The Reign of Magic (Pentamura Book 1)

by Awert, Wolf

  The boys stared at the figure, which quickly disappeared in the third chamber, on the other side of the hall. They could hear the newcomer putting down their backpack and beginning to unpack.

  “Come,” Brolok said, “we’ll welcome him in the party hall.”

  “Party hall?”

  “Compared to our caves the main room is more or less a party hall, wouldn’t you say? At least we can all sit there.”

  The term “party hall” was to Nill’s liking, and now he could finally see Brolok a bit better. His first impression had not deceived him. No taller than he was, but packed with muscles and sporting curly black hair above two curious, lively eyes.

  The two boys exchanged glances and then turned their eyes to the third cave’s entrance. All they had so far gleaned was a tall, lean, silvery-gray figure with a very peculiar way of moving. Every step the newcomer took began with the feet, rippling wave-like through the legs over the back to the head. This was no walking and yet no striding, either; more the swaying of swamp-weeds in a summer breeze.

  Nill’s astonishment grew when the figure finally left the darkness of their small cave.

  “A girl,” he whispered in reverence, and these two words seemed to him an unfathomable wisdom, as though he had never seen a girl before.

  The girl in question was roughly a head taller than both boys and even more slender than Nill. She could have been described as skinny, but neither boy would ever have considered that. Her slim face was marked by prominent bones, her eyes large and seemed translucent, and her blond hair hung around her shoulders uncombed. And that silver sheen! Her cape reflected the light in the cave and transformed the golden candle glow into silver moonlight. It seemed light, as if the air itself held it up, yet was woven so densely that it covered every inch of her body. The hood had fallen back and the silvery light from the cape muted the girl’s hair color to the silvery-gray of a woman with many harvests of experience. Yet there was no doubt about it, this was a young girl, perhaps only a little older than both boys.

  “My name is Tiriwi,” she whispered. “I’m an Oa.”

  “I’m Brolok and this is… anvil, ax and hammer, you never got around to telling me your name.”

  “I’m Nill.”

  Brolok shook his head. “Nonsense. Nill isn’t a name, Nill is a swearword.”

  Nill stretched his back and drew himself up to the full height his small body allowed. “It may yet be a swearword, but a day will come when the name will mean something else.” His voice was solemn.

  “And what will it mean?” the Oa asked quietly.

  Nill started, confused as if he had awoken from a dream. He was not so sure himself of what his name meant. Not too long ago he would easily have answered “a great warrior,” but he was not certain of that either now.

  “We’ll see. My time in Ringwall will give me the answer.”

  Nill was not half as certain as he pretended.

  “You intend to give a name with no substance, with no content, a meaning? Names are a part of a human’s nature. If you go by the name Nill, you’re telling the world that you’re empty. Why would you want to be empty?” Tiriwi asked, and Nill began to feel rather less friendly towards her.

  “And a name like that is basically an invitation for others to beat you up.” Brolok seemed more concerned with the practical part of things.

  Nill stayed defiantly silent. At last he said: “I did not choose this name. It was given to me and I accepted it. My name is my task, my destiny. If it’s still empty, it needs to be filled. If it’s a swearword, I will change its meaning. If you don’t like it, don’t call me by name, but I won’t listen to another.” Nill recalled telling Esara something very similar, long ago.

  The Oa fell silent and closed her eyes. The boys looked at each other, bewildered. After a short while she opened them again and said: “I’ve never met anyone like you two.” She chuckled quietly. “Neither of you are complete. Nill holds a great chaos and you, Brolok, are missing something.”

  Nill frowned. “Why should you care where I keep my things? I’ve always found them again later.”

  “Not that kind of chaos. It’s difficult to explain.”

  Brolok had turned the color of heated steel. “There are famed warriors with only one arm. There are great healers with broken legs who have never walked in their lives. I know that I’m just a half-arcanist who can never speak with all elements the same. But it will never stop me from doing and becoming what I want to be.”

  The Oa flinched. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I did not mean to hurt you. I only said what I feel inside. But I have never met a half-arcanist before. They say you do not live for long.”

  “Or they go mad,” the two boys said in unison. They looked at each other when they realized and began to laugh.

  The Oa smiled, but her smile was short-lived and shy, and disappeared quickly.

  Brolok sat down on one of the halved tree trunks that served as benches. “If we’re to spend some time together down here, we should get to know each other better. Now seems as good a time as any to tell my own story.

  “I come from the lineage of Chron-Lai and my birth name is Kor-Ant. Everyone calls me Brolok. In our tongue it means something like ‘he who defeats the hot metal.’ My grandfather was a well-known sorcerer and warrior who owned rich and fertile property and answered only to the king. During the border war between the provinces of Leiador and Tiranmur the property was overrun by the enemy troops. My grandfather was able to flee with his family. As he was not prepared to join the winners as a simple warrior he could only choose banishment and exile. The king, as always, stood by the strong. My grandfather spent the rest of his life more or less unsuccessfully teaching armed and unarmed combat. His son – that is, my father – had learned from him what fame and honor meant in the end, and became a blacksmith. He is still the best weapon smith I’ve ever met, as he does not just forge, but also knows to wield his weapons like no other.”

  Brolok’s eyes shone. He was proud of his father.

  “His favorite weapon is a light mace or a double-bladed pick with a chain on the end connecting it to a sharp sickle. The mace can be swung like a sword and the sickle on the chain works like a knife or a morning star. However you like it. The only downside of this weapon is that you have to practice for a very long time.”

  He swallowed. “Well, maybe it’s not that important what weapon my father likes. He’s a blacksmith,” he muttered, trying to reconnect to where he had drifted off.

  “Oh yes. Then he found a woman from the common folk and married her, he didn’t care for a minute that any relations with non-arcanists are forbidden. He had broken away from his old life and trust me, had it been possible he’d have gotten rid of his magical powers too. But as you know, magic only leaves the body after the great farewell. So he had to live with it, and when his son was born – that’s me – he wasn’t free of magic either. He showed me how to handle it. He didn’t enjoy it, I can tell you. He barely ever uses his own these days.”

  “Can you teach me to fight?” Nill asked. He was not very interested in Brolok’s family chronicles. “I have a combat dagger, but apart from that only my staff.”

  Brolok nodded in appreciation. “Staff is good, dagger is bad.”

  Nill was outraged. His dagger was – apart from the amulet – his most precious possession. It had been forged in a special way, was nigh unbreakable and very sharp. And, Nill was certain, it must contain some magic. How could this boy compare a forged dagger to a stick every shepherd, wanderer or farmer carried? Nill made up his mind then and there not to show this Brolok fellow his dagger.

  Brolok had not noticed how much he had hurt Nill and kept talking.

  “Now a long dagger is alright, but you’ll need a round shield with it or you’ll die quickly in battle. But a staff is really good. If you sharpen it, you’ve already got a lance, and if you can master the lance normal sword fighters or riders will have no chance. It only gets difficult
if your enemy is wielding two short swords or long daggers, but only a few can do that well. Oh, and shield-bearers are also a tough enemy for a lancer.”

  “You talk as though you know all about weapons and that makes you unbeatable.” Nill was still angry about the slight to his dagger.

  Brolok burst out laughing. “Unbeatable? Ha, I wish. For that you’d need to practice all the time with your weapons, live with them. I’m no warrior, I’m a blacksmith. I practice every day, but with my hammer, not weapons.”

  “And how did you get here?” Tiriwi asked, quite uninterested in weapons. “Did your father bring you?”

  “No,” Brolok grinned provokingly. “I heard you can learn magic in Ringwall. Father told me that only arcanists from noble families get accepted, probably to get the idea out of my head. But then I heard some witch telling another Lost One that everyone can go to Ringwall, so I just ran away from home.”

  Tiriwi gasped audibly. It had taken the threat of force to make her come here, and this boy had simply run away from home! She could not understand how anyone could be so disconnected from their home to just leave.

  “And now you want to become a great mage?” Nill asked. His curiosity had extinguished his anger by now.

  “Can’t, not as a half-arcanist. I just don’t have enough magic in me. My magical pattern is incomplete, if you will. I want to become the greatest blacksmith in all of Pentamuria. I want to become a good enough sorcerer to forge magical weapons and tools.”

  “Tools?”

  “Yes, tools. No big difference really. Tools, weapons, it’s all the same.”

  Nil was not so sure of that, but before he could follow this thought he was distracted by Tiriwi speaking up again.

  “Your father told you the truth,” she was saying. “It’s the first time the mages have ever taken people from outside of nobility into Ringwall. The wise women say the mages are scared of the prophecy, and that the end of the world will come during their lifetimes. So they try to ally themselves with all magical groups.”

  Brolok pouted, making his expression rather disdainful. “If they knew who’s going to undo the Circle, all they have to do is to kill them beforehand.”

  The Oa hesitated. She had not thought of that. Brolok spoke so naturally about death and weapons and war. Life itself was sacred to the Oa. Taking it could only be considered once all other solutions had proven unsuccessful. For Brolok, it seemed one of the first. She could not imagine the mages thinking along the same lines.

  “Would the mages really kill anyone who endangers them?” she asked after a while.

  Brolok raised his eyebrows in mock astonishment. “Of course. The mages are all warriors and fighters, but they fight with magic rather than steel. You can bet on it, at the first sign of a new threat…” Brolok made the unambiguous gesture of slitting his own throat.

  Tiriwi was not convinced. The mages would not seek out the Oa as allies only to kill their envoys at the merest suspicion.

  “It’s probably not all that easy for the mages to find out what will cause the end. Our wise women don’t know, either. All they know are the old legends.”

  Nill looked up, amazed. “Is this about the song of Shubalo the Seer?” he asked.

  “I haven’t heard of that song.” Tiriwi looked questioningly at Brolok, who shook his head.

  “I’ve never heard of a prophecy or of this Shubalo fellow.”

  Tiriwi bit her lip. “I may have said things best left unsaid, but what’s been told or thought can’t be taken back. I can tell you what I know, which isn’t much. There is an old prophecy, shattered into so many splinters and shards that nobody knows its content any longer. But it seems as though ancient memories have crept into the people’s dreams and new visions have been seen. Suddenly everyone is trying to find this old prophecy of change, but each group tells a different tale.

  “Our wise women believe that the mages are finally reaping what they have sown. They say the mages use magic too carelessly, and in the end their magic will betray them. The Circle will fall, and with it the order of the world. The Circle can fall, that isn’t the problem, but a world without order would be unimaginable.”

  Nill inhaled sharply. Dakh-Ozz-Han’s stories seemed more than just stories now. It seemed as though many clever people were very worried. But all this was so far away from his own life. He could not quite bond with his new companions. They were so very different. Brolok, too, looked at a loss. The future would show what was in store for them.

  “Where does the corridor between our caves actually lead?” Nill took it upon himself to steer the conversation back to a practical level.

  Tiriwi glanced at Brolok again.

  “It goes into the mountain, but only a few steps. You won’t get far. There is a heavy, locked gate in the way. No passage. Wouldn’t be surprised if that’s magic as well. We could go have a look tomorrow; I’ve had enough for today. I’m off to bed.”

  Without another word he rose up and disappeared into his cave. Tiriwi nodded at Nill once more and seemed in quite a rush to get to her cave as well. Nill stared after them for a long while before going to his chamber.

  The night passed swiftly. The new surroundings with their strange smells and unknown sounds kept sleep at bay for a while. But the day had been long, and soon the Hermits’ Caves was filled with deep, steady breathing.

  When morning came the three students were awakened by a general sense of disquiet. They could not tell where this feeling of restlessness came from, but they all knew that now was the time to get up.

  “We have a watcher,” Tiriwi said with a cautious smile as Nill looked around questioningly. Nill was, much like Tiriwi, used to living with the sun, and understood the necessity of such a watcher. It was dark in the caves and no natural sign could tell them whether it was day or night outside. Brolok, however, was cursing under his breath. After a quick breakfast consisting of hard bread, bland soup and cold, tough meat the three followed their guide who was waiting just outside their cave.

  “Where are we headed?” Nill asked the silent young man in the brown cloak. The young man looked at Nill with furrowed brows, muttered barely audibly “reception” and set off immediately. The group passed the entrance hall, crossed the kitchen wing and the great feast-hall, reached the Metal quarters and continued through them in the direction of Water.

  The Ceremonial Hall, where the reception was to take place, apparently lay at the opposite side of the city. The trip seemed endless to Nill. Only Brolok managed to maintain some kind of orientation of the place throughout the constant ups and downs of the stairs that connected the floors. Sometimes they would descend down to the vaults, where Ringwall’s foundations seemed to press down upon them from all sides, at other times they reached the wall’s crown. Before they could enjoy the view of the land their guide was already pushing them onwards. To Nill it seemed as though the builders of Ringwall had simply put down rooms wherever they had been needed, without the slightest thought of how to get there. Brolok had noticed this too, and he now asked their guide why there was such a mess of corridors and stairs.

  Again the young man’s answer took its time to form, as though the guide had to steel himself to talk to them. “The wise know many ways. The unwise moan of the weight of discomfort.”

  Brolok did not see much of an answer in this, but he had certainly detected the reprimanding tone.

  Nill whispered: “What does he mean by that?”

  “Don’t know. There’s probably shortcuts and the like but he thinks we’re too dumb to use them,” Brolok growled.

  Nill, who had grown up with earth but few stones in his homeland, was deeply impressed by the might and strength of the colossal rocks that made up the floors, walls and ceilings of the halls he passed. His bare feet caressed the stones with every step. On every floor the stones gave a different echo. The difference was most pronounced on the lower floors. These were made of large blocks that had been sunk deep into the earth. They were rectangula
r with rounded edges, one arm’s length by one cubit, or one step by one leap in size. All of these stones were irregular, and smaller rocks were used to fill in the gaps. But even these dwarves among giants measured at least one hand on the short side.

  Nill could have conversed with these stones forever had he not felt progressively more uneasy the further they went. The walls had become sated with the magic of Ringwall. Now this magic seemed to crash down on him, entering his body and doing all sorts of things with it. He did not know how to stop this and wondered whether the others felt it too. He started to become nervous and the pressure on his head started to form points that penetrated deeper and deeper, sending painful blows down his spine. The magic seemed to come from all around him, even from small decorations on tables that stood in the alcoves. It tasted metallic and sharp, irritating his skin and making his hair stand on end. Nill gasped for breath.

  With as much power as he could he tried to summon a shield wall around him, but he had neither the strength nor the knowledge for it. His legs began to tremble and he stumbled. His right shoulder twisted into a knot, pain searing down his arm from it, and his back tautened in agony. “How can the others even bear this?” he wondered.

  He balled his hands into fists and bit his knuckles. His pathetic shield was close to collapsing. His thoughts were racing and swirling in circles.

  What do you do when you can’t hold the pressure anymore? Run away? But there was nowhere to run.

  Dodge it!

  But this too took space, and the magic was coming at him from all sides. Exhausted, he stopped walking and felt his shield give way under the enormous pressure. Where it was stronger it shattered, the weaker parts simply dissolved, and there was nothing left to hold back the energy now surging into him. The metallic taste disappeared. The feeling bearing down upon Nill was now more akin to sunlight than the crushing weight of dark stones. Nill looked around in amazement. The magical force streamed straight through his body as though he were not there. The shaking stopped, his muscles relaxed and the pain in his head vanished through the top of his skull. Their guard had stopped and turned around.