by Awert, Wolf
“Save me your sharp tongue, Bar Helis. I have not died yet,” the magon growled. “I will either lead Ringwall into a new age, or crumble to dust with it.”
“Then I cannot see why you are all so destitute. What, really, has happened?” Bar Helis’ mouth curved contemptuously downward. “The Onyx has broken. It was cracked before, even if Brother Gnarlhand did his best to hold it together. The only thing you are all lamenting is a great broken gem.”
“Bar Helis is right as usual, of course.” Ilfhorn’s voice was more venomous than a nest of shadevipers. “No great damage was done, not at all. Right? But it should never have happened in the first place. So how did it happen, Bar Helis? Please, explain.”
Bar Helis shrugged. “I know as little as you do. And I care less than you do. What bothers me is the council’s refusal to look facts in the face and admit their own failings.
“The first mistake, and I have not yet grown tired of saying this, was opening Ringwall to the lowborn arcanists. Shamans and warlocks, Oas and druids, even half-arcanists. The filth we have let pass through Ringwall’s otherwise guarded gates… this break with tradition went even deeper than you care to see. It went deep into the Onyx. Never before have I witnessed separate voices in the council endanger the table – and harmony has never been a common commodity in this room. Neither have I ever seen or even heard of an archmage being defeated by anyone but another archmage, or by the long, slow breath of time we all must bow to one day. A child capable of killing an archmage ought to have been removed from Ringwall and banished to the Other World immediately, where it could have caused no further harm. If you sleep with an adder in your bed, you can’t be surprised if it bites. That was the council’s second mistake, and we have paid for it dearly.”
“It’s not certain that Brother Nill is responsible for this catastrophe,” Ambrosimas said lightly.
“It’s not certain that he wasn’t,” Nosterlohe snapped.
“The Onyx could not have been broken by anything outside Ringwall. Only we archmages are connected to it.”
“So? One of our number is outside the gates of Ringwall.”
Voices were raised and soon there was nothing but confusion until Bar Helis’ loud voice gained the upper hand.
“Have you still not understood?” he spat. “Brother Nill is the Changer, the figure from the mists. He does not attack us, oh no, he knows he is no match for any of us. Instead he reaches into the delicate magical patterns of the world and distorts them – he changes Pentamuria around us until our proud city is no more than a remnant of a forgotten time, a warning to those who would imitate us.”
Bar Helis knew that his words had planted the seeds of doubt about their brother’s innocence. Queschella undertook a last, futile attempt to defend Nill.
“But how could a mage who feels too weak to attack us muster the strength to disturb the patterns of magic?”
“How would I know?” Bar Helis retorted. “I assume it is someone else’s strength; it cannot be his own.”
The magon turned to Murmon-Som. “What power shattered the Onyx?”
Murmon-Som cleared his throat and gained a little substance. He was now fully in the here and now.
“You must have noticed it too; whatever it was, it came from deep within the Other World. From its very core. From the place where no living creature may enter. It’s improbable that our young brother caused this.”
“Improbable, but not impossible.” Bar Helis remained steadfast. “Did Nill not claim that Mah Bu killed himself because his summoned demons no longer obeyed him? But no demon, no matter how powerful, can break the spell that binds it. Only a creature stronger than the demons of pure emotions could do so. And did Brother Nill not imply that he had once met a Demon Lord? I assumed it was merely the tall tale of an insecure boy, but now I wonder…”
Bar Helis fell silent and kept his guesses to himself before starting over.
“The figure from the mists is the one who brings the kiss of death when it touches our lips. And Nill is that figure, make no mistake. His strength is borrowed; it merely flows through him. But we fight against fate itself, have you forgotten that? Nill must be found and returned to Ringwall. I would be happy if it were only his body that came back.”
The archmages exchanged bewildered glances. Returning Nill, yes, they had agreed upon that – but destroying one of their own? It was unprecedented. And yet even Queschella and Ilfhorn nodded in agreement, if rather reluctantly. They were, like the others, convinced that a magical power strong enough to shatter the Onyx could not have come from a mage as weak as their brother; but everyone knew that Nill knew no fear of attempting new things, things far out of his reach. He could have unintentionally released powers well beyond his reckoning. Nill had to be brought back and put under the supervision of experienced mages. And if he resisted… then there was no further need to keep him in this world.
The magon rose to his feet and made a quick hand gesture. “I will inform our searching parties of the changed situation. Nill must be found, and I will see his body.”
In the blink of an eye he was gone.
“Tricks and bedazzlements,” Bar Helis growled and exited the room in a more visible fashion through a portal.
*
When Nill opened his eyes he saw the spiders hopping around him on agitated legs. They had understood that something had happened, had felt Nill’s spark of life go out, even if his body had shown no visible sign of it. Nill had no difficulty now in crossing from one world to the other, but now it was his spirit that did so. His body remained in place.
Nill’s return calmed the spiders and made them fall back into the waiting position they displayed when lurking for prey or waiting in the shadows for danger to pass.
Nill sat in amazement before the – now empty – densely-woven cocoon. With the tip of his dagger he cut through a single thread. He was surprised how much force it took to sever it. Slowly, he attempted to pull the thread from the construct and roll it up, but after a few tugs the whole thing collapsed.
The spiders unraveled the cocoon for him, and when they were done there were two neat balls of thread on the ground. One was black as the night, the other transparent, shining in the sunlight.
“I must continue, my friends. You have my gratitude for your aid, your shelter and particularly the knowledge you have shared with me.”
Nill threw his baggage down the ravine and made his way along the difficult, sloping path back to the narrow valley that led to the people of Metal World. Before he returned to the shade of the forest, he gazed around at the land. The deeper valleys and the shallow troughs were hidden beneath a dense cloud of mist. The clear air he treasured so strongly and the bright light of the sun were only at home here at the mountains’ peaks.
His immediate path was as unknown as the landscape beneath the gray mist. He knew that he would take a left once he reached the end of the valley. Somewhere there was a great body of water where he would find the Seven Penitents, whatever those were. And then he would take the fireward path towards Woodhold. Nill wished to learn more about this Sedramon-Per and clear up any doubts as to whether he and Perdis were the same person. But first he had to refresh his supplies.
And so he decided instead to turn right and soon arrived at a small settlement. It did not lie at the bottom of the valley it was in, but stretched along the sloping mountainside; high walls surrounded the edge that faced the valley and melded into the mountain.
Taking that town would be a challenge, Nill thought, but it seems as though they’re only expecting attacks from below. Nill amused himself for a while imagining what would happen if an army came over the mountain. He saw guards positioned at all the key points of the village, but their armor was of poor quality and their attention was more on their dice than their surroundings. Nill had expected to draw at least some attention as a traveling stranger, especially as he had Ramsker in tow. He was not disappointed to be wrong, though: he rather liked being unwatched
.
When he entered the village, his thoughts were on an inn; a hearty meal, a warm fire and a bed slightly softer than the forest floor were practically royal luxuries to him. Yet the longer he traipsed through the town, the stink of badly burning wood assaulting his nose, the more he wished to leave as quickly as possible. Everything here was so different from Earthland, or even the Fire Kingdom. All the houses were built of stone like the mountainside that glared threateningly down at him. The alleyways were narrow, cold and damp, because the overhanging rooftops blocked out the sun, and Nill imagined archers lying in wait behind every gap in the stone, every hole, just waiting to shoot him. The narrowness was oppressive. What sort of person could call this place home? He thought longingly of Grovehall, the blossoming house of his childhood, and Esara, the woman who had raised him.
Nill had discarded his staff during his battle with the demon and had left it with the spiders. He had been forced to carve a new staff in the forest, and had chosen mountain aspen to serve as its basis. The staff was neither mighty in size nor light in weight, and it contained no magic at all. Instead it was long, strong and flexible. It was not a mage’s staff, but a shepherd’s. Nill caressed the still-fresh wood lovingly.
“I will give you something to keep your life force,” Nill whispered to his new staff as he approached a blacksmith’s. It looked far too large for such a small village.
Nill entered the darkness of the forge, illuminated slightly by the open fire. The blacksmith raised his head for a moment and said: “Hello, stranger. What can I do for you?”
The blacksmith’s voice contained none of the warmth and welcome Nill knew from other traders and artisans whose livelihood depended entirely on their customers. This craftsman seemed, despite his gruff manner, rather well off; the workshop was well-equipped, clean and organized, with a wide selection of metals to craft.
Nill did not answer immediately. Something about this smith seemed familiar. Nill chased after an elusive memory that might bring the fellow into his own life, and was lost in thought for so long that the blacksmith simply turned and went back to the glowing iron he was beating. All blacksmiths were strong, and they all shared certain movements, for the weight of the hammer is a merciless teacher. He had learned that under Master Ambross’ guidance as a boy. But here was something more than just the familiar image of Ambross’ forge.
“Your workshop is rather large. Is it not a little too much so for someone without an apprentice?” Nill inquired politely.
“Not sure what business that is of yours,” the blacksmith retorted, and every beat of the hammer reverberated with deep-seated resentment. “It’s a forge for two. Sons go their own way. Is that reason enough to sate your curiosity?”
“You sound bitter. Is your son no longer here?”
“He left for the capital, Fugman’s Refuge. It’s just between Fire and Earth from here. He went to find his fortune there… enough of that. What do you want?”
“I would like two tips for my staff. One strong and thick enough not to wear when it supports my every step, heavy enough to give a swing strength. The other I would like to be sharp, fine enough to find its way through plate armor and strong enough not to break when digging among rocks.”
“You’re a sorcerer. Why don’t you just tell the wood to do what you want it to?”
Nill knew animosity when he heard it. “The wood is still alive, and it wants to grow. If I turn it into a weapon or a tool, sooner or later it will die. If I clothe it in iron, however, I can return it to the soil once it has served its duty, and it will grow into a new tree. A new staff will take its place, and I need only alter the tips.”
Nill was calm, his movements measured. He would not give this bitter old man the argument he evidently longed for.
“As you wish,” the blacksmith replied coolly. “The choice you’ve made goes further than this staff. You are young – if you don’t mind me saying so – but you’ve already turned your back against combative magic. It’s unusual.”
Something like admiration, no matter how unwilling, had begun to spread across the blacksmith’s face, and his eyes had a glimmer of curiosity in them that had not been there before.
“What’s so unusual about it? Have you not made many more weighty decisions in your much longer life?” Nill asked.
The eyes, just now so curious and sparkling, grew dull and expressionless. “What do you mean?”
“Turning your back on magic as a whole, and marrying a woman of the common folk is a step far more courageous than my own. Not many would dare do it.”
The blacksmith took a step back and blanched. “How… how do you…” he choked.
“Never mind how I know. Your choice isn’t much of a secret amongst the mages. Your son brought honor to you and your name in Ringwall.”
“So, he went to Ringwall, did he? Fool. Ringwall will kill him. It kills every arcanist. Gives them ideas. Thoughts that make you forget that humans are humans first and foremost, mages second. Or sorcerers, or noblemen, or mucklings.”
The blacksmith gazed at Nill with a searching look in his eyes, but Nill’s aura was compact, gray and impenetrable.
“Your son Brolok left Ringwall as a qualified sorcerer. Empyrade, who taught him the magic of Wood, promised him that he could someday master even that particular energy, even if never to the degree he displayed with Metal and Earth. Despite his heritage, he is a fully-fledged sorcerer with strengths and weaknesses like any other arcanist, and because of his heritage he stands between the nobility and the common folk. He speaks and understands their haughty words as he does the mucklings.’ You ought to be proud of your son, and of yourself, for you have raised him well. I will return in two days to collect the tips for my staff; until then, farewell.”
Nill turned around and left. He did not hear the last, sad words of a father.
“What good is it if I raised him well if he never comes back?”
As he had announced, Nill returned two days later and helped the blacksmith fit the iron caps perfectly onto his staff.
“I don’t know where you mean to go, m’lord,” the blacksmith said. “Take these two small caps as a gift from me, for your words have given me back some peace of mind I haven’t felt in many harvests. And should you meet him again, please give Brolok a father’s greetings.”
Nill promised to do so, and thought to himself: No gift without a counter-gift. But what have I given? Comfort? Not enough. Brolok, my friend, you are dear to me. The Seven Penitents will have to wait a little longer.
*
Dakh-Ozz-Han bade farewell to his old friend Hermanis-Per.
“I’m in a hurry, my friend. Pentamuria has been shaken to its roots. We few who can accompany the coming change must stand together. Remember my words, Hermanis. Whether your son is one of us, I cannot say. Perhaps his role in the tale is already fulfilled by leading me to the right people. Who knows? But he is my key.”
“You’re a pessimist without equal. I feel none of these tremors you speak of; and these people you’re looking for – what kind of people are they supposed to be?” Hermanis-Per frowned. “You’re always so full of hints and implications and tiresomely vague with words. I have enough hot blood left in my veins to stand by your side. Tell me what you need doing and I will do it. But people to accompany a great change… Dakh, please. What change? What people?”
The old druid gave a short, bitter laugh. “As always, you hit the foe in the face with your words. If I knew what the change is like and what fate has in store for us, I could likely tell you more about the people who are important for the transition to the new age. And if I know which people should convene now, I would know more about what’s coming. As it happens, I know neither of these things. For now all I can say is this: prepare yourself, because hard times are coming.”
The old druid embraced his friend one more time with a strong grasp and left. Hermanis watched after the slightly hunched figure for a long time as it dragged its feet over the cobb
led courtyard, as inconspicuous as a common mouse.
“If the purpose of your visit was to rob me of my nightly rest for the foreseeable future, you’ve succeeded,” Hermanis grumbled. “Can’t worry enough these days. Always got room for some more.” He strode energetically back over to the main house.
“Hey, you. Draw up a list of all our supplies, from wheat to iron, from cattle to weapons. Understood?”
Understanding was not the dominant feature of the confused eyes that found his, but the whispered answer was nevertheless, “Yes, lord, as you wish.”
Dakh-Ozz-Han followed a similar route to the one Sedramon-Per had likely taken many winters past. And just like Sedramon-Per, he found himself in front of a narrow crack in the rocks that widened further back. The rocks breathed soot; charcoaled wood intimated that someone had camped here, but all was cold and damp. The Earth magic of the rocks and the Wood energy in the remains of the fire were all Dakh could detect. No Fire hinting towards life, barely any Water or Metal, no magical aura; nothing to tell him what he must seek.
Slowly, the old druid settled on the ground in the middle of the small cave. A stream of muttered words was only interrupted by the occasional groan as he adjusted his weight, in the hopes of finding a perfect balance where his thighs were not stabbed by the rough ground too severely. If anyone had been there to listen to the murmuring, they would have been surprised. The druid’s words were not spells, conjuring the strength of the elements; they were an endless stream of curses and complaints of an old, tired man. Dakh swore without pause, but it helped. After a while he seemed to feel better.
“If Urna ever lived here, then traces of her presence should still be in the rocks,” Dakh mused aloud. “And if there are traces, I will find them, and then I will know what I’m looking for. May fate be on my side for once, and let her still be alive.” He retreated inside himself and searched the floor, oven and rocks for the colors a strong aura might have left behind.