by Awert, Wolf
Yet it was only a matter of time until he could fight no more. Brolok had pushed too far ahead and his opponents encircled him. He let out a loud curse. Three enemies on either side and behind; not an insurmountable situation, but he would have needed a spear or something similar, with a wide range and lots of space for him to move about. As terrifying as the daggers were in close-quarters combat, often trumping sword and shield, they were useless against so many at once.
Brolok forewent further attacks and resolved to defend himself with high kicks and jumps. His daggers blocked what they could and his eyes darted back and forth, looking for an opening, a weak link in the ring around him.
I’ll have to make my own, then, he thought. He flung one dagger into the air and caught it by its tip, then threw it at the closest man. The throat he had been aiming for dodged to the side, but gave way to an arm belonging to a man in the second row. A low kick knocked another soldier over, Brolok rolled over his shoulder, leapt over the man now tugging at the dagger lodged in his arm and broke out of the ring.
That was close.
With great bounds he rushed back to his companions. He had kept Malachiris’ warriors back for long enough and made a few holes in their ranks. A clever warrior knew when to retreat. Bairne would get a stern talking-to.
Nill’s demon ran in a zig-zag pattern through the rows of mud-creatures and left gaping holes where he struck with his toothed saber. The blade sliced through the tough leathery skin and sinew of the small creatures from the Other World like an ax through rotten word; for the teeth made the flowing slashes that defined a master of the weapon impossible. Where usually, each stroke received its swing from the previous one, the demon was hacking brutally through the ranks, not caring whether he struck a shoulder or a hip. As he yanked the blade out of the wound, the teeth held tight and lifted whatever creature was stuck on it into the air, where the corpse would fly off into its comrades. With every stroke an enemy vanished as though it was not the torn flesh and broken bones that killed them, but the strokes themselves, like a worker driving back animals. With the last of the gray attackers, the demon vanished and the mud that had borne the horrors lay still and silent before them. The occasional bursting of a gas bubble was the only movement on the dull surface, and many of those present wondered whether the whole thing had not been a mere illusion.
“I had hoped the demon would kill the mud-creatures too, but I suppose that was too much to ask,” Nill said and he clenched his teeth and sent a loud call over to the green mage. Despite all the noise around them, the words rang clear in everyone’s head.
“You have lost, Malachiris. Your creatures have been driven back whence they came. Admit defeat and leave. We have other matters to attend to. You need not fear us.”
Malachiris fell again into fits of laughter. Her slender body shook under the explosions of mirth until her mouth was dry and her laughter turned to coughing.
“Lost? Oh, no, silly boy. The greylings were only a distraction. My creatures are the creations of the Borderlands. No one but me can command them. In the Borderlands, the magic of five elements is weak and even the Other World has less power than elsewhere. Do you see the terror in your hero’s eyes? Ha! The druids and their blind faith in the elements.”
She laughed again. Shrill and piercing the sounds shot through the air, and Nill wondered whether this was truly laughter, madness, or yet another spell.
“Why do you think we met you here?” the witch shouted. “Neither your magic nor the fearful fidgeting of the Oas has any sort of power against the combined forces of Water and Earth. It is to the Borderlands that nature has retreated, where it has strengthened itself. It left Pentamuria to you weaklings. No human can ever control the powers of the Borderlands. Even I can only call these creatures. Are you not curious as to what they are about to show us? To what they can do? I heard mages are always seeking the truth behind the magic. Ask them! Ask them now! They’re coming!”
Her voice had risen to a hysterical shriek and she had begun to form the next mud creature. They could all see that it was not a simple procedure. It took a long time, in combat terms, and was a painfully difficult process to give the mud shape, and Malachiris had to clutch the nearby branches to keep her balance.
Nill could indeed see that the old druid’s power was only enough to push them back or lock them behind cages and magical walls. The walls broke, the cages rotted and every time, the creatures gained a few steps. The sounds coming from their mouths sapped the courage from their hearts, but that was the extent of its magic. As long as there was distance, there was no immediate danger. But what would happen if they got too close?
Nill did not intend to find out. He understood this horrific magic. Earth and Water. Dark magic in both of them. No wonder that Earth did not absorb the Water, and that Wood found no resistance in it.
He took the pale white of the sunlight to his aid and threw a bolt of light at the closest creature. The light swept through the brown mulch, split the Water and Earth and caused a fine mist of water droplets to fly so high in the sky that they scattered the light.
Brolok’s triumphant howl was without equal, and relief spread across Nill’s and Dakh’s faces. It did not last long. From the murky water, at the same spot where moments before the creature had been destroyed, a brown-gray fountain of water spouted to about knee-height, and grew; it took more and more mud with it and then stood and wailed as if nothing had happened.
I can destroy them, but not the magic that makes them. I would have to dry up the whole Borderlands, Nill thought resignedly. But all the sorcerers in the world could not have achieved that; their enemy would not be the swamp, but Mother Earth herself.
Nill threw sparks of light towards his enemies. They tumbled through the air, began to rotate and tore deep holes in the formed mud when they hit. Most of them missed.
“Brolok! When we were with the Oas, you made those hooks, flying daggers or whatever. The kind you throw with a flick of the wrist so it spins around and slices anything in its way. You know what I mean?”
Nill gesticulated wildly to make sure Brolok knew what he was talking about.
“Yes, yes. They’re in my bags, and I’ve got three on me.” Brolok wondered why he had not used them during his fight with Malachiris’ henchmen and handed the hookstars to Nill.
Nill threw them. Their flight was elegant, and they made a slight singing sound as they flew through the air. The first one flew skywards, the second sank in the mud and the third one straight through the mud-creatures and sliced off a twig.
Brolok was frantic. “There wasn’t much metal at the Oas! I didn’t work for days on those so you could drown them all in the swamp!”
But Nill only laughed. It was enough for him that he now had a feeling of how to throw. His next projectiles would have no Metal, but pure light instead. Magic was a better weapon anyway.
Like rotating swords, the lights cut through the creatures’ legs – if they were actually legs – and severed the connection to the earth below. Sparks flew in all directions like raindrops off a wolf shaking itself dry as the twitching, flashing circle of light slowly sank into the muddy pillars and stayed there. Separated from the renewing strength of the watery earth, the creatures could not hold onto their forms. They melted over the circle of light, and any attempt to stifle it resulted in mud and brown water flying everywhere.
Nill extinguished the light and held his breath.
Done. No new shapes rose from the murky depths. He began with the long, arduous process of returning the monsters to the swamp.
“Light is the sky, dark is the earth. What cannot rise will stay below.”
He led the dark magic into the lowest part of the mud-creatures and blended it with the filthy water.
A scream made him look up. Malachiris had realized what Nill was doing and flung her Wood magic at the young archmage who had broken her spell. Dakh saw it coming and blocked it with a glowing Metal barrier.
The screa
m stopped and turned into a gargling noise. Nill saw Malachiris flying through the air. She landed on her feet, but her legs gave way and she fell to the ground.
Ramsker scratched the mud with his front hoof and lowered his horns for a second strike.
“Ramkser!” Nill yelled and ran at the ram without caring that Ringwall’s mages were still trying to break through their defenses.
A black cloud rose from the swamp’s ground and laid itself over the mages. It stifled every element there was. Fire, Metal and Wood flickered and then died. Earth and Water spread their stagnant, moldy smell and Malachiris’ mages gagged. The power of darkness was everywhere here. Nill could simply reach for it – but he did not even consider it. Only Ramsker mattered right now.
“He called it trickery, back then. On the Battlefield of Knor-il-Ank, you know. An illusion of white light and black dust, he said,” Morhg the Mighty laughed. “Worst lie I’ve ever been told.”
Binja and Rinja stared in wonder at the old sorcerer. They did not understand a word, but then again, they had not fought against Nill in the tournament that had seen all of them elevated.
The mages had stopped attacking. Nill bent low over Malachiris. Sedramon-Per had followed him and was standing a little further away.
“Lie still. Don’t move,” Nill said.
“Beaten by a sheep… I feared not even the mightiest mages, now this.” Malachiris spat out mud and a brown sliver ran down her chin.
“Stay calm. You can be healed.”
“Healed. And then what? I’ll stand around like a crooked signpost my whole life? Won’t be able to walk? Suffer the pity of others? And even worse: knowing that the only man I ever wanted left me behind and found another. Curse you all. That at least remains to me: I can curse you all.”
Malachiris’ face hardened as she trapped the pain in her body, locked it away from the rest of her consciousness. Her strength returned one more time.
“Listen! Hear the words I speak! Your lives will find no joy, whether you are magical or not. Joy will blow away in the wind. Sorrow will find you and make clouds on your horizons, distant and always visible. Doubt will live on your shoulder like a demon and whisper in your ears. Never again will you trust, neither yourselves nor your friends or foes. And pain will be your longing. You will long, at first, and the pain will come like a shadow. You will lose your knowledge of the beauty of the world, lose the gift of enjoying it. This will be my vengeance, and that is not yet all.”
“Stop, woman!” one of her soldiers yelled at her. “I can’t take it anymore!”
“Leave it, Malachiris,” Sedramon-Per said. “Your curses are useless. None of them will come to pass, for I banish your words from the stream of time. The future will never hear your curses. They will remain but empty words. They will hang upon the air and be blown away in the wind. I forbid them entry into my spirit and deny them a place in this world. They shall be homeless, your curses; they may roam and wander, but they will never touch anyone. Not even yourself, Malachiris. I will remove your curses from the people’s memories, once and for all. It would not be the first curse I break. You know that better than most. And I would like to bless you and give you my good wishes. The only reason I won’t is because nothing is as awful as mercy when the hatred boils within you.”
“Does your conscience pain you, Sedramon? Or what else could you mean with your blessing and mercy nonsense? I never wanted either. What do you know of curses, fools all?” Malachiris’ voice shrunk to a whisper. “Have you finally found out how curses work? Very well, but there is more to it than you realize. My words will not only enter into your minds; they will eat your flesh and dig into the stones and earth you walk upon, the grass that tickles your legs and the fruits you eat. My words will come back again and again like a dead ram in a well, poisoning the water with it death. But my words are eternal, and will not dissolve like the body of a ram.”
Malachiris cackled. “So listen, my friends. Illnesses will plague you. Illnesses that—”
“Shut up, woman!” the warrior shouted. “I can’t hear you anymore! Shut up or I will cave your teeth in!”
“Worm,” Malachiris hissed in disgust. “This does not concern you.”
With a roar, the man flung himself at the witch on the ground, grasped her head in both hands and slammed it into the soft earth, again and again and again. But the ground gave way. Her head went deeper and deeper into the mud, and the warrior held her under. Muddy water flooded her nose and desperate, gasping mouth. A last cough and a final shudder. Malachiris collapsed. Strong arms pulled the man off her, but it was too late. The immense powers she had used in the fight had taken their toll. In the end, all that had kept her alive were hate and her burning desire for revenge.
“She had a different hair color,” Sedramon muttered as the memories came back. “I didn’t recognize her at first.”
“What a sad end,” Nill said. “So much hatred.” He shook his head.
“She fought for love,” AnaNakara said simply.
“Sounds as though you’re defending her.” Sedramon-Per gave her a reproachful look.
“I’m not, but I can understand her. Men who give women false hopes do not know the danger they are in. I hope you understand that now.”
Sedramon-Per was indignant. He had never led this woman on. Or had he? He hesitated and decided to swallow the retort, for he was not sure whether there was a laugh lurking behind AnaNakara’s words or not. It was difficult, understanding women; even harder understanding when they were serious and when not.
Nill straightened up and looked around. The battle had ebbed away. Only a few lonely flashes of magic still shone through. Everyone knew that the situation had changed, even if they did not know why.
“Stop!” Nill called in thoughtspeak. “Everyone, stop! You all know how it came to this fight. Now is the time to restore order. I, Nill, the last living archmage of Ringwall, make my claim to the allegiance of all of you, and all mages elsewhere. And that is not all!”
Nill’s voice began to falter a little as he realized the enormity of his thoughts. But he plowed on bravely: “As the Magon of Ringwall is dead, and the High Council chooses a replacement, as the last remaining archmage I am, by default, the new magon. Whoever claims to speak in the name of Ringwall speaks in my name and should therefore make sure they have my permission to do so.
“I therefore ask you, Galvan, master mage of Metal: will you side with me and swear me your allegiance? If not…”
Nill’s voice assumed a threatening tone.
“Then what?” Galvan challenged. “Then what, little mage, barely more than a neophyte? What could you possibly threaten me with?”
“Then,” Nill said, “I will, by my authority as magon, revoke your right to call yourself a mage of Ringwall. You will be but a mere sorcerer until the end of your days. You will not lose your magical abilities and may still be welcome at courts throughout the land, a famed sorcerer; but you will no longer be a mage, and certainly not a master mage, which you seem to be so proud of. For if you deny Ringwall’s authority, then your rank – bestowed upon you by Ringwall – has no more meaning.”
Galvan stared with an expressionless look at the distant group around Nill. It would have been easy to deny the young sorcerer his allegiance; Nill possessed no more power than anyone around him, and his friends could not protect him forever. However, he was correct in that his title of archmage was legitimate, granted to him by the old council and the magon. Disputing this would mean having to accept Ringwall’s downfall, and without Ringwall, he truly was no more than a sorcerer with a meaningless title, telling tales of the old days around campfires like a war hero.
Galvan was a proud man, but not stupid.
He turned to his riders and Talldal-Fug’s sorcerers and called: “We ride home. Did you not hear the archmage’s words?”
He did not say “the magon.” He did not think he ever would; Galvan had plans of his own.
Talldal-Fug’s men g
athered their horses and galloped away. The splashing mud could not make their armor any filthier than it already was.
The archers of Fire stood around a little indecisively. The two sorcerers leading the troops were arguing in front of their warriors.
“We could have killed the archmage if your shield hadn’t been so dense. The work of a beginner and a coward. The king will hear of this.”
“If we were not in the king’s service, Uul, you would not leave this place alive. How can you be such a fool?” Skorn-Vis spat at the younger man. “Morb-au-Morhg was standing right next to us! We would all be dead if we had got involved in the fighting. It was no longer Ringwall’s hunt we could have hidden in to accomplish our own goals. This was a different fight altogether. Even Galvan gave in in the end. If you cannot see that it was our duty to protect our people first and foremost, then you do not have what it takes to lead. The king will hear of this,” he echoed.
While the Sorcerers of the Fire Kingdom argued, the mages cautiously approached Nill.
Nill looked them over for a long time. Each lowered their eyes to the ground. First the four who had fought for Malachiris, then the five that had followed Nill and his friends from Earth. Galvan had taken his men with him.
“The walls of Ringwall are no more. Whether Ringwall will become no more than a memory is a question fate will answer in time. Not we, but fate. King Sergor-Don of the Fire Kingdom is the Changer Gwynmasidon, our magon, saw in his visions. ‘Ringwall will fall in fire and smoke.’ Those were his words. We could muster the magic of Ringwall and ride on Worldbrand, defeat it and overthrow him, and yet still things would not be the same. Such an attack would be senseless.
“‘Nothing will be as it was,’ as the prophecy says. If that is true, there will be no more five kingdoms, the Changer himself will become a victim of the event he set in motion. I will call upon you when the time comes. But the future is still as unclear as it was before Ringwall fell. It was, and still is, the High Council’s task to read the signs and ensure that Ringwall remains as it once was: great, strong and powerful. Whether that goal still exists, I cannot say. But it is my task to find out. Until then, go your own way and find a place in this world. You still have your magic. Use it wisely. And now go with my good wishes, all of you.”