Ringwall`s Doom

by Awert, Wolf

  The next morning was one of the kind nature keeps for special occasions. It was fresh, bright and with the sort of light breeze that blew away worries and brought with it the smell of wild herbs and flowers. The hamlet was built on the edge of an impenetrable-looking forest, but a closer look revealed many small paths and animal crossings that made traversing the trees possible. Going into the forest meant swapping the yellow of the sun for the green of the trees, the dry fresh air for silky humidity and the constant quiet song of the wind for a silence only broken by abrupt birdcalls. Stepping out of it meant a leap into sunshine, a view of blossoming meadows, swaying grass and small coppices of trees and bushes that offered just enough shade to lounge around in.

  Tiriwi showed all this to Nill, from one tree to the next, from one flower to another. She showed him where the woodpeckers brooded, the caves where the honey-pickers lived and the flat grass nests of the brightfootwhistlers. After about half a day they sat down on a fallen tree-trunk, throwing small twigs and bits of bark into the sleepy little brook nearby. After all the laughter and the eloquent explanations, they were oddly silent.

  Nill gazed at Tiriwi’s hair out of the corner of his eyes; the way it changed, depending on the light, from silvery-gray to sunshine yellow fascinated him. He had only ever seen gray hair on old people – it was a dull color, only gradually reawakening to bright white, and even that happened rarely. Tiriwi’s blonde mane, however, shone silver like a lake beneath fragile clouds. Even the glimmering of the waves found its equal in her hair. Only in direct light, like the sun or the torches that adorned Ringwall’s many halls, did it shine like woven gold.

  “You fit far better here,” Nill muttered.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Here, with the air and the wind and the green grass. Not in Ringwall’s stone corridors.”

  He looked into her eyes and marveled at the depth of color he found in what had always been gray, now adopting shades of green and blue seemingly at random. Tiriwi broke the shared look and gave a sudden laugh; without a moment’s warning, she pushed Nill off the trunk. She laughed again and ran. Nill had jumped up immediately and sprinted after her. Tiriwi had the longer legs, but Nill was more naturally agile and was able to cut off every feint she made. With a mighty leap he managed to grab hold of Tiriwi’s hips, and the momentum of it bowled them both to the ground, where they rolled over, still laughing. Nill hugged her tightly but she broke his grip with her own arms. She tucked her knees in and threw him off to the side, but Nill was still holding on to her shirt and pounced again. His hands flat on her face, he pressed down lightly over her eyes and mouth. “Works a charm against the evil eye and spellcasting,” he said lightly.

  Their playful fight obeyed a different magic to the one the mages or the wise women taught, but it was no less powerful. Tiriwi put her arms between their chests and raised her head a little; then she suddenly slackened, but pushed upwards with her arms and Nill was knocked sideways. The match went back and forth for a while, constantly punctuated by laughter. Legs collided with heads, teeth bit playfully onto bare skin. Feet stomped on chests and backs without really hurting, and open hands slapped unprotected parts. The fight drew them closer and closer to the river; it was predictable, as everything rolls downhill if it is not careful. Tiriwi leapt up, but one foot was stuck in the muddy ground. For a moment she struggled, spread-eagled like an absurd puppet, then she fell face-forward into the mud. Nill roared with laughter and threw himself beside her. Utterly breathless, they gazed at each other’s dirt-spattered faces until they managed to calm down. Finally, they stood up. Tiriwi flung aside her filthy clothes and jumped into the flowing water. Her golden hair spread around her under the shining sun. For a moment, Nill was frozen; then he, too, discarded his clothes and washed away the mud.

  Hand in hand they returned to the village. Out of every door came Oas to ogle the young couple. Tiriwi felt every single step. The magic of Earth caressed her soles and rose through her legs, gathering somewhere in her lap. Showers of stars cascaded down from her head and shoulders and flickered out below her navel, on her hips, in the little dimples above her buttocks. Her face bore the deeply satisfied look of a cat that has unexpectedly found an extra special meal.

  Nill’s eyes were focused in the distance. His stride was so light he gave the impression of floating. The only thing holding him to the ground was Tiriwi’s hand. Nill alone was the reason the Oas were flocking together. It was not his gaze that looked as though it came from another world; it was his golden aura, surrounding him bright as the sun above. But he noticed none of it. All he felt was the hand. Everything else was fresh memory; memories of skin, smells and wildflowers.

  One of Tiriwi’s mothers stepped out of the crowd. “Come to my house, I won’t be there. Grimala has invited me to visit with her.”

  Tiriwi’s happy smile grew more radiant still. Once they had disappeared into the proffered hut, many of the Oas started to hug each other. Only Grimala looked thoughtful. “It looks as though we Oas are part of the future after all. That is comforting, at least. But the future disappears a little more every day, behind a thick curtain of mist.”

  Nill stayed with Tiriwi. Only for a while, he thought, but he vastly underestimated the power and magic of women. For him, time had stopped. Nothing in the hut changed; only the weather outside and Tiriwi’s closeness that burned hotter and brighter with each passing moment, holding him tight. But beyond the peaceful world of the Oas, time was racing, and the world was in turmoil.

  *

  King Sergor stood upon the foundations of what was soon to become his tower and looked down on what had once been Rockvice with relish. The small fortification he had named his new capital was completely unrecognizable with all the stones, dust and voices everywhere. Only Worldbrand, the name he had chosen, hinted at the young king’s ambitious vision. But where were the glamour and the power a capital deserved? The courtiers Sergor-Don had brought shied away from the bright sunlight and the small troop of chosen soldiers was so thinly spread that the city belonged to the mucklings alone as they built the walls of Worldbrand, cursing and gasping beneath the merciless sun.

  Sergor’s face was impassive in the light yet constant wind of the dry plains and not a twitch betrayed how hot the flame of his coming triumph burned. “Nothing will be as it was.” Those were the words of the prophecy. The entire might of Pentamuria, united under a single crown: this was Sergor-Don’s vision. Absolute power. Absolute control. Only these two could guarantee the world’s reshaping to his liking. What did the king care for the talk of the Changer, or fate’s plans, if he could take matters into his own hands? He had done so, and thus far, all had worked out.

  Much had happened in the Fire Kingdom. Sarch, the slimy worm, was dead, and the tribes were united for the first time in history. And yet, the peace’s cause was not understanding and wisdom, but sorrow and pain.

  As Sergor had predicted, Grand General Sarch had not taken kindly to being stripped of his rank and named captain of the family. His boundless ambition and vastly inflated, wounded ego had caused the former grand general to take unnecessary risks in the fight against the Earthlanders. The sons of the desert, whose courage King Sergor-Don had openly doubted, had not held back when it came to battle.

  Tell a man of honor he has no courage and he will break his neck to prove you wrong, Sergor thought, and his mouth twitched.

  It had only been a matter of time until Captain Sarch fell into an ambush and was killed. Without their leader, the first sons of the most powerful tribes knew their days were numbered. The king’s troops exacted revenge and spread death and destruction all along the border, but as the sons’ blood seeped into the sand, so too did their hopes. They did not hold for long.

  Sergor-Don knew that honor and pride were the last things a man could cling to when he had lost everything else. Nothing was more vigorously defended than one’s own honor. Idiots, the lot of them. What was honor against power? Honor came as a by-produc
t of might. Honor was only words.

  Haltern-kin-Eben still had command of the court, but his power was broken. His children were hostages to his loyalty in Worldbrand; his most influential followers were dead – slain in battle, killed in service, or tragically lost under mysterious circumstances. Oh, their funerals had been extravagant, the court scribes had written down their deeds and published them for the common folk to lap up, and their families had received personal blessings and condolences from the king.

  Now there was finally calm in the Fire Kingdom. The soldiers stood behind the king to a man, and the would-be crown stealers cowered in fear of their own shadows.

  Calm behind me, and I can look ahead. And the strength… at this thought, his lips curled into a true smile this time. The strength is always hidden, but readily accessible for those who know where to look.

  It is time. He stepped down from the foundation. The next few days will see a decision. For me, for the Fire Kingdom, for all of Pentamuria.

  The horizon was white and the sky above still black when a troop of riders set out from Worldbrand in a highly uncoordinated formation. Ahead of the group were the bannermen, their flags of black and red flapping in the desert wind. Behind them, a few sparse rows of sorcerers. Some of them had foregone horses entirely, instead choosing to lighten their own steps to keep pace. Following the sorcerers closely was a squad of archers. Then came the king and his court sorcerers. He was at the tail end of the loose troop rather than the head. Behind them was nothing but the dust their horses kicked up from the ground. Far in the distance, too far to be counted as part of this procession, several more archers rode out. They could still intervene if something unforeseen was to happen. If anyone came across them, they would not see a mighty ruler approaching Ringwall, but a young man, a boy king too fresh to worry about trivial things such as security.

  King Sergor-Don reached Ringwall as the sun approached its peak. His riders rested a respectful distance from the magical gates, somewhere between the double wall and Raiinhir, which surrounded Ringwall like yet another wall. Cooking fires were built, tents erected; yet it was no army surrounding Ringwall, but merely small, meaningless groups of four or five men. Some camped in plain sight of the gate, others where they found water, and others still further away, outside of Raiinhir.

  “Ringwall does not like soldiers. Nothing must so much as hint at a threat. But stay in sight of the walls.” That had been the king’s command.

  Only the king and his sorcerers entered Ringwall. As was custom, Gwynmasidon was informed of the royal arrival immediately. Unnecessary tradition, a remnant of old times. It was more a show of respect; the mages always knew ahead of time who was approaching their city. Sergor-Don and his companions were received graciously, as was every other visitor who had come in the days leading up to the great magical tournament. At a certain level, King Sergor was no more than a returning student amongst many that had come to watch. The only nod to his position was in his sleeping quarters: he was given a chamber of his own, whereas the others shared the common halls.

  The king himself was unrecognizable. Usually so reserved, even at the center of a crowd of servants and subordinates as calm as if he stood alone in the desert, he was now smiling, shaking hands, embracing old acquaintances and enjoying private conversations. He visited the individual lodges and paid his respects to the high-ranking mages, accompanied White mages to their chambers and met with all sorts of folks in the dining halls where old friendships were rekindled and new ones forged. Ringwall was to know that King Sergor-Don was here and that he had important things to say.

  But not all of his conversations were for more than two pairs of ears. The threads he had spun as a young neophyte had to be tautened. Just as he had done in his youth, the king sought dialog in those hidden corners and chambers where he had learned the deeper secrets of Fire and Metal and the Other World, usually reserved only for experienced mages. And neither his teachers nor the magon had ever known.

  He visited his mentor from the old days too, but they did not meet in his chambers. They had, at first, met for a public meal, and now Sergor-Don waited impatiently in a room that was more a hole in the ground than a chamber, deep within Ringwall’s foundations. A magical field materialized nearby, then a gentle knock on the door and the scuffing of feet announced that Catsilver, his old master, had arrived.

  “All is as we arranged?” the young king enquired.

  “And it will stay so. Do not forget what you have promised me.”

  King Sergor-Don flinched. He was no longer accustomed to being addressed like a schoolboy.

  Catsilver, you stupid, greedy fool, he thought contemptuously. The first words from your mouth say everything an enemy needs to know. But the young king’s words were delivered in a tone of politeness and respect as he replied.

  “Much has changed here since I left, has it not?” It was more a question than a remark, but the high mage gave a derisive snort.

  “All the same. Only the High Council grows more restless with each passing day. The fear is almost palpable within these walls. They whisper that the magon is weakening, and his archmages are losing their respect for him. You chose a good time to return, Sergor.”

  “I would be grateful for an opportunity to speak with Murmon-Som. I noted with some joy that he has been elevated to the rank of Archmage of the Other World. That simplifies much, but I could not possibly arrange a meeting with him without arousing suspicion.”

  “It’s hardly possible for me, either. We shall have to wait until the archmage condescends to address us. But do not fret; he knows you are here, and you will hear from him. But you will have to wait, just as you will have to wait for an invitation from the magon and the High Council.”

  “And you think this invitation will come?”

  “Without a doubt. Rumors were planted, insecurities tended to. Everyone wants to see or hear of the Olvejin, and the scriptures of our founders are to receive a special place in the Chamber of Glyphs and Runes. The idea about the Olvejin and the scriptures was a good one. It will draw the archmages out of hiding. No one believes the rumors, of course, but there might be something to them… fools, the lot of them.” The high mage spat, then laughed, and the arrogance of power seemed to seep from his every pore.

  “I will do my best not to disappoint them,” King Sergor answered coolly. “But the Olvejin is too large to carry around. And as far as the scriptures are concerned: I do not intend to hand them over. Not before everything is set in stone.”

  “You mean it’s not just a rumor? They really exist?” A shadow flitted across Catsilver’s face and his mask of confidence began to crack along the outside.

  Sergor-Don could not suppress a tiny smile as he noticed the change in his interlocutor’s demeanor. You’re all the same. Greed and fear are all that drive you. And fear you will have, by the elements. But you still have a task to fulfill, mage. Aloud, he said:

  “I found them. However, I lack the knowledge and power to use their magic. But in the right hands…” Sergor trailed off, leaving temptation thick upon the air.

  “Murmon-Som and I will help you. We have taught you before, and we will continue to do so. When the right men meet at the right time, a true force forms. We will be unstoppable.”

  Sergor-Don could only voice his agreement. Yes, my friend, you are quite right. Unfortunately, you are not one of those men. You will learn that soon enough.

  Sergor rose and made a departing gesture. Then he ran up the worn-down steps, light-footed and silent. The High Mage of Metal waited down in the hole for a few more moments, then vanished.

  “Metal moron!” Murmon-Som grumbled. “What use is it meeting in hidden places if you leave behind a magical flare that sings songs to the whole world?” Not for the first time, Murmon-Som had doubts about the high mages’ capabilities. It was time to act. Murmon-Som disappeared into the Other World and reappeared in this one, right in Sergor-Don’s small chamber, where he waited for the young king. Th
e idiot should know that the only way to remain hidden is to use the Other World.

  King Sergor had climbed the stairs to the ramparts on the walls. There he stood, gazing up at the stars like an ordinary mage who needed to clear their head after a long day’s work.

  Nothing is harder than appearing normal, he thought as he ambled about, occasionally stopping to stretch. His outward appearance belied his actions. Every sense he sent out to scan the area. Only when he was absolutely certain he was not being followed did he return to his chamber. In front of his door he paused. He felt as though the smell of decay was coming through the cracks around the door, but he was not entirely sure. With forceful steps he entered the small room and was immediately pressed against the wall by a sudden force. He grimaced. Murmon-Som’s aura must have grown immensely since last they had met.

  “Can’t you suppress your aura a little, archmage?” he asked acidly.

  “My apologies, your Majesty. It would appear you have little contact with true magic at court these days.” The subservient words were in harsh contrast to the biting tone of the voice that came from the mottled gray aura. “If you ever want to win against a real opponent, you mustn’t be so sensitive. But I have already spent too much time here. We will continue our conversation in my chambers. Now. Come closer, do not tarry.”

  The murky figure, more similar to a weather-worn statue than a real human, faded and became blurry around the outside, then disappeared, taking Sergor-Don with it. A heartbeat later they were standing in the inner chamber of the archmage’s lodge. Murmon-Som took the only chair in the room. The chair was the only tangibly real thing; the walls, ceiling and floor all faded out to gray, wavering streaks.