by Awert, Wolf
Nill knew nothing of the attraction this place would one day hold for future generations of people. The sun had already risen high in the sky.
He sniffed the air and turned his head this way and that, but there was nothing immediately unusual. But Nill was cautious. It would not be the first time that a second danger hid behind a more obvious first one.
“Send a cutthroat after an honorable warrior.” That was, as Brolok had informed him, one of the guidelines of the royal strategists. “A victor in honorable combat will not expect an assault to follow.” Nill had learned much from Brolok. He wished he was by his side, and if only as a strong shoulder to lean on.
Nill stood up with some difficulty. His legs were stiff and his muscles trembled; he had to fight to regain his strength. His eyes must have suffered from the attack too. At first Nill had assumed it was dusk, despite the position of the sun, for the world around him was darker than usual. But it was not the sun that had forgotten to shine. The plants’ auras had lost their light. Again and again black clouds passed over Nill’s eyes and removed all color. Everything in him hurt, and even the tiniest motion caused pain, yet even the pain was dulled. What would have been biting and searing agony was a mere throb. What should have broken and torn hung limp. Nill felt around his body to make sure everything was still there, so overwhelming was the feeling of emptiness, of insubstantiality.
Burnt out.
A new fear rose like bile in Nill’s throat. There were stories, tales told in Ringwall’s corridors, of mages who lost the ability to use magic overnight. The energy and knowledge was still there, but the pathways of the body were blocked in some places and too wide open in others. The magical streams no longer flowed properly and many who had experienced this were glad to still be able to make a small fire after a cold night.
Nill gathered his thoughts. Plant light, earth heavy.
The blade of grass wobbled, just like when he had first attempted to separate Wood and Earth. No more, just wobbled. Nill hid his head under his arms.
The wind whispered in his ears for a long time before he raised his head again. Burnt out, the words pulsed through him in an intrusive rhythm.
Pulsing and hammering and beating. The contraction and expansion of nature. The pulse of life. The Nothing. The saving grace in his hour of need.
Whenever all seemed lost, the Nothing helped Nill. He could not say he knew it would work so far from Ringwall’s Sanctuary, but what choice did he have? He fell to the ground and released his body from the bonds of the world. He was not sure he had reached the Nothing; his senses dwindled and returned suddenly. He felt like he had taken a short nap and took a deep breath. Weakness and exhaustion were gone. He felt strong, full of vigor and magic. Healthy and invincible.
He raised his open hands and flung fireballs into every direction, raised the flames to the sky and concentrated the water in the air to a cloud that rained down on his head and extinguished the fires with hissing and sputtering – Nill stared around in disbelief. The grass was unburnt, there had been no firewalls around him and above his head there was not even a hint of mist, let alone a cloud.
“Plant light, earth heavy!” he yelled and made a wide, flailing gesture to slice through the dense roots beneath the surface. He failed. Nothing happened. Nill shouted spell after spell. He could feel the energy roaring in his body, but the world seemed unaffected. Nill had no influence on it.
But the young archmage was not easily dissuaded. If his magic no longer obeyed him, there must be a reason for it. He felt around for the elemental magics and to his relief he found them. All five elements were present.
I haven’t lost the gift quite yet, he thought.
There was Fire, red in every aura. Somewhat pale and lucid, but it was there. He also knew the brown of Earth, darker than ever, and so too was the blue Water, closer to a night sky than a still lake. But Earth and Water were there, no mistake about it.
The Metal’s black color had grown pale. As Nill searched for and found it, it had lightened to gray. And Wood? What of the element of life itself? He could see neither the light green of youth nor the rich, full vibrancy of summer. Instead there was a flickering motion, a soft darkness with light tips. Something had changed and Nill did not understand it. All he knew was that he could no longer use magic. He prayed that time would heal it, as it did so many things, but now he had one more worry to care about.
“What do you think, old boy?” he called to his ram. “Will you let me ride on you?”
Although Nill’s body was taut and his gait springy, his voice sounded tired. It was not his body, it was his soul; too caught up with itself and unwilling to take on any more work. Even putting one foot in front of the other was an effort.
The ram turned its back on Nill and threw him a dirty glance over its shoulder, as if to say, “I’d like to see you try, friend. My back is my own.”
“You could at least carry my baggage,” Nill grumbled.
The ram stepped to the side and held a firm distance to safeguard itself from further foolish ideas. Nill sighed and began to walk with sluggish steps.
They continued their way towards the Fire. On the third day after Nill’s encounter with Amargreisfing Nill saw several gray spots dancing in the distance beneath the boiling hot sun. The closer they came, the calmer the spots grew. They sunk to the floor and took shape until they were finally recognizable as small, stout huts. Hastily stacked rocks formed the walls. Atop them lay the most precious treasure in the plains: long wooden beams, carried here from far away, connected to each other with angled bones. They bore roofs made of animal hides that had been sewn together. They offered refuge from the sun, rather than the rain as in Nill’s village. Such houses were quick to build and just as quick to fall apart when the family left.
“Welcome, stranger,” a voice spoke to him from the shade of an entrance. “Come inside and flee the merciless sun. There is always enough tea in my house for visitors. Bring your companion inside, if you will.”
Nill had to hunch over to step through the door. It was comfortably cool in the hut. The stones held back the heat and the gap between the walls and the roof let in a gentle breeze. A man of indeterminable age sat on a pile of skins and furs in the center of the room.
“My name is Mahan, and this is my family’s home until fate decides otherwise. Sit. And you, come closer, let me have a better look at you.”
The ram looked around the strange new environment inquisitively, but stayed resolutely in the doorway. It felt no compulsion to enter the confines of a man-building.
“A proud warrior,” Mahan said with a nod, his voice full of admiration. “Even when you have to sell your herd, or you lose them, you should never part with the guardian. I have never seen one so big.”
“It’s from Earthland. The animals there grow larger than here in the Fire Kingdom,” Nill said calmly. He doubted his own words, however: even in Earthland, the ram had been far bigger than the other males.
“That sounds right.” The old man reached for a slender jug and poured a green liquid into two small cups. His movements were smooth and calculated. Here, where the sun was always bright in the sky and clouds were a rare mercy, the people had learned to move slowly. Nill took a sip and his face contorted. The tea was even more bitter than the one he had drunk at home. Surprisingly, however, it quenched his thirst.
On the plains, the people were not pressed for time, and so Mahan spoke no more. He had said what he wanted to say, and knew that Nill would continue the conversation after a few moments. He would say where he came from and where he was going, that was the way of guests. Honesty was not required.
“My name is Nill.” Nill waited for a second in anticipation of the usual surprise upon hearing his name for the first time, but the old man showed no reaction.
“I come from Earthland, from a small village not far from Metal World. I seek people who understand the script. I have heard that the Fire Kingdom holds such wise folk who understand the gi
ft of writing and reading. But I do not know the kingdom, and so I follow the paths and see where they take me.”
“You won’t find what you’re searching for here. But in Gulffir, perhaps, which you have already passed. King Sergor-Don has his seat there. May victory always be his.” The old man drew a protective symbol in the air.
Nill clutched his cup of green tea in both hands and observed the old man over its painted rim. He found it difficult to hide his astonishment. These proud inhabitants of the plains were so different to the mucklings he had met. They were not submissive, their eyes were not always on the ground – instead they sat straight and proud. They apparently also knew to draw magical symbols, even if they did not have any magical power to imbibe them with. Slowly Nill began to understand Prince Sergor-Don, his pride, his arrogance. It was the people who chose the rulers they needed.
“I have heard of Sergor-Don,” Nill said cautiously. “I did not know he was king of the realm. It’s said he spent some time in Ringwall and answered to the title of prince.”
The old man nodded thoughtfully. “That is in the past. In the meantime, the long-awaited moment of the old king’s death happened. Praise be to the death that took him from us.” He drew another symbol. Nill did not know its meaning, but he felt no sadness in it.
“Did the folk not like their king?” Nill asked.
The old man shrugged. “He was weak and offered no protection to his people. Earthland, so I heard, has been trying to expand its borders into our kingdom. The same goes for Woodhold, and even Metal World, far away though it might be, has had a greedy eye on us. Nobody believes one of the other realms will dare declare an open war, but our generals are divided on the matter; instead of fighting, they clamor for influence at court. It has always been the way when the kingdom was weak. It would have been better if someone had given him a hero’s death.” The old man slashed the air twice with a sudden movement of his right hand, while his left still held the teacup motionlessly.
Nill stared at the hand that held the cup. The green broth had not even moved despite the other hand’s quick gesture. “First his heart, then take his head from his shoulders,” he heard his host say. “That’s how it was done in the old days. Alas, we have grown soft, and when you grow soft you also grow weak.”
“I suppose King Sergor-Don is not weak,” Nill said, and the image of a sharp nose above a cold smile appeared in his mind.
“The king is still very young, and it’s unknown how many of his father’s troops will follow him. Will Astergrise serve the son as he did the father? There are many questions in the air, and for now every family must protect themselves as well as they can.”
“Then perhaps I should avoid this Gulffir,” Nill suggested. “Uncertain times are not kind to strangers.”
The old man closed his eyes in silent agreement and his hand drew the sign for the end of all things in the air, as if to say that all had been said on the matter. Nill responded with the sign for beginning and renewal, for every end is a new beginning. Mahan made a slight double-take and summoned the strength of the sky to finish the ritual.
“Are you a healer?” Nill asked tentatively.
Mahan shook his head. “No,” he replied. “The gestures and symbols you seem to know as well as any plainsman are ancient. They have nothing to do with magic, and certainly not with the healing arts. Perhaps, long ago, that was the case, but today? No.”
After a short pause he continued. “If you seek a wise man, continue towards the evening sun. You will reach Encid, the city we call the City of Flame. Glorious Encid. It is the second-richest city after Gulffir, our capital. Its inhabitants are called rock-cutters. Ask for Abimarch. He will be able to give you the name of someone who can help you.”
Nill and his ram spent the night, the next day and another night in the small settlement. As a parting gift the old man gave Nill a full waterskin. Nill in return gave Mahan a pouch, empty, but beautifully embroidered. He would have liked to bless it, but had to make do with an empty sign. No more magic, Nill thought sadly. And so they continued onward to Encid, City of Flame.
V
With his defeat of Auran-San, King Sergor-Don had repelled every claimant to the crown and laid the sheen of victory over his throne. Yet he was still enough of a realist to know that his power was far from consolidated. Quite the opposite, in fact. He had shattered traditions in public, traditions that had given the common folk stability and direction; he had sown insecurity and doubts in all camps and thoroughly angered the powerful and mighty in the kingdom. His actions had made him more enemies than was healthy for a ruler. And his new friends were more interested in the benefits of being on the king’s good side than in being of any use to him. He doubted their trustworthiness. Only Astergrise was beyond suspicion. His bowmen, too, were devoted to the king. He knew he could rely on his handpicked kingsguard, even though they radiated fear and terror rather than awe. But what did that matter in the face of all his adversaries?
The king’s saving grace was their lack of unity. The tribes, as ever, strove for more freedom and greater privileges; the court was disgruntled at the coming move to Rockvice, or Worldbrand as it was to be called; and Grand General Sarch was busy raising those loyal to him to prevent further loss of influence. The erstwhile court sorcerers had lost their leader, but it was only a matter of time until they cast away the memory of Auran-San and decided upon a new speaker for themselves. Acting fast was the key if Sergor-Don wanted to prevent any alliances between these disaffected factions.
The king held his first audience the very next day. The emissaries from the tribes who had been camping outside Gulffir’s gates for weeks were explicitly invited.
It was a rather volatile mixture of people who gathered there today. Apart from the emissaries there was the entire court, every captain and general, and of course the court sorcerers; it was popular opinion that the king could not make a decision without their counsel. Every one of them must believe that the king’s eye was always upon him, that the king’s ear was always open to him.
“Waiting merely gives the opponent more time to prepare,” the Book of Sunn instructed, and King Sergor-Don did not need well-prepared enemies.
There was quite a commotion when King Sergor-Don had the doors to the throne room opened at the appointed time, which was unusually early in the morning. Haltern-kin-Eben and Grand General Sarch hurried forward with confident strides and an air of self-importance, and after taking their deep bows went to their usual places around the throne, from where they would observe, discuss and judge the various supplicants. However, halfway there they stopped in shock, for there was someone there. Aulo, the sorcerer with the lame face, was leaning against the queen’s chair, which had stood empty since her death. It was as though he meant to show the world that the chair was no longer vacant, that it was claimed. What nonsense was this? And why had the king allowed it?
And worse still, Phloe and Sijem the Brown, the other two sorcerers of the kingsguard, had taken their spots on either side of the double throne. Skorn-Vis and Uul were nowhere to be seen. Only the king knew where they were.
Haltern-kin-Eben stared appalled at the border of the magical barrier that separated the small group from the rest of the world. A fiery red rose in Grand General Sarch’s face, and the court sorcerers that had followed them whispered agitatedly.
“Please give the king a little more space,” Phloe said in his usual delicate tones. “How are we to receive supplicants with such a crowd around him?” And with a lazy flick of his wrist he rained petals from the ceiling.
“Supplicants!” Haltern and Sarch were deeply offended. They heard the hissing whispers behind them and turned on their fine leather heels, and were almost overrun by the throng that now streamed into the throne room. There was much pushing and shoving as everyone fought for a spot where they had a good view of the proceedings and the ability to catch the king’s eye. Many were unsuccessful, but glad enough to even have found space in the hall. The
scene was more akin to a colony of cliffsailors, where the males fought for the best nesting spots on the rock, than a royal court. All the perfume and pomp could not disguise the fact that the people behaved like rabid buyers at a market sale. The king’s approval or disapproval was not clear; his face was expressionless and difficult to see through the magical barrier.
The unrest abated slowly. The voices and footsteps fell silent, and finally even the rustling of clothes ceased. In the silence a wave of expectation spread through those present, as anticipation made way to nervousness. The people waited anxiously for any indication of how things would proceed. An audience had been announced, not a dispensation of justice, which was by tradition public.
King Sergor-Don said nothing and let the silence swell like a bubble. His eyes wandered across the many decorated heads in the hall, all of them fixed on the young ruler in expectation. Or was it Haltern-kin-Eben’s duty, as keeper of tradition, to begin the audience? The king sat and said nothing, the silence grew heavier and more oppressive, the anticipation climbed higher and higher until it was unbearable. Some wiped sweat from their brows. One raised a foot as though he meant to step forward, but thought better of it. King Sergor-Don sat, waited and observed the crowd.
Who will break first? The sorcerers? No, no, not them. They have lost their leader and are not yet ready to raise their voices. The courtiers? More likely. Haltern-kin-Eben is torn, though. He knows that time is his ally. It will be Sarch, the young king speculated. Sarch, the old fearnaught; he owes his position as grand general more to unhealthy courage and obsessive determination than to his brains. Sarch, my dear friend, you always did underestimate the strength of patience.
The thing King Sergor had been waiting for began with a quiver of the crowd near the door. It came towards the throne, pushing aside generals and courtiers and whatever happened to be in its way. From the mass emerged a plainsman with long black hair, narrow eyes and a challenging smirk on his lips.