Ringwall`s Doom

by Awert, Wolf

  “As I cannot help you with your question, allow me to make you a different gift. I have no possessions apart from the clothes I wear and the bowl in my hands. But if you so desire, I can teach you how to read and write.”

  Sedramon gave a faint smile. “I am a sorcerer. Reading and writing are part of my education.”

  The hermit reached for a frond and drew a line in the sand. As though Sedramon had not spoken, he explained: “The rune of beginning. Extend the basic line to get the rune of the end. If you then connect the two, beginning and the end are one and the same. This is the secret of the script.”

  Sedramon grew curious. Like all sorcerers, he knew many different scripts, but he had never seen symbols like these before.

  The hermit showed him rune after rune, explained their meaning, their relation to other runes, how collections of them were read and what “rune-family” meant.

  “Every message contains a second one, a hidden one, for there are always several ways of saying something; the choice of runes has as much meaning as the words you speak.”

  So the hermit taught the sorcerer until Sedramon knew, by the ninth day, every single rune.

  “You have my thanks,” he said. “Your debt is repaid, and I must move on.”

  “If you leave now, everything you have learned might as well be sand in the wind and will be lost, just like sand in the wind. In the beginning, there are the runes, then you must understand the secret of the message within the message. All this means nothing without the stories, without the tales the runes tell, and the true meaning behind them. The tales are teachers, but they only speak to those who let them. We will never have much time for the stories; the evening wind comes early.”

  Sedramon did not understand, but he watched the hermit scratch symbols into the sand all the same. He only paused briefly to water his trees. The sun was low in the sky when he spoke again. “This is the first tale. Read it and copy it tomorrow. The night wind will give you a blank space to write on.”

  Sedramon stayed for many more days than he had ever intended. He read one hundred and twenty-eight stories while he was there, and each story had eight different versions. They were told like this, then like that; from one perspective, then another. They all were tales of the creation of the world, the separation of beast and man, the birth of magic as man knew it today, all the way to the first banishing of the arcanists and the wise. Sedramon read about the magic of Nothing and learned of the pulse of life.

  “These are all my stories, sorcerer,” the spring-keeper said finally. “I have none left to tell.”

  “You have more than repaid your obligation. The fire, the roaring flames I sought – they were you,” Sedramon-Per said, in equal parts thankful and awestruck. “The fires of truth burned bright in your tales, and they contained all the answers. Now all I don’t know are the questions that belong to them. It’s a strange turn, isn’t it?”

  Sedramon’s gaze turned inward and spent quite a while in his own amazement before returning to the outside world.

  “But now I must go. My path leads onwards. Earth, Metal and Water still lie before me. Only once the circle is complete will I know what lies in wait for me.”

  “How can you leave?” the hermit cried, crestfallen. “You have become my student, as I was to my master. Fate made it so and led you to me!”

  “I told you that I must continue, and you know you are the one to stay. We have known this from the beginning. Farewell. You will always have a place within my heart.”

  “You would have been the right one. Now that you are going to leave, the hopes will die. I will be the last keeper.”

  “The spring’s story is not mine,” Sedramon said, and the words sounded harsher than he had intended. “Someone else will come. Be sure of it. My fate lies not in Water, but in Fire, between great trees. That is all I know. I have found the Fire, now I must find the trees. When I have written all the runes you have taught me, I will go.”

  Sedramon had a quill, but no parchment nor ink. So he unsheathed his knife and pricked his arm, dipped the quill into his blood and drew a symbol on the inside of his cloak. He wanted to put the first rune in a corner and fill the cloak from there, but his hand did not obey. He ended up placing the rune of beginning right in the middle of the cloak’s back. The blood was not enough for more than one rune, and so he pricked his other arm as well. By the end of the day, both his arms were red and raw, and the inside of his cloak displayed several somewhat lost-looking brown symbols whose placement had been decided by something other than his own will.

  The hermit had watched silently with a stony expression. On the second day, as Sedramon was looking for a part of his body he had not cut yet, the hermit stood up, watered the last tree, took the knife off Sedramon without listening to his protest, grasped him by the hair and cut into his scalp. He caught the blood in the bowl.

  “The head’s blood is thin and copious. Now write,” the hermit growled.

  The evening fire of the Oas was a place of great hustle and bustle. Women came and went. It was a long time before Dakh managed to find Lianina.

  “Lianina, my dear, we have been cruelly left with half a story with no end and the promise that you know it. Tell us, what became of AnaNakara after the sorcerer left her?”

  Lianina, as slender and lithe as the plant she was named for, lost her smile in an instant. She looked as though she would rather never remember what had happened.

  “It’s not a story worth telling. It is a tale of fighting, broken hearts and hurt feelings, of disobedience, stubbornness and finally a flight, or a chase. It’s a story of the past. And that’s where it belongs.”

  “One of the broken hearts was yours.” Dakh’s voice was gentle, almost crooning, and his eyes were round and innocent. “The weight of the past grows heavier the longer you are forced to carry it around. Share it with us; we are only here for AnaNakara and had hoped to meet her.”

  Nill and Brolok exchanged glances. They had never heard Dakh tell an outright lie before.

  “You are right, druid. One of the broken hearts was indeed mine. AnaNakara was my best friend. We shared every secret, every wish. All that ended when the sorcerer arrived. From one day to the next… oh, how I wished for him to go. And I was so glad when he did. But it was not the same. The AnaNakara he had left behind was a changed woman.”

  “And then he came back,” Dakh prompted.

  “Yes,” the Oa said, “he came back. Twice, actually. The first time was about three or four springs later. He must have traveled far around the world and he had all sorts of strange things in tow. Again, he did not stay long before leaving. If I understood AnaNakara correctly, he went to Ringwall to become a mage. I thought that would be the end of it, but four or five springs later he was here again – this time, for the last time. He was only here for a few days, then he was gone. This time, AnaNakara went with him. I’ve never heard anything of either of them since.”

  Nill listened to his beating heart. He had never been so close to his parents. But who was this sorcerer? Sedramon-Per or Perdis? Or were they one and the same?

  “There is another thing I must ask. It is very important to me, you must understand. It is… well, I mean, it looks like I’m poking my nose into things that have nothing to do with me. But that isn’t the case. How to explain…”

  Lianina looked at a stuttering Nill with friendly eyes. He felt even more uncomfortable at this, and, inside, he was writhing under her gaze.

  “AnaNakara’s child. What happened to him?”

  It was out. Dakh and Tiriwi looked up.

  “She did have a child, but it’s a sad story,” said Lianina. “I don’t want to talk about it, really. A very sad story. The child did not live long. The poor boy died young. It happens all the time, to everyone, when the bridge between sky and earth is not built quickly enough… it breaks.”

  Nill could not believe his ears.

  “But I heard she left the village with Sedramon-Per and a chil
d.”

  Lianina nodded. “That was her second child.”

  Nill was at his wits’ end. He thought he had only just found his parents, and now they were sliding away from him.

  “The second child, what was it? A boy or a girl?” Nill had to make one last desperate attempt at solving the riddle, but Lianina could only shrug.

  “I don’t know. The child was shrouded in mystery. I never liked that. That was the reason AnaNakara grew more reclusive and never allowed anyone to come close anymore. That was when our friendship ended. But it’s all so long ago. It’s like a story from another lifetime. Not good to bring it back up.”

  She gave Nill another encouraging smile and rose to her feet, then she left with long, swaying strides.

  Nill stared after her, dumbfounded, then turned his head so quickly to Dakh that he cricked his neck. Dakh was chewing on a blade of grass, as was his habit when thinking hard.

  “Do any of you know what to make of this?”

  “Perhaps,” the druid say, “but what’s more important is what it means for our future. The more we ask, the more people come to the forefront. It’s almost as if fate does not want to rely on a single person. More and more I’m convinced that neither the figure from the mists nor the chosen of destiny exist.”

  “But King Sergor-Don destroyed Ringwall, as the prophecy foretold. Fire, smoke and the sounds of battle were the dominant parts of the magon’s visions. It all fits.”

  “Yes, from the mages’ perspective. But I have spent many winters searching for Sedramon-Per, and now I learn that he actually had a child. For a moment I dared to hope that you were that child. Everything would have been so much easier. That would have been the connection I have been looking for all this time. Father and son find the Books of Prophecy. But the child died. What role, then does Sedramon-Per play in this? And you? And why do the books connect you?”

  “He could still be the chosen one,” Nill said with little hope, thinking of Morb-au-Morhg and the conversation they had shared on Ringwall’s battlements. “Detaching oneself from fate,” the old mage had said, and that was the reason Nill had escaped Ringwall before its fall and was now sitting in a small village at the foot of the Mistmountains.

  “No, Nill,” the druid said. “The mages are the ones who have been waiting for the figure from the mists, because they believed that fate only picks special people to weave new magical patterns. We druids aren’t even sure whether this figure exists.”

  “So why have you been searching for Sedramon-Per all this time?” Nill tried to understand. But he had known the magon and had been granted a glimpse into his visions. The figure from the mists existed, and smoke, fire and the sounds of battle heralded its coming.

  “We druids see things from another point of view. Like the Oas, we see the patterns in the world and we believe that special patterns produce special people. Sedramon-Per is not chosen, but simply part of the pattern we don’t understand. Yes, Sergor-Don destroyed Ringwall, but still…” the old druid stopped suddenly. “What I don’t understand is why Sedramon-Per abandoned his beloved AnaNakara. He must have traveled far and wide – what in the world was he looking for? Gathering experience doesn’t mean gallivanting around all of Pentamuria.”

  “It will have been the books.” Nill looked a little upset. “They never let go once you know about them.”

  “Mighty mages and extraordinary druids have spent their entire lives looking for them. And you’re saying a young sorcerer like Sedramon-Per found two of them in just a few winters?” Dakh looked skeptical.

  “I’m younger than he was, and I’ve found two as well,” Nill said simply.

  It was not the books that Sedramon was looking for. He was full to the brim with the old stories the spring-keeper had written in the sand for him. And he felt the magical power of the old runes. Suddenly, he saw the world differently; everywhere, nature seemed to speak to him. He saw magic in every spot, even where there was none, for it is difficult to tell what is and what is not, what are things and what are wishes; for man sees what he wants to see, not what he should see.

  From the spring he had set out metalwards. But on the eve of his first rest he entered the Other World and dreamed of Earthland. He left the Plains of the Dead and found himself somewhere in a desolate, brown and yellow wilderness.

  That’s certainly an easier way to travel, he thought. Waterwards I should find a settlement or two.

  Sedramon had traveled through Earthland, spoken with its people and learned their legends. But never before had he had the idea to search for traces of an ancient magic within them. He was a sorcerer of Ringwall, and not a very good one. He knew the magic of the Five elements and had a little experience with the Other World. He had heard of the powers of the Cosmos and the might of Thoughts, but he had never learned any more about them. Never – not once! – had a mage mentioned ancient magics from ancient times.

  Sedramon-Per had leapt back from Earthland to Woodhold, where he sought the legendary Ironwood: a wood so hard and heavy that it sank in water. It was there that he spoke with the trees and learned from them that the Oas’ magic had come from an older, simpler magic. In the Waterways, the sun and light shared their knowledge with him, and in conversation with the water and light he found the Book of Mun and read in it how the mages and druids had reached the magic of the five elements. He found magical symbols in the spiral shell of a water snail; he learned to read the foam at the tips of the waves; and on the border to Metal World he stumbled across a mysterious mineral that covered the inside of a small cave in fist-sized chunks. As he chipped one of them off the wall, he was surprised at its weight. He cracked it open and found it full of crystals, but these were not like the sparkling rubies, sapphires and emeralds that were commonplace elsewhere. Yet they had their own beauty, full of glamour and magic, because Metal and Water were inseparably united within them. Nothing was as it first seemed.

  In Metal World, Sedramon collected rokka-nuts and encountered the kingspider and the nightcrawler and found an abandoned place of prayer. Fragments of nuts, spider webs, chunks of Water ore and many other curiosities found their way into his bags. When he finally returned to Woodhold, he knew that he had traversed all of Pentamuria. He had followed his mother’s advice and had played with magic daily. He had become a strong mage, but it was still possible that the magic overwhelmed him. The question of master and servant was far from answered for Sedramon and his magic. One day, he was standing again in the small Oa village in the shadow of the Mistmountains, wandering around a little bashfully between the huts. He drew a deep breath and made for the hut where he had, so long ago, spent those wonderful days with AnaNakara.

  Although we were outside more often than not, he thought, wondering as he did where the thought even came from.

  The door was ajar and Sedramon leaned forwards, pushing it open awkwardly. It creaked mercilessly and in the darkness a small child began to cry.

  “Awake again? I’ll sing you a song.” And, in the same breath: “Come in and close the door. Be quiet.”

  Sedramon stood in the restricting doorframe, long and dark, his head bowed in order not to hit the ceiling. He barely dared to breathe.

  “I must have been gone for too long for you to seek comfort elsewhere,” he whispered. The baby could not be more than half a harvest cycle old.

  “No,” AnaNakara whispered back. “It’s different. Everything is different, and everything is terrible. Will you help me? I need your help. Please!”

  Sedramon-Per crossed his long arms and legs and listened silently to AnaNakara’s story.

  Dakh, Nill, Ramsker and Brolok departed early the next morning. Tiriwi stayed behind and would not be swayed otherwise. “I am needed,” she said. “Grimala is waiting for me.” Nill made a few more half-hearted attempts to convince her, but Dakh finally spoke up.

  “Leave it. She is right. The Oas need every arcanist they’ve got to keep the bridge from breaking. Don’t forget that Tiriwi is the only Oa w
ho knows the five elements along with her own magic. Her place is with her people.”

  Tiriwi and Nill shared a long, tight hug. It was as though neither ever wanted to let go, but their minds flitted back and forth between the tender memories they shared and the uncertainty, secrets and challenges that lay ahead until their bodies could take it no more, and the hug itself began to ache.

  “Take care of yourself, Nill,” Tiriwi said. Nill said nothing; he swallowed and nodded. The lump in his throat did not want to go away.

  They had been walking for a while, and Nill was still hanging onto his thoughts. It took some time before he noticed that Dakh kept stopping to sniff the air, looking around warily.

  “Something stinks,” he said.

  “I can’t smell a thing. Apart from the smelly old ram and all the plants,” Brolok said with a smirk at Ramsker. Ramsker was not amused.

  “At least you know what kind of smell I mean,” Dakh said. “The air in the village was clear. The air here stinks.”

  Nill’s eyes wandered across the treetops as he freed his right sleeve from a thorn that had got stuck there. He closed his eyes. “I can’t smell anything either, Dakh.”

  In that moment, a woodfiddler began to sing. Its high, clear song was accompanied by a humming sound that the bird made by pulling its tail feathers across a horn on the back of its feet.

  “Looking for a lady love, brother?”

  Nill could not see the bird. It was visually unimpressive anyway; its song was the most distinctive thing about it.

  “The woodfiddler wouldn’t sing if there was something foul afoot,” Nill said.

  “Perhaps, perhaps not,” Dakh grumbled and led the way.

  “We’ll avoid the smell as best we can,” he said as he pushed his body through two stubborn branches.

  For the first time, Brolok and Nill learned what the word forest truly meant. Nill, who had grown up in the hills of Earthland, had never known such silence. A forest is no place for the wind with its seductive whistling. The forest is the kingdom of silence, only broken by the occasional bird call. A group of plants big and small, thick and thin, tall and short had gathered here, feeding and breeding with each other. They were all one great tangle of roots and branches, playing sometimes, fighting at others until only one remained, which could now enjoy air, sun, water and food for its roots for a few more springs until it, too, fell.