity of the magic was very weak.
The falundron’s head was bobbing up and down, and an occasional shiver ran down its legs. Beneath the calm exterior it was restless and agitated, but no longer due to panic. It was losing patience.
They had reached the end of the path. Nill was dripping with sweat, his injured leg shaking and preventing him from going any further. He had to grab the wall for support. He turned around and leaned against the rock.
“I need to take a break,” he said helplessly, looking at his friends. But just as he started sinking to the ground the falundron leapt from Brolok’s hand and bit him, right next to his thumbnail. The pain was excruciating. Nill yelled in pain and rushed to stop the poison, but there was none there. As quickly as the lizard had bitten, it had retracted its jaws again. A tiny droplet of blood was all that came of the bite.
“Have you lost your mind?” Nill scolded the lizard, which was now stretching out onto his back.
The falundron looked at Nill and hissed menacingly.
“If only I could understand you,” he sighed and attempted to exchanged thoughts with the ancient beast. As successful as he had been with emotions, the lizard’s thoughts were out of his grasp.
Brolok shivered. “I hope you can get out of here in time,” he said as his knees gave way. Tiriwi wanted to catch him but she was not strong enough. She kneeled down beside him and hectically tore at his harness. Once it was loose enough she put the amulet on his chest.
“Ahhh,” Brolok breathed. “That’s what they call the breath of life, then.” He was grinning again. “Now all we need is a way to make sure the amulet covers both of us. Otherwise Tiriwi will have to spend the rest of her life clinging to my chest.”
Tiriwi was not amused and pulled a face. “If you don’t behave I’ll leave you to dry out down here.”
Brolok could see her point. The situation was too dire to laugh.
The falundron stretched and leapt. It landed on Nill’s hand, its hind claws digging into his skin, and then leapt again. With a loud slapping sound it was hanging on the wall. Its tail was beating the rock in a steady rhythm. The floor shook and Nill heard an ominous crunch. He looked up in trepidation. “That’s all we need, the tunnel to come down around us.” He did not have the strength to get to safety and all he could do was watch. Cracks appeared in the walls, spreading out fast and opening just wide enough for a grown man to squeeze through.
Another magical passageway. Not
a portal, or a secret, hidden door or anything like that. It was a hole in the rock. Nill had no idea how it was possible; the jagged edges showed plainly that it was not just a disappeared part of the rock, but instead it had broken. The falundron shot through the gap and vanished.
“Now we’ll see whether our resilience to the catacombs’ magic is reliant on the falundron. If it is, I don’t think we’ll make it back.” Nill’s voice was low. His leg was still aching but the short rest had worked; he felt slightly better. The rock, on the other hand, was not doing so well. It was crunching and crackling, the cracks sealing themselves at the top and widening in the middle, then contracting again. This must be extraordinary magic, to move the mountain so.
Nill did not dare follow the lizard through the gap. The rock was too alive, the danger of being crushed by the mountain too great. He decided only to take a look. Besides, he was curious to know where the falundron had gone. My falundron, he thought.
Nill peeked through the gap and gasped. It was not yet another cave; it was a hall. He dismissed his fear and squeezed through the gap.
“Can you make it through?” he asked the others.
Tiriwi and Brolok crawled along the floor. Brolok pulled himself up and managed to push his considerable width through the narrow gap. Tiriwi came last, and the crack sealed itself behind them.
Trapped, Nill thought.
“You can let go now,” Brolok said loudly and clearly. “There’s a different magic here from the passageway.” Tiriwi could feel it too.
“Really?” Nill asked. “I’m feeling nothing.”
“Yes, really! The pulling is gone. Whatever caused it must be unrelated to this hall here.”
Nill molded a ball of light between his palms and released it. Vibrating and humming, it rose into the air. He nodded with pride. It had been a long way from Brother Lightfinger to this ball.
He looked around for the falundron. What he found was a wonder. The floor shone and sparkled in the ball’s light. Tiny veins of ore crept through the stone. Brolok had no idea why the rock here was full of metal, yet dead and empty before the door.
