Ringwall`s Doom

by Awert, Wolf

  King Sergor-Don stood leaning on the wall with one hand; with the other, he flung one Metal scythe after the other at Ilfhorn. The attacks looked playful, even lazy, and they were indeed not particularly strong, but Ilfhorn’s bundled power could not get through the combined shields his sorcerers had woven. The effort he put in was costing him energy, whereas Sergor-Don showed no sign of weariness. Murmon-Som had empowered him, and his right hand was absorbing Knor-il-Ank’s energy straight through the stone wall. Sergor accepted the gift silently and gratefully.

  Gnarlhand was not well suited for indoor fighting. On an open field, he commanded the Earth like no other; in here, he had difficulty finding and controlling enough Earth energy to do meaningful damage. The walls shook and the ceiling began to cave in. The floor split and the air shook with his blows, but the Fire Kingdom’s shields lasted. For how long? He could not risk destroying Ringwall.

  Sergor-Don paused in his unrelenting scythe attack. He gathered the strength that Knor-il-Ank streamed into him, imbued it with Earth and waited for Gnarlhand’s next move. When the stones began to scream again, bursting apart with an ear-splitting crack, Sergor-Don sent out a shockwave of bundled energy. The walls crumbled, the ceiling fell with the rest of the upper floor. The remaining archmages attempted to avoid falling down with the collapsing floor. Sergor-Don watched Murmon-Som finish off Ambrosimas. The hall was a ruin, from its battlements to the foundation nothing but rubble.

  “It is easy enough when you know how,” he coughed. “Go check if any of the archmages are still alive.” The fight had taken its toll on him as well. The last spell had been monstrous; from this day forth, no one would ever think of Sergor-Don as ‘the young king’ again. His hair had gained several strands of gray, and deep lines had disfigured his face, only recently so youthful. His sorcerers, too, were exhausted. They went through the ruins, clearing away rubble with their hands rather than magic now. They found the shrunken body of the magon, and the corpses of Bar Helis, Nosterlohe, Gnarlhand and Ilfhorn.

  Murmon-Som knew that Sergor-Don had been waiting for the perfect moment to crush the hall. He had been hit by a stray arrow and a stone had smashed his spine as it flew through the air.

  “My friend,” Sergor-Don said. “We will heal you.” But at the same time he bound Murmon-Som with a spell of the Other World.

  “Liar. The arrow and the stone were your work. I never trusted you, Sergor-Don. I always knew your ambition and your crazed mind, but I underestimated your underhandedness. And now I cannot even counter your pitiful magic in my own area of expertise. An archmage, too weak for a village sorcerer… But you were too fast. This last triumph is mine. Your most powerful enemy is still alive, and you have no one left to match him.”

  “You can neither frighten nor insult me, archmage. You helped me, as you promised. As a reward I will tell you the secret of the books that were none. The scriptures do not only describe the way to the Olvejin. They also contain old paths to the magic of the Other World. Do you feel my hold on you? You fight against the power of your ancestors. You understood no more of the Other World’s magic than a grain of sand knows about the desert, and I am the same. Unlike you, I have my life still ahead of me. Yours is over.”

  “Ha,” the archmage croaked in his dying voice. “You just wait, little king. Did you not notice? Your victory came too easy. Far too easy. Only Bar Helis fought like a true archmage. I was not the one to give you your victory. As long as you do not know who else desires lordship over Pentamuria, you have not won and you will find no peace. I would have been glad to take Ringwall and leave you the rest. But now, you stand alone against an unknown, powerful foe. And alone, you are nothing.”

  “The demented words of a dying mind. You claim someone else helped me, then you talk of an invisible enemy. Do you truly think you can frighten me? Who is this unknown opponent supposed to be?”

  “Your most powerful adversary is the Archmage of Nothing. Even I could not beat him. He still slumbers, but when he awakens and recognizes his true strength, he will roll over you like a storm. Hide well, little king. Take my last words to heart.”

  “You speak in riddles, Murmon-Som. But the world no longer needs you.”

  Sergor-Don tightened his hold and the last life force of the archmage left him.

  “Sire, Keij-Joss and Ambrosimas are nowhere to be found.”

  Sergor thought hard for a few moments.

  “Keij-Joss will have fled. I cannot remember him taking part in the battle. We will hunt him down, find him and destroy him. Him and all the other mages of Ringwall. But I saw Ambrosimas fall. Murmon-Som himself killed him. Keep looking.”

  To his sorcerers and bodyguards he said, almost off-handedly: “We should get some rest. Our next objective will be no less taxing, and not the last either.” A wolfish smile spread across his face.

  King Sergor finished his round of Ringwall’s walls. Shockwaves could be felt all the way down in Raiinhir as they rushed through the corridors. Stones cracked. Hidden portals released their energy and broke their boundaries. The walls that had given the portals a hold for so long crumbled to dust. Vaulted ceilings rose and broke and collapsed, burying everything beneath them.

  The elemental mages, who had at first retreated to their quarters, cautiously waiting for the outcome of the battle to become clear so they could offer their servitude to whoever was left standing, fled in panic from their chambers. Not all of them made it out of Ringwall, and not all who made it out of Ringwall alive made it much further. Although carried by magic, leaping through the air with giant bounds, they had to pass through the loose belt of camps around Raiinhir. The same camps in which Sergor-Don’s archers prepared their meals and tended to their equipment. As soon as a mage came close, they reached for their bows and shot the fleeing mage down. Every kill was greeted by loud laughter and clapping hands.

  A group of roughly a dozen mages, clad in the blue cloaks of Water, was followed by several riders and shot down. Their last spells, desperate measures of defense, concentrated so much energy that their deaths caused a huge swampy sinkhole. It would later be known as Queschella’s Tomb, although the Archmage of Water had met her demise in the Other World. If the common folk want to remember, they invent their own stories, which in turn transform into new and unique truths.

  Sergor-Don had the books of power removed from the library and taken to Worldbrand. The remaining scrolls and tablets he incinerated. The fire feasted away until nothing but ash remained.

  The only thing the king could not destroy was the Sanctuary. It resisted every kind of magic. In a fit of wild anger, Sergor-Don instead buried the magical symbols beneath a mountain of rubble, higher than any other; without realizing it, he built a bizarre memorial to the five elements.

  The court sorcerers bowed before their king. Phloe stepped forward and said: “You are the Changer, King Sergor. There can be no doubt. You have conquered Ringwall.”

  Brown Sijem cackled and nodded, Aulo howled and bowed so low his nose scraped the ground.

  The king smiled his tight smile. “Now I know how the figure from the mists feels. It came unexpectedly and behind it left nothing but fire and the sounds of battle.

  “Yes, it was foretold. But how, my king, does an enforcer of destiny feel?” Skorn-Vis asked.

  It was the last time King Sergor-Don ever shared his inner feelings with anyone. His lips were still tight, but the smile on them was honest as he spoke.

  “Simple, my friends. I feel victorious.”

  XVI

  While the rise of Ringwall and the archmages was shrouded in legend, the story of its downfall remained in the people’s memory for only a short time. It was only mentioned in the Song of Bornir. The song began with the cracking of the Onyx, continued with Mah Bu’s demise at his own hands in the fight against Nill, and finished with the death of the magon, shot down from his pinnacle by a single sharpened twig. The death of the archmages in the battle for Ringwall was no more than a reverberation, a single l
ine in the song.

  But no story and no song stands alone, and the beginning and end are always difficult to pinpoint, as everyone who has seen new life spring from a felled tree knows. Ringwall was destroyed, but not dead. It lived on in memory; its ruins served as a warning around the peak of Knor-il-Ank and gave rise to new legends. The beginning of the story was, as always, misunderstood as well. The seed that grew into the plant of duplicity and betrayal had been sown by the mages themselves, without their realizing it. And the tool of destruction was forged where the Oas lived. But this secret was truly secret, and so it never found its way into the songs and tales of legend.

  *

  Brolok felt happier each day he spent with the Oas, who seemed to forget a little more every day that he was a sorcerer, trained in Ringwall, not a druid. His aura glowed more challenging than ever. Like a black cloak with fiery red tips it danced around him. It looked threatening enough to frighten little girls, but was never so dark his laughter could have been held back. All the Metal in his aura gave off just enough danger in this part of the land, where the green magic of Wood was dominant, to make him a constant challenge to the Oas. Brolok was kind to all and bound himself to none. And nobody, not even wise Grimala, was safe from his pranks.

  Nill, on the other hand, made himself scarce. He rarely left Tiriwi’s side, and if he did, it was to find a pretty flower or catch a bird with his voice to bring home, bursting with pride and joy. Most of the birds flew away once he released them from the spell, but two had stayed and had begun to make a nest in the hut’s roof. Nothing in the world of magic happens by accident, and nature knows its own symbols that sometimes bleed over into the human world.

  “Learning from the birds, eh, Tiriwi?” her friends would tease. “Fly away and come back, Nill? That’s how the birds do it! But the birch is in the Oas’ hands.”

  So they chattered and giggled and joked. Tiriwi knew her sisters well and joined in, but Nill was often lost in the tangle of comparisons he had not grown up with.

  One evening, once the birds had finally found some rest after singing all day and nature turned its attention to the quiet animals in the night, when the evening wind had retreated and left the leaves still and silent on the trees, Nill clasped Tiriwi’s hand and cleared his throat. And again, and again; Nill reminded himself of Dakh’s crow, squawking and cawing. Tiriwi smiled, and beneath her smile she hid all her worry, as women so masterfully can.

  “What’s the matter, my love? What’s wrong?”

  Nill made a few starts, but always stopped short. He fell silent until he finally mustered the courage to say what was going on in his mind.

  “I would like to ask you to teach me your magic. The Oas’ magic.”

  Nill’s request shot through the air of the hut like a bolt of lightning. Their faces seemed ghostly and rigid for a moment: Nill’s due to the anticipation of his own words, Tiriwi’s because of the suddenness of the wish. She had expected many things, but not that. Slowly, she attempted to organize her thoughts.

  “You asked me about that many springs ago in Ringwall. You know I don’t want to. Now that you know us Oas better, you ought to understand my reasons and be less disappointed when I tell you I can’t do it.”

  “I promise – I swear on everything I care about that I will not use your magic with levity, and I certainly don’t intend to play around with it. Just as I have long given up on my childhood dream of becoming a great hero, I no longer see the point in becoming a powerful mage. I am already an archmage – what else could I strive for? Of course, I could try to become the next magon, but I’ve long realized that being an archmage means little to me. I don’t want to complain about the things that have happened. You have to reach something first to see that dreams can shatter like illusions. This is something different.”

  “So what is it that you want?” Tiriwi asked, having listened attentively.

  “Nothing but the truth – and if there is no truth, then the wisdom behind the magic itself.”

  “You don’t aim low, do you? And I thought you’d learned some humility over time.” Tiriwi poked Nill in the ribs.

  Nill smirked mischievously. “No, I don’t aim low.”

  “Then why do you want to learn our magic? You said it yourself, you still struggle with the magic of the five elements. Why don’t you finish learning that first?”

  “If only it was always so easy to know the beginning and the end,” Nill sighed. “Dakh-Ozz-Han taught me that the world is made up from the magic of the five elements, but even in Ringwall with the mages I realized that there were more than five archmages. Three others, the Archmages of the Spheres, broke the number. Ambrosimas, my old mentor, was one of them, Mah Bu was another, and Keij-Joss was the third as the Archmage of the Cosmos. Then there’s also the magic of Nothing and the magic of Light and Shadow we found down in the Hermits’ Caves. And you Oas have yet another sort of magic, one that sees the humans as a bridge between earth and sky. Now every one of you – druids, Oas and mages – all teach that there is only one magic. In each case it’s the one you believe in. The others are all just mistakes or by-products. But I’m telling you, it’s not right. I know it. And I believe the answer to the question of Pentamuria’s future lies in understanding magic. There. Now you know.”

  Nill leaned back and looked as though he had just dropped a sackful of stones from his soul.

  “And if I don’t show you our magic? What would you do then, unfathomable archmage?” A small smile was playing around her lips.

  “Then,” Nill laughed, “I’ll pick a different teacher. There are enough pretty ones to choose from.”

  “You swine!” Tiriwi gasped in mock horror and flung herself on top of Nill, who accepted his punishment with laughter.

  A little while later, as they both stared up dreamily at the ceiling, Nill picked up the conversation again. “So, have you thought about it? You can’t dodge me for the rest of your life.”

  Tiriwi was lost in thought, drawing circles and spirals on Nill’s chest with her finger.

  “If what you say is true, then I’m not the right person to teach you the Oas’ magic. Speak with Grimala.”

  “How should I do that? Do I just walk up to her door, knock and say ‘Hello, I’ve got a few questions!’?”

  “You silly lamb,” Tiriwi said affectionately.

  “I have always yearned for this moment, yet feared it all the same,” Grimala said to Nill and Tiriwi as they sat on the ground before her. “When Tiriwi came to me and told me of your thoughts, I needed some time to decide what to do. I asked the two of you to come here, for one to apologize to Tiriwi, and for another to give you, young man, some unbidden advice.”

  Grimala turned to Tiriwi and her pained expression showed how difficult the words were for her.

  “Tiriwi, you have enormous magical power and a great deal of talent. We never mentioned it, but I always hoped to see you as my successor here in the village. That is a road you can no longer walk. It pains me to tell you that you can never master the Oas’ magic to the extent required to be accepted into the circle of wise women. With my decision to have you learn the elemental magic from Kelim-Ozz-Han and have you educated in the mage’s way, I did not simply give you the foundation of a different magic; I also destroyed part of your natural gift. Within you there are two magics that cannot be reconciled. I accept responsibility and wish to apologize deeply.”

  Grimala stood up, and in one flowing motion she put her legs slightly apart and bowed so low before Tiriwi that her head touched the floor.

  Nill could not quite believe what he was seeing. Old people, he had learned, usually moved in small judders or clumsy, tired motions. Usually they spent their time sitting down, and only their eyes were still alive and active. But what Grimala displayed was a feat he had only ever seen from jesters. And yet, in the gesture there was a solemnity that struck him dumb. The movement was so measured, so fluent, and her expression so sorrowful. She bowed three times before returni
ng to her seat as though nothing had happened. She did not even breathe faster.

  “You will, of course, always be an Oa,” she continued matter-of-factly. The apology had been given, her guilt assuaged, and the wise woman was once again at home in her role as leader of the village.

  “If you choose to live like your sisters and honor the rules and traditions of the Oas, you can have a happy life here. Not every gift must be used. But should you instead wish to master the magical arts, you will have to find your own path and perhaps even your own magic; although I don’t think that is possible.”

  “I never really thought about my future,” Tiriwi admitted. “But I can’t keep pushing it away anymore.” Her eyes twinkled as she spoke.

  “Time will tell,” Grimala assured her. “And now to you, young man. Oas do not interfere with the lives of others, least of all us old women. Something about you is different, though; I know that you are closer to the Oas than many a druid. You have a special role to play. Never before has a man been so tied to us. My instinct tells me that you are one of us, even if your gender and magic do not fit in. This is the only reason I am speaking to you the way I am.

  “The same things I have said to Tiriwi also apply to you, Nill. You have known the magic of the Oas and studied the magic of the elements. But you did not stop there. You have learned another magic. I don’t know what exactly it is; I have always called it the Old Ones’ magic. You must know that many a wise person has lost their mind in trying to combine even two different magical orders. And now you wish to enter into a third, even though, in spite of your high rank in Ringwall, you are little more than a novice in matters of magic. Maybe that’s a little unfair – let us say, an advanced novice.” Grimala had to smile in spite of herself.

  “Incompatible opposites can never be united from within, only from without. Your magic of Nothing might help you to bridge the gap. It is a path Tiriwi cannot walk. You have two choices. Either you learn to move between the worlds like the first dragon, who could be held by no element, no being, no world or cosmos. Or you can attempt to see what the first mages must have seen long ago, with the help of the Nothing.