Ringwall`s Doom

by Awert, Wolf

  “Give me your cap and I’ll tell you.”

  “Cap?”

  “The one with the pointed tip!”

  “Oh. But you’ve already got it.”

  “Aye, but it still belongs to you.”

  Nill laughed. “Fine, because you’re my friend and your father made it.”

  “And because you’re so nosy,” Brolok grinned. “This cap turns my longstaff into a lance finer than any you’ll find in a royal armory. No enemy can parry it because it swings like mad. Meanwhile you’re parrying everything with the slightest movement, and the tip is always facing forward. No one except my old man knows about this kind of weapon. It’s even better than an ax and sickle.”

  “But if it’s such a great weapon, why does nobody use it? I know they’re not the brightest bunch, but captains and soldiers aren’t exactly stupid when it comes to weaponry.”

  “Here, take it,” Brolok said as he handed Nill the lance. He threw his ragged cloak onto a nearby rock.

  “Go ahead and pierce my cloak with it. Go on, don’t worry, it’s just a rag anyway.”

  Nill took the lance with both hands, made a step forwards and grimaced with pain as the magical tip hit the rock instead of his target, a good two hands away.

  “See? It’s a right pain to aim that thing properly. You’d have to practice half your life to get anywhere with it.”

  “But wouldn’t that be worth it for a warrior? I mean, as a person who spends their entire life fighting, you’d bother to learn it. A weapon no one can defend themselves from!”

  “There’s no weapon that can’t be blocked. And you have to remember: it’s not easy to find a replacement if it breaks. It’s great for a blacksmith, but terrible for a hero.”

  Brolok looked over his shoulder.

  “We’d best move on. I’d like to spend the night as far away from Fugman’s Refuge as possible.”

  Nill pouted and thought wistfully of a soft bed, hot food and a sip or two of wine, but he knew that these treasures were – for now – out of reach.

  They spent the night in the mountains. It was cold and the small, smokeless fire gave heat to their food, but not their bodies. The sky was clear and the cold light of the stars seemed to drive the cold down here even further into their bones. The descent to the Waterways would be difficult and dangerous. Nill fidgeted. He wanted to reach the Seven Penitents and then move on to Woodhold as quickly as possible.

  XIII

  As Nill, Brolok and Bairne slept away the exertion of the previous day, the news of what had transpired in Fugman’s Refuge spread like wildfire. It reached Ringwall first, and there it told of how easy it was to catch an archmage, and how difficult it was to keep one. It told of quaking earth and crumbling houses, that he had lackeys and could turn invisible; making sure nobody knew where he would strike next to sow chaos and destruction.

  Ringwall’s archmages trembled in their seats; every member of the council believed their own worst fear to be confirmed. Bar Helis alone merely placed yet another piece into the puzzle he had been forming – to him, it was clear that the inexperienced boy could not have escaped far greater sorcerers unless he truly was the Changer. Ambrosimas knew that someone chosen by fate could not be held. Such was the nature of destiny: it would happen eventually. He wondered who, or perhaps what, had helped Nill this time. But the obdurate ears of the council were no longer prepared to listen. The archmages saw in Nill an unpredictable, volatile danger, and they agreed that the best way to deal with this danger was to banish it before it grew too great. Mah Bu was closest to the truth of the matter when he suspected involvement from the Nothing.

  King Sergor, already taken by surprise at Nill’s ascension to archmage, sent his dustriders waterward and left Gulffir for Worldbrand. It was a demonstration of his unbreakable loyalty and brotherhood with Ringwall for all the world to see.

  What King Sergor did with cool calculation, Talldal-Fug did with a rage-reddened face. Not only had his plan been foiled, no – the prisoner’s breakout had shattered his reputation in Pentamuria, and so he sent three waves of his armored riders fireward, then woodward.

  Galvan, having finally left the Murkmoor, made a great curve in his path, first aimed at Water, then bending towards Wood.

  The mucklings in their villages and towns saw only the dark clouds on the horizon, stacking and dispersing, torn apart, thrown about in the air. Clouds that so blatantly disrespected the laws of the wind could only be of magical origin, they knew. What they did not know was that with the hunting parties in the land and the archmages’ eyes upon them, the streams of magic were changing.

  The shamans were the first to notice the quiet tremors in the Other World; they saw in the figures drifting across the Plains of the Dead how the memories of the people changed in the face of this new fear. The druids stood dumbfounded before the changes in the elemental patterns, and the black warlocks plotted how they could best use the new situation to their advantage. In short, Pentamuria was in turmoil.

  Malachiris, the young Wood mage, had spent the last few days leading her troop through the hostile, damp world of the Mistmountains at great speed, and now they traveled through the forests of Woodhold. She used the infrequent animal crossings as her guide, as the undergrowth was so dense even a mage could often not penetrate it – unless they chose to burn their way through, or cause a landslide to clear their way. The density of the forest was worth the difficulty, though, as it offered protection. Her party proceeded unseen, because the towns and villages loyal to the king were positioned in the open countryside, where the land was free of roots and easy to farm.

  Malachiris succeeded in remaining unnoticed even to the court sorcerers of Woodhold. The first magical disturbances only registered once she approached the settlements of the Oas. Lone sorcerers rarely dared go near the Oas. The mages left these women completely alone; they knew they were unwelcome. Into this brittle peace Malachiris and her mages stepped, causing disquiet among the people and drawing the eyes of the wise women.

  The Oas’ small hamlets were just outside the forest, where they offered both arable land and the trees’ protection. Like pearls on a necklace, the settlements stretched all the way from Woodhold to the Waterways. Malachiris decided to stay within a reasonable distance of the villages. Sometimes, her troop was visible by the common folk, at other times they passed through unnoticed. She wanted to be seen, but not tracked. It gave her pleasure to bring the magic of Ringwall directly to where the Oas felt safest. From the shade of the trees that had been the Oas’ closest friends for countless generations came a constant odor of strangeness.

  The wise women had retreated into their huts and followed the magical traces in their surroundings from the safety of their communities. The mothers kept their children close by, and the young girls wandered here and there, infected by the growing, unusual restlessness. Malachiris was satisfied; this was exactly how she hoped to startle her prey. If Nill had already reached the Oas, he would make his move when he noticed the approaching power of the elements. Or the Oas would make the decision for him, beg him to leave their village for the next – either way, the moment he moved, she could pick up his trail.

  Tiriwi had been one of the first to notice the approaching magic, but she knew as much as anyone else what to make of it. Curiosity made her leave Grimala’s house, where she had lived since her return from Ringwall, and she bravely delved alone into the green shade of the trees and stepped before the mages. She was not scared in the slightest when she noted them making a circle around her, even when they drew closer.

  Tiriwi waited until she was face to face with Malachiris. Then she addressed her in thoughtspeak.

  “It is rare for Ringwall’s followers to visit us. I extend you my most sincere greetings. Please tell us if there is anything we can help you with.”

  Tiriwi stood proud and tall as a quibotz sapling. Her hair shimmered gold in the dappled light that fell through the trees and silvery-white in the leaves’ shade. H
er feet sunk into the soft, mossy ground and everything between her head and her heels formed a bridge between the sky and the earth. It was the magic of the Oas that gave this bridge strength.

  “Look here, a little Oa who became a sorceress and turned back into an Oa. You must be Tiriwi. I have heard of you, little sister.” Malachiris smiled sweetly – almost too sweetly – and her voice was friendly, but definitely haughty.

  Tiriwi’s brow furrowed. It was over in an instant, but lasted long enough for Malachiris to notice, whose smile grew sweeter still.

  “I thought I knew every Green mage in Ringwall, sister, but I have never seen you before. Are you part of Empyrade’s household, bringing greetings? What brings you to us?”

  The “little sister” jibe had annoyed Tiriwi, and she seemed to grow a little. Slim and agile, she was like a lance between two warriors, indicating “this far, but no further.” This was her land, and she would bow to neither visitors nor invaders, no matter their age or experience. True, she had little to oppose five fully-fledged mages except her determination, but the mages would not be able to counter the Oas’ fury.

  “I am sorry, little sister, that we have crossed your forests without announcing it; I assure you, we have the king’s consent. We have been tasked to do so by the High Council of Ringwall, while your Empyrade is showing new students how roots grow in the ground and flowers greet the sun.”

  Tiriwi had never found out what position Empyrade held in Ringwall. She had taught Nill, Brolok and Tiriwi about the magic of Wood, but she had considerable power beyond that and an influential voice in Ringwall, as Tiriwi recalled clearly. She had been a little jealous of Nill and Brolok’s wide-eyed adoration for their teacher, but it had been Empyrade who had helped her out of a very uncomfortable situation once. Tiriwi did not like the tone this mage struck when talking about her.

  And so she said nothing, for silence can be stronger than words. Malachiris was visibly enjoying the situation, but in the end it was she who broke the silence and resumed the conversation.

  “We are on the hunt, little sister, and our game is the most precious of all.”

  “And you won’t tell me what game you are hunting in our forest?”

  Malachiris smiled gently and answered in a low, conspiratorial voice: “I would if I could, little sister, but I have been forbidden from doing so. All I can tell you is that our hunt was commissioned by the High Council. The affair is of such importance that not only does every element have a hunting party of its own, but even the White mages and the Archmage of the Other World have sent out troops. And more than that: Galvan himself leads the element of Metal. He is no usual mage, and you should know him all too well as the Master of the Forge and Bar Helis’ right hand. Even an archmage is out there: Nill, the Archmage of Nothing, has left Ringwall to partake in this magnificent hunt. But I’m sure you have felt this yourself, little sister; you were, after all, close friends in Ringwall.”

  Tiriwi’s heart gave a small leap. She had often thought about Nill since they had parted ways. She remembered his disrespectful, reckless use of magic, his innate skill at finding enemies everywhere, and his vulnerability that was so at odds with the burden he had chosen to shoulder. Nill, the nothing! What a name.

  “I heard he remained in Ringwall after our final test, and I was happy that he was given the chance to study the ancient scriptures. I never heard he had become an archmage,” Tiriwi lied easily. “I’m not surprised. He seems as if his destiny was always in some divine hand.”

  “Nill has become an important mage. Some say he is the first behind the magon, because he is the only one to control the magic of Nothing. The other members of the High Council seek his advice, and no small number of female students seek his attention for other reasons.”

  Rubbish, Tiriwi thought. Foes don’t become friends overnight. What are you after, you lying viper? But her face betrayed nothing of the venomous thoughts in her head, and she asked in thoughtspeak: “And which party does the Archmage of Nothing lead?”

  “He departed alone, as always. He probably went to Earthland, where his home lies, where he knows the hills and valleys like no other. Nill and I are good friends. We took part in the same tournament, and we both emerged victorious. We did not get the opportunity to fight each other, though, so I only know his reputation, not his powers. He is also rather less reserved than the other archmages. He must be a very special man for the High Council to include him despite his youth.”

  Tiriwi was getting angry. Nill, a very special man? He was a childish idiot, pig-headed, clumsy and filled to the brim with mad ideas. He had barely learned to control the slightest amount of magic and was already full of talk on how to break the seal to the Walk of Weakness. If Nill was special, then so was every animal that escaped from the farm, every jutting branch on a tree, every rebellious hair on an otherwise smooth coat.

  Calmly, with a smile on her lips to match Malachiris,’ she replied, “I wish you good fortune in your hunt. I would not be surprised if Nill was the victor again, ahead of all the competition. There are sorcerers far better than him, but fate seems to keep a keen eye on him.”

  “Not just fate, little sister,” Malachiris remarked sweetly as Tiriwi turned around and started to walk home. The mages made a gap in their ranks to let her through.

  “Am I allowed to tell the wise women your name, or is that another thing you mustn’t share?” Tiriwi asked, aloud this time.

  “My name is Malachiris,” the Green mage called at the retreating girl. “I’m sure you’ll hear it again.”

  Malachiris was satisfied and waited just long enough for Tiriwi to be out of earshot, then she beckoned for her party to come closer and whispered: “It seems as if Nill hasn’t reached the Oas at all yet. What a stroke of luck – but now we must act quickly. Onwards! We must stop the Archmage of Nothing from reaching the Oas at all costs. If he manages to hide here, it will be difficult to catch him.”

  Malachiris led her troop towards the Waterways. She intended to follow the border until they reached the first rocks of Metal World, and then turn earthwards.

  The Water mage’s party received word of Malachiris’ plan. Their leader decided to limit their search to the swampy areas. They would make slow progress and likely be overtaken by Malachiris; but if Nill did happen to be in the Waterways at that moment, he would either run into them or be driven straight into Galvan’s arms by them. Only a tiny strip of land offered safe passage, but where did it lead? Straight back to Ringwall, where Morb-au-Morhg the Mighty waited.

  The Water mage gazed confidently into the wavering gray mists, the dead trees, the muddy hills. Any magic that strays away from Water will shine like a fire in the night, he thought. The archmage can’t escape now.

  *

  “So what are the Seven Penitents?” Nill asked Brolok.

  “Not sure – some landmark, I think. Once we’ve found them, we just need to follow the coast and we’ll get to a trade road.”

  “Cliffs. They’re cliffs. We can’t miss them,” Bairne said, but no one was listening.

  The Seven Penitents were indeed quite unmissable, especially on such a bright day. The sun did not shine, but hid behind a thin layer of mist; the diffused light made the sky bright white and gave the calm sea a silvery gleam. The water slapped against the cracks and furrows in the cliffs, making a gulping, chuckling sound. The sea is never silent. It always tells stories and fables, whispers them to the wind or roars them at the world, no matter whether anyone is there to listen.

  It speaks in its own tongue and has done so for countless ages. Only those who speak it themselves can understand the sea. Everyone else only feels its raw power, and will either dream or retreat in fear of its awesome strength.

  Nill had stopped.

  “Do you hear that?” he asked.

  “Hear what?” Brolok asked back.

  “It’s talking to us,” Nill said, wide-eyed.

  “What’s talking?” Brolok’s voice was impatient.r />
  “The water,” Nill elaborated.

  “Nonsense,” snorted Brolok. “What’s water got to talk about? Somewhere back there is the end of the world, and what you’re feeling is the twisted Water magic of the Borderlands. Let’s move on.”

  “It speaks of other lands,” Bairne said.

  Nill’s head jerked up. Bairne always spoke so quietly it was hard to notice her – if she spoke at all, which she did not do often in Nill’s presence. But now? She seemed to disagree vehemently with Brolok’s opinion.

  Brolok snorted again. “Other lands. There is only Pentamuria, and around it is the belt of the Borderlands. They meet at a single point on the other side of Pentamuria, and that’s the entrance to the Other World. Everyone knows that.”

  “The waves and the wind, the birds in the sky and the fish beneath the surface all speak of something beyond the water. Not the Borderlands. Something else.”

  She spoke as if Brolok had not said anything at all. This was the first time Nill had witnessed her disagree with her husband. Was there really something other than the Borderlands out there?

  “I think Brolok’s right. We should move on,” Nill said, keen to avoid an argument. Like a stone dropped into water makes waves, Bairne’s words had touched something in Nill and he wondered what truth there was in them. The great salt sea did not lead to the Borderlands, he was sure. But then, where did it go? What did Bairne know about it? More than she said, likely. Nill began to see her with new eyes.

  Seven jagged rocks pierced the silvery surface. From their location they looked like a khanwolf’s lower jaw. The biggest of the rocks was like a fang, and next to it, smaller but still huge, the pointed canine, beside that the smaller incisor, half sunken beneath the waves. These were no penitents; they were weapons of the earth. If a ship in a storm came near them… The small group walked on, and the impression of the cliffs changed. Gone was the menacing similarity to teeth; the cliffs bent towards the sea, their hunched, guilt-laden backs pulled them down to the water below to submit. Their leader had sunk almost all the way, its tip barely visible among the waves.