by Awert, Wolf
Tiriwi was the only one who did not need to bother with any of this. She had been chosen, and it was she who traveled by order of her people, and with their wishes. When had anything like this happened before? Her luggage, consisting of a small knapsack and a broad shoulder bag, was carried for her by others. She did not need to partake in setting up camp, nor did she have to help with the cooking. Her company sought to outdo each other with new ways to help Tiriwi, and in the end she had nothing to do herself.
But as comfortable as the journey was physically, the heavy burden of responsibility weighed down on her. Since their departure from the small hamlet Grimala had been constantly offering advice on how to behave in Ringwall, what she should ask for, what she must observe and especially how important her task was for the village and her entire people. And every day Grimala came up with more. As if that were not enough, Tiriwi’s mothers also bombarded her with well-meaning words – although the things they said had more to do with the daily routine of an unknown area than with the Mages of Ringwall and the fate of Pentamuria.
And so the small group crawled on tightly winding paths and later on wide roads, strewn with sand or rough stones, on to Ringwall. They learned that wanderers who did not dodge the fast carriages with lordly coats-of-arms quickly enough made painful acquaintance with the iron-bound wheels, dancing whips or bouncing rocks. The Oas learned to leave the road once they heard the distant calls of the coachmen and the snapping of their whips.
Grimala’s old age demanded frequent pauses and her impatience grew each time. “We must hurry. Ringwall is further than I had thought.”
Tiriwi inhaled deeply and summoned up all her courage. “I think I can make this last part of the journey by myself. It’ll look no different to that which we have already passed.”
Her words were met with objection, but even Grimala had to accept that time grew short and that it was not a good idea to attract so much attention as a traveling party. And so they let Tiriwi go in the end, but not without repeating all they had said numerous times on the way here.
Tiriwi’s fear of the unknown had been driven away by Grimala’s extensive worry on the long road to Ringwall, which had surrounded her like chains, pulled ever tighter. She took her small knapsack and her shoulder bag, embraced Grimala and her mothers and went on her way. Her step was bouncy, her breath deep and even and she would have quite liked to sing out loud. But she contented herself with a small melody that she hummed to herself. Ringwall could not be much worse than traveling with Grimala and her mothers.
*
For Nill and Dakh-Ozz-Han one day passed like the last. The dawn had barely made out the outlines of the trees and bushes against the gray sky, yet Dakh and Nill were already packing up their camp. The nightly cold that gnawed at their joints when they did not manage to find a small forest or a thicket to sleep in was countered by the first movements of the day. In the mornings they always made good progress. The noon-rest was long and took quite a part of the afternoon as well. They caught up with the sleep denied them by the short, cold nights. For Dakh, as Nill now amicably called him, would always keep walking until the last light of day had expired.
Very slowly, the world around them grew darker. The grass lost its yellow color, the small copses became forests, and before long the slender trees became thicker and mightier. Dakh stopped.
“The first proper trees. Not all that large yet, but at least their trunks are straight,” he muttered off-handedly. Nill gulped. Apart from the Mylantos he had never seen trees this tall. He thought of a thousand ways in which all that wood could be used.
“Trees are always something of a wonder for Earthlanders,” Dakh said with a smile. “But if a Woodhold person came here, they would be astonished at the wide open plains before them. We should rest here.”
Nill was surprised, for the sun was still close to its zenith and they could have easily managed a good stretch before their usual resting time. Dakh’s urgency seemed to have fallen off somewhat. They kindled a fire and the druid filled his cauldron with water, herbs and bits of dried meat, as he always did. Nill had taken his amulet out from under his shirt and was examining it pensively. The druid turned his head respectfully away, as though he did not want to disturb the communion between Nill and his amulet. Every now and then his gaze would flicker back to the pot in which the water bubbled merrily.
“This wooden disk is supposed to come from my parents. At least that’s what Esara told me. Apparently I was wearing it around my neck when the Ramsmen found me. Do you think that my parents knew of magic, like you do?”
Dakh grumbled uncomfortably. “Possibly.”
“Would you like to take a look at the amulet?” Nill asked, holding the disk out for the druid.
“If you ask it of me, Nill, I will take a look. Be warned: do not hand out an amulet without thought. Nobody can know what additional powers it grants you. These small advantages are often what determine whether you stay alive… or not.”
“Please,” Nill said simply and gave Dakh the amulet.
The druid held it up gingerly. “The main body of this amulet is made from a rokkanut’s shell.” His voice sounded flat, objective, and he took great care not to emphasize any single word. “This nut is not very common in Pentamuria, because the only place it grows is in the high mountains of Metal World. The nut’s shell is so hard and thick that it is very difficult to break.”
“But how is the seed supposed to bud if the shell is so hard?” In Nill’s inner eye a small bud appeared, trapped in an eternal jail. He felt pity for the poor seed.
“In nature, everything finds a way. The rokkanut’s blessings are the drill wasps. They use their stingers to drill tiny holes into the shell and then they lay their eggs in it. The eggs hatch into larva, and these speak to the shell and persuade it to open up. Nevertheless, it is a tough job to carve anything out of the shell. Whoever crafted your amulet must have quite some experience.”
The druid turned the disk so that the light shone on the surface at an angle. “The symbols on the amulet look like writing, but it is writing unlike any I have ever seen; I cannot read it. It is bursting with magical energy, I can feel it, but I cannot see any more than that. Whatever its uses are, you will have to find out for yourself.”
Lost in thought, the druid held the wooden disk in his hands. “But that is not all. The band that holds it is made up of eight threads, woven in a complex pattern. Every thread is made up of three strands. I see black and white strands. Each thread is either black or white. Three threads have two white strands and a black one. It is all very peculiar. Each thread is either black or white.”
The druid scratched his chin. “There is some sort of symbolism hidden away in this order, and I cannot see it, for the number eight is meaningless in magic. The magic world keeps the pentagram of five elements as its base: Metal, Water, Wood, Fire and Earth. Five is a magical number, for the mages in Ringwall as well. The mages also count three sphere-magics apart from the elements: the magics of the Other World, of Space and of Thought. That would be eight in all. But I have also heard that as of late they practice the magic of Nothing. But I know nothing of that. That would be nine in all. No, no, eight threads on a magical object – the reasoning eludes me.”
“And the band itself? Is it also from Metal World?” Nill’s entire body was tingling with excitement and he had difficulty sitting still. Although he was getting more questions than answers, he felt that the secret of his own origins was not as murky as he had up until now thought.
The druid nodded thoughtfully. “I can tell you more about the material used in the band than the band itself, yes. It is made from spider silk. In fact, it is from the webs of the nightstalker and the royal weaver. Both of them weave gigantic webs that are large enough to capture wild animals. Nightstalkers and royal weavers live somewhere between Water and Metal. They can be found in swamps and mountains. Their webs stick to everything they touch, and I cannot help but wonder how the secretion was
removed from them. It takes a great deal of skill to craft usable strands out of those webs.” Dakh handed the amulet back to Nill. “Keep it well hidden. It is an extraordinary magical artifact. Until you find out how its magic works, do not show it to anyone.”
“But how am I to find that out if even you can’t?”
“You are the bearer of this amulet. It will speak to you someday.”
Nill asked the last question that burned inside him. “Do you think my parents were mages?”
The druid simply shrugged, and shortly afterwards his thoughts seemed somewhere else entirely.
After that night Nill’s sleep became so restless that even Dakh’s nightly rest was disturbed by it. Nill dreamed feverish dreams, the slivers of which he had already forgotten the next morning. Every morning it took longer for him to awaken properly. At first he thought it was the amulet or maybe the thoughts about his parents that robbed his sleep. But they were not thoughts that coursed through his mind; they were images and feelings, a chaos of soul and spirit.
Dakh began to worry about him, but he kept it concealed. “You are being tormented by either premonitions or memories,” the druid said. “But as long as you forget what you dreamed I cannot help you. Perhaps something in your past is causing these dreams, these memories.”
Nill told Dakh about the encounter with the demon. “That mess of dream and reality is the strongest memory I have. Esara told me something about a mid-realm, but I didn’t understand what she meant. It’s something between this world and the Other World.”
Dakh sighed. “We will take a small detour. I know someone who might be able to help you.”
They moved towards the morning sun. The loneliness of the landscape had passed. Again and again they came across single huts or small houses that Dakh evasively led them around. Before long the huts were replaced by large farm houses, and the very next day they saw their first village from afar. The villages now either stood visibly on the hilltops, from which one had a good vantage point to see the lands all around, or they hid near springs where the water flowed clear and fresh. Nill was looking forward to some human interaction and a soft, warm bed after days in the wilderness, but Dakh avoided the settlements, too.
“We need to go there,” Dakh-Ozz-Han said, pointing towards a dark spot in the middle of all the green. Nill squinted at it and could make out a few leather-bound poles offering some shelter from the weather in front of an earthen cave.
“Someone actually lives there?” Nill asked skeptically. He was used to Spartan conditions, but this was not even a tent, let alone a hut.
“He does not ask for much and lives alone. He has been there for many years.”
“Who?”
“His name is Urumir and he claims to be a shaman.”
“Is he?”
“You can be the judge of that.”
Nill’s curiosity was kindled. All he knew about shaman came from a few sentences Dakh had dropped on him during their journey. Nill had been satisfied with knowing that shaman knew magic and could travel from this world to the Other World. He quickened his pace instinctively and his heart beat noticeably faster in his chest.
Nill wondered what powers a shaman might have, and he felt strangely torn between his fear of an unknown might and the desire to bear witness to it.
They reached the strange home and Dakh sat down on a stone quite naturally. Nill looked around, somewhat helplessly, and sat down on the earth. After a few moments of silence he asked: “Will we wait long before the shaman comes? Is he here or are we waiting for him?”
“He is here. Can you not feel him? We are waiting for him, yes, but to welcome us.”
Nill let his senses wander around the place and his eyes came to rest on the leather straps holding the poles to the stone wall.
“Well, if it isn’t Dakh, the eternal estray.”
Dakh-Ozz-Han stood up, turned around and very carefully embraced the strange figure, whose clothing of fur and leather was barely visible under the mass of dancing feathers, bones, teeth and claws.
“You have a bothersome idea of eternity, little Urumir. But I am happy to see you. Alas, I cannot greet you properly for fear of breaking one of your sacred quills.”
“And I thought your care was for my old bones.” Urumir laughed. “Now you won’t believe me, but I don’t know to this day whether the trinkets I carry are actually magical, or if I’m still just covered in them because my master told me to all those years ago.”
“You’re right: I don’t believe you.” Now the druid was laughing too. “If you cannot see the value of an item, who can?”
Nill stood next to the two old friends and felt strangely excluded. “Little Urumir” was at least a head and a half taller than the druid and looked ancient compared to Dakh. Urumir’s face was a labyrinth of leathery wrinkles strapped carelessly over a skeletal skull. Despite his great height his body was bent almost double, and Urumir could not walk more than a few steps without the aid of his staff. He had to be incredibly old.
“But you are not alone, my old friend, how unusual.”
“We live in unusual times, little Urumir. The boy here next to me is named Nill and is going to Ringwall to learn the magics.”
The shaman gave Nill a searching look. “So, then, Nill. A strange name. Not a name to be forgotten quickly and not a name to be chosen easily. Perhaps the name chose the bearer for itself? You have a turbulent time coming your way.” The shaman gave a bleating laugh. “Well, whatever the circumstances of your name, be welcome in my home.” Urumir turned back to Dakh. “I saw you coming yesterday. The food is nearly done. Sit by the fire if you would.”
Nill did not understand and scratched his head. The sound of it disturbed the silent interludes between the men’s sentences. Nill felt slightly embarrassed, but the old men seemed to have a different sense of hearing to him.
Where had the shaman been if he had really seen them coming more than a day ago? Nill was certain that he had arrived after they had been here. He could not have been waiting in his cave. Nill sighed quietly. He doubted he would ever understand the ways of magic and its wielders.
Around the fire, which was situated on a flat piece of the hill, lay a few chopped-up tree trunks that served as benches quite well. The shaman gave each of them a wooden bowl full of thick, creamy soup. They ate in silence. Like all men of nature they were not of many words, and tasty food was always worth their full attention.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity to Nill, putting his patience to the test, Dakh laid down his bowl. “Warming and filling. We need the strength, because the near future will be rough.”
The shaman nodded in silent agreement. “The world is restless. Something is coming, and nobody knows what it is.”
“Which world do you mean, old friend?” Dakh asked the shaman.
He gave another short, bleating laugh. “Both, Great druid. Both.”
Nill felt a shiver run down his spine. That had not been a humorous laugh and the “Great druid” had not been a joke, either.
“Urumir, we have come to you because Nill has been dreaming unhealthy dreams. And also because something is happening around him that I cannot understand. Perhaps we will be lucky and you can see something in the past or the future.”
“Can shaman see the future?” Nill asked.
“Yes and no, my young friend. We belong to the riders of time. But we tend to get lost in it. We never know when and rarely where we are. It’s a pointless gift. Who could possibly want to know their future?”
“Me,” Nill burst out, and both men laughed. Nill frowned. He did not like being laughed at.
“Shaman visit the Other World, the world of shadows, of the dead, of spirits. They have access to a magic that has something to do with the very making of the world, something we druids know nothing of,” said Dakh. “I hope he can help us.”
Nill was only half listening. He was burning to know whether Urumir was really that much older than Dakh, or whether th
e magic of the shaman was so powerful that it took their vitality. He had just concluded that he never wanted to become a shaman when Urumir’s body suddenly became translucent. Nill could see inside him, where a strong heart was pushing the blood through the veins with a calm beat. The midriff, with all the organs and intestines Nill knew from freshly slaughtered rams, was surrounded by a golden aura and even the bony, leathery feet seemed somehow more dignified. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the vision passed.
“What was that?” Nill choked, appalled. Seeing inside other people’s bodies seemed even more shameful than witnessing someone relieving themselves. The vicious intimacy of the moment took Nill’s breath away, and he would have liked to cover his eyes.
“What did you see?” Urumir asked, and Dakh shot Nill a questioning glance.
Nill began to stutter under their powerful gaze, swallowed and steeled himself. “I saw inside of you,” Nill said, “but it was…”
“It would take the aid of a demon to look inside a shaman; magic alone won’t do the trick.”
Urumir sounded detached, rather as though he were pointing out that rocks were hard and feathers soft. But Nill flinched. The encounter with Bucyngaphos had shaken him too deeply for him not to shiver at the mere mention of a demon. He quietly said: “I fear demons more than anything,” and suddenly fell silent. The men looked at each other.
“So you’ve already met a demon,” Urumir stated. “Tell me what he looked like.”
“I even know his name,” Nill whispered. “Esara told me.”
But before Nill could speak the terrible name, the shaman leapt to his feet and stretched out his hand in a defensive gesture. His feathers wafted air in Nill’s face. “Is he with you?”
Nill stared blankly, not understanding. Then he looked up. At the perimeter of the fire’s light two large, slanted, bright yellow eyes blinked.