Ringwall`s Doom

by Awert, Wolf

  And the forest exploded. Sedramon shot out of a pillar of flame, beneath him nothing by fire and smoke and ash. The world was afire. The fire shot out of rock faces, ran down sloping mountainsides, tore ridges in half and threw rocks through the air, large enough to crush a town.

  As suddenly as the images had come, they dispersed. Sedramon almost cried with relief when he felt the pressure return to his wrist.

  “Come, we’re going home. That was enough to begin with.”

  Something juddered and shook inside Sedramon’s body and he found himself sitting in the dark crag again, slightly out of breath and shaking like a leaf. He was glad he had remained seated.

  “Didn’t you say, Mother, that there is no Wood in the Other World? But we flew through a green forest just before it all turned into burning earth and cracking rocks.”

  His mother’s eyes grew to unnatural size in the half-dark and shone so brightly that Sedramon thought wildly of night-hunters.

  “What did you see?” she asked shortly, and Sedramon told her of the forest and the fire.

  “That was nothing to do with the Other World. You rode the stream of time, you were in the future or the past, but your grandfather can come back to life and take me with him if I know how you did it. I never knew it was possible to mount time from the Other World. But why not? Space and time still exist over there, even if they work a little differently.”

  “So it’s only the timeriders who know the future,” Sedramon noted; this knowledge, this gift might help him get through the mage’s tournament unscathed. His mother’s laugh crushed this hope.

  “No, they don’t. A timerider can travel to the future, but sometimes fate changes its mind, and the future he saw is irrevocably changed, snuffed out like a campfire nobody bothered to feed.”

  The shamaness clicked her fingers and the lights in the crag went out. Sedramon, startled, spoke a few words and conjured a flickering flame.

  “Father was never able to ride the time. He told me he was blind and dumb there.”

  “Your father never understood the gift he had. All he knew was fighting, and later… I told you he was a fool.”

  Irritation rose in Sedramon’s chest. “Why did you bother with him at all then, if you knew what a fool he was?” he asked sharply.

  “You don’t understand women. When you’re young, there’s more to be considered than intelligence. Your father was a wild madman. Immensely lovable, but an idiot nonetheless.”

  The shamaness laughed again. She suddenly seemed a stranger to Sedramon. He could not imagine his father and this woman as a couple. Something about it seemed fundamentally odd.

  “Now go. We might meet again one day. Or not. You have better things to be doing than hanging on your mother’s skirt.”

  Sedramon recoiled. He felt hurt and abandoned. He had barely scratched the surface of his mother’s world, even felt a little familiarity, and now he was being discarded like an old boot. It was a bitter feeling he had tasted a little too often.

  “Like what, for example?” he snapped.

  “Go and learn true control of magic,” his mother said impatiently. “Some day you will have to visit Woodhold, and from there likely continue into the Fire Kingdom. After that, I couldn’t say.”

  “Why Woodhold? Why the Fire Kingdom?” Sedramon-Per was confused.

  “Those were the images of your future. Or do you think it was the past you visited?”

  Sedramon said nothing. What had he seen? The landscapes had been foreign to him. There was no trace of them in his memories. Not in his, nor in his forefathers,’ nor likely in any living person’s. His mother was probably right. The future seemed a lot more plausible than the past.

  He rose and made to leave, but his mother suddenly stood before him and embraced him firmly.

  “Go with all my good wishes,” she said. “Now get out.”

  Sedramon stumbled unevenly out of the cave. He would never understand this woman, his mother. They lived in different worlds.

  IX

  Nill stumbled and collapsed against the wall, where a hailstorm of blows rained down upon him. Or perhaps they were not fists, but rocks, pummeling his face and stomach and all the other parts that had given a home to pain? On his journey through the Fire Kingdom Nill had felt that the magic grew stronger the closer he got to the Borderlands. The pure energy of Fire had found him prepared – but now?

  The air was sharp and bitter in his lungs. It tasted as though he had licked the blade of his dagger – the same taste he felt when he was knocked on his back during a fight. The energy of Metal fled his body through his mouth in those cases; but here, this was not the case. The opposite, in fact. It was a storm of arcane brutality coming from all directions with no hint that it might ever stop.

  Nill attempted to melt it with Fire, dissolve it with Water and counter it with his own Metal, all fruitless. He remembered Morb-au-Morhg’s warning – “The laws of the elements do not apply in the Borderlands” – then he fell over forwards and crumpled against the stone wall. As before, this wall could not hold him and he fell through.

  Another portal, was all he could think before meeting the rock. His body twitched at the stone’s touch, where blue sparks flew from the ore within. Nill took the flashes into his darkness, but either he was no match for the Metal or it spread evenly over both light and shadow. His strength faded. In his desperation, he did something he had never dared before. He retreated into the Nothing, and as he did so he could not even feel its ancient power. This did not surprise him; in Metal World, there was no Sanctuary, no first ground for Nothing. And yet he knew the familiar feeling of dissolution as his body began to disappear.

  Chrome and iron

  Strength untold

  Cobalt, copper

  Magic of old

  Zinc and tin

  I am, you are

  Are not, were once

  Broken. Marred.

  Now Nill

  Is still

  Alone

  In stone.

  The Metal magic dispersed, the veins of ore deadened, the walls grew pale and translucent. Nill crawled forward, where there had just before been another high wall, and went through. On the other side of the portal there was bare rock; its shimmering gleam blinded him momentarily. The Metal had regained its strength and tore at him anew, but less wild, less aggressive. It was the old Metal he knew. He had left the portal.

  He lay flat on his back, his breathing shallow, forcing himself to calm down. I must breath, or the Metal will stay in my body and suffocate me, he thought.

  And then he thought no more. He was overcome by exhaustion greater than he had ever felt. His body was light. Every string of muscle in his body, every bone seemed to stretch, and all tension left him as he fell asleep. When he opened his eyes again, he did not know how long he had slept, but the unchanged light told him that the sun had not moved far. He slowly rose to his feet and tried to understand what had happened. The Nothing – what a bizarre magic it was. It came over him and took him as it wished. But this time it was different. This time I, Nill, took the Nothing. The thought was monstrous. It filled him like too much water in a skin; his chest felt as though it would burst. The Nothing had not come on its own, and Nill had not called upon it. He had simply entered. Now all he wanted to know was how he had done it. And…

  Where was Ramsker?

  The question was like a scream in his head. It tore him from the world of magic back into reality. Without the bad-tempered, stubborn old ram, whose only purpose in life seemed to be to annoy Nill and occasionally save his life, he would go no further.

  It took some effort to get his shaking legs to support him as he clambered up a rock. He did so slowly, but it was still too hasty. The world around him faltered. He took several deep, long breaths to steady himself before finally daring the few steps that still separated him from the rock chamber. He stumbled, rather than walked, through the wall, braced for the worst. The ore had reawakened. The pure Metal
energy rained down upon him once more and knocked him to the ground. But he merely laughed. Nill threw his head back and laughed harder than he had in a long time as all his fear and trepidation turned into relief. The Metal was as strong as ever, and yet it could not touch him. He looked around and saw Ramsker, panting heavily, on the ground to his right. Nill dragged the old ram over by its hind legs – a few tufts of wool snagged on the jagged rock – and flung himself back through the portal with all the strength he had left. As he left the portal, he again fell flat on the shimmering rock.

  It took a while before he regained his senses. It was the cold that woke him this time. Only moments before, it seemed, he had stood before the primal heat of the fiery pillar. The last dregs of liquid his body had to give had run down his back, the magical storm of Metal had taken what little strength he still possessed, and now he lay on his back, gazing at the sky, at the sun that did not warm him. He shivered.

  Nill turned laboriously onto his side and reached weakly for his waterskin. A tiny drop would have to be enough. Another. The water was warm, still heated by the fire. Even Esara’s soup could not taste as good as this lukewarm, stale water. After an agonizingly long time he forced himself to his knees and dragged his body into a standing position with the help of his staff.

  “I hope you all get kissed by lightning,” he cursed under his breath. He was not entirely sure who “you all” were. “I wanted to get to Woodhold, where Perdis came from, and now I’m farther away from there than when I set out.”

  He looked around. He could not see far. He was high in the mountains, that much he could tell. Directly before him was a sheer drop. Behind him, the rock masked the portal he had just come through. The stone he stood upon must have been absorbing Metal energy for countless ages. It reminded him a little of Bar Helis’ robe. A bright gleam as the light flitted over it; murky glares when surrounded by shadows. Nill had never seen a stone like it. When the sun hit it at the right angle, it looked like liquid silver with flakes of coal. The light of the sky and shadowy darkness lived in the rock like two disparate siblings. And among them were deep red, matte crystals, which seemed to take more pleasure from swallowing the sunlight than refracting it like most gems. Nill felt as though they were red eyes, watching him, and resolved to leave the place as soon as possible. He looked around for Ramsker, whom he had only just dragged through the portal. The ram was not there. Nill stood on tip-toe and craned his neck worriedly, until a dull sound – half bleat, half grunt – made him turn around. Ramsker stood on a protruding rock above him, eyeing the landscape. Guardians all over the place.

  “Relax, Ramsker. No herds anywhere, and the khanwolf is not native to these parts.”

  With aching knees Nill began his descent. There are always paths to portals; else the portals themselves would have little use. Nill doubted that his fate was to die ingloriously in a mountain vice, but he still had to be cautious about finding his way down. The upper part of the slope was gravelly and coarse and gave little grip to his feet. It was not clear what direction would be the best. Nill decided to approach the bottom at an angle, because it looked as though the slope became more severe the further down it went. If he slipped once, there would be no stopping until he hit the ground.

  The clattering of stones made him twist around. A rockslide was the last thing he needed. But what rushed past him was not half the mountain’s peak, but Ramsker, followed by a small avalanche of rubble. Nill’s ankles complained silently.

  “Would you mind where you’re stepping, you lumbering lamb?” Nill snapped at the ram. Ramsker was barely recognizable now. The lazy, stubborn old ram that was always in the way whether he was needed or not was now gamboling around like a kid. It shot up and down the slope in huge bounding leaps. Here and there it stopped still, its head raised high, absorbing the air and the atmosphere. The stones clattered again beneath its feet and Ramsker vanished out of sight.

  Nill carefully made his way down the mountain, checking every step for danger. Ramsker reappeared, his mouth full of some green herb.

  “I’ll bet that’s good after all the thorns you ate in the desert,” Nill commented drily.

  Here, in the mountains, Ramsker showed his quality. He guided Nill down the path, but he never considered waiting for Nill while the young archmage clambered after him. He hopped and leapt, pausing only for long enough to make sure Nill had understood the route he had demonstrated. The moment Nill showed he had, Ramsker continued onwards.

  “You’re a real mountain child,” Nill muttered thoughtfully. “What, in the name of the three Demon Lords, were you doing in Earthland? And why did I never realize how little you were at home there? I never even realized how huge you are, compared to the Earthland rams.”

  Nill arrived at the bottom of the high valley with weak and shaking legs. Ahead of him, a steep incline barred the way forwards. He would have to walk alongside it – and as his eyes followed the bare rock along its length he saw with dread a dark forest looming there.

  “And how am I to find a way that goes neither over nor around?” he grumbled. Ramsker had left his sight again. Nill looked around, taking stock of his surroundings, the sun and the weather. Once the sun disappeared behind the rocks, it would grow dark and cold quickly. The sky was deep blue. The weather would hold, and the huge stone slabs that covered the ground were still kind on his feet. He had made it through worse conditions.

  Nill had just begun to set out when a brown mark on one of the slabs caught his eye. There was no doubt about it – this was a footprint. The print was still perfect. The round heel, the thin strip that connected it to the oblong ball of the foot, the small, oval toes disjointed from the rest. The print was a little short compared to its width, and the bloody imprint of the toes was distant enough to look as though they had been severed.

  The blood had congealed where the inner arch of the foot was at its widest. The print hinted at an ill foot, perhaps no longer as alive as it once had been. The stone that bore the footprint was cracked; a jagged, dark brown line separated it into two parts.

  Nill looked closer and saw that the inner line of the footprint was smeared. The foot had made contact with the stone only briefly, he imagined, as its owner lost balance. They must have been fleeing from something, for there were drops of blood both behind and ahead of the print.

  It was fresh. The blood was still shiny. But where did the foot dip into the blood, and where’s the next footprint? Nill mused. It was odd, as though someone had fallen out of the sky, planted a footprint and promptly left for the heavens again. He raised his eyes to the cloudless sky but saw nothing there. Fool.

  When danger arises from the unknown, flight is often the first choice; unwise, as the pursuer is invisible. Sometimes, investigation is the better course of action. That would cost time.

  Nill closed his eyes. Someone was here, quite close. He felt strength and power and a hint of magic, but no blood, no pain, no desperation. Whoever the victim was, nothing suggested their consciousness still remained in the world.

  The path down the valley appeared safe – he detected nothing unusual in that direction. The way he had come was also peaceful. Nill opened his eyes again and let his gaze wander over the rocky ridge of the steep slope. Watchtowers hewn by nature, battlements and bays, separated by deep gashes, cuts and cracks. An easy place to hide.

  Nill double-checked every spot of shade when suddenly his face drained of color and the last soft red of the desert sun gave way to pale white. He barely dared draw breath, his eyes fixed on a dark, menacing silhouette.

  This hunter did not need to hide. It sat atop one of the outcrops, huger and mightier than anything Nill had seen in his entire life. Its short, heavy beak was raised in the air, giving it the look of a haughty noble. Its wide wings, powerful when in flight, were currently tucked close to its body and occasionally flapped a little, as though the bird meant to beat off flies. One of its short strong legs was anchored to the stone, the other held its prey. Nill knew t
his hunter; his village had been full of horror stories about them. Warriors and farmers alike trembled at the thought of it. A roc.

  The mythical bird was at home in battles and wars. It watched over the territorial disputes between bucks and the fights between wolves for the best food and females; its gaze was serene as it watched warriors butcher each other and thieves pillage and plunder. It let the victors move on and fed off the losers. If hunger and impatience coincided, it would let out a bone-chilling screech and dive into the fray and kill the weaker party on its own – or so Nill had been told. The things people said around campfires… every single person in his village knew the stories about the roc, and not one of them had ever seen one.

  Nill recalled having attempted to imitate the roc’s screech during his test against his later mentor. Ambrosimas had been unimpressed; all Nill knew about the screech came from old wives’ tales he had heard as a small child.

  “Arhk!” echoed through the valley. It was short, bark-like, commanding. And again. “Arhk!”

  The roc stood with one foot on its prey. Now and then the body trembled and a heel – or was it a hand? – beat the ground. Nill made out the faint remains of a many-layered aura. The victim was still alive. Was it human, or animal? What did the mighty beast hold in its talons?

  A reckless daring rose in Nill. He had only ever managed to draw small birds to himself, to hold them and dismiss them. Eagles and the like were too proud and rarely ever obeyed him. Worst of all were ravens. They had a will of their own, too strong to bend, but they were excellent company if you wanted an argument. Perhaps, he thought, this roc would be similar.