The Reign of Magic (Pentamura Book 1)

by Awert, Wolf

  “Metal and Fire.” Eight heads nodded in assent.

  “I saw the mist swallowed by a giant vortex, stretching out and growing into towers in the clouds. Water fell from the clouds as though the sea was in the sky, and the sky on the ground. The Water extinguished the Fire and cooled the hot ash. The Water evaporated from the lightning that struck it. It was a titanic battle. The elements fought among themselves.

  “A warrior rose from the chaos on the battlefield and left the scene. The mist followed him, trying to catch up. With damp, gray arms it enveloped the figure, became part of his clothing and veiled his face. The mist was so dense that even the clear gaze of the future could not penetrate it, and the warrior was so formidable that the mist could not hold him. The Changer has left his den and is coming for us. He brings with him the mist, as though to cloak his origins, and the sounds of battle follow his footsteps. The great shift has begun.”

  The archmages sat still as they stared at the Onyx in horror. The Nothingness had retreated from the Magon and was now reaching for the elemental archmages with colorless fingers. In front of Nosterlohe the Onyx burned red, before Queshalla it was deep blue, and the other archmages saw their own elemental colors. But separating them all was the Nothing; fathomless abysses kept them apart. Was the stone mirroring their fears, or was this the future coming for them with bleak hands of destruction? Keij-Joss had left the cosmos, Ambrosimas’ smile had evaporated, and even Mah Bu’s sharp outline showed that he was fully here. But as quickly as the Nothing had spread it retreated again, and a deceptive calm came over the stone oval.

  Bar Helis’ cold voice rang out through the leaden silence. “It looks like the Changer cares not for our traps or finely woven webs. I for one embrace this. All this back and forth is at an end. The Changer is within our walls. The war has begun.”

  A blackish-blue tint spread out from where he sat, not only veiling the rust-red holes in the brown underground before Gnarlhand, but also defiantly pushing back the colorless circle that lay by the throne of Nothingness, giving it the appearance of a crescent moon. Nosterlohe sent a wild, red flickering Bar Helis’ way. He agreed that the time to act was now.

  “Inactivity is no longer an option, and much can be said for Bar Helis’ suggestion.” Ilfhorn’s great green eyes narrowed as he searched his thoughts. “But no mention has been made of what we have to do. The visions of the warrior from the mists are of the present; but what of the future? Our Magon has spent no words on telling us what he has seen of our future.”

  “For Ringwall there is no future,” the Magon said.

  Mah Bu opened his tired eyes and asked: “Have you considered that perhaps fate does not want us to know? I am no friend of the hasty manner the elemental archmages demonstrate. But I see no sense in waiting for something when we do not know what we are looking for. If we are to fight the Changer, regardless of who he may be, then the story will change and follow the steady, ever-changing will of fate. We will be the ones to win something decisive in this battle.”

  Some of the archmages looked questioningly at him, for the Archmage of the Other World was not always easy to understand.

  Mah Bu furrowed his usually smooth brow.

  “Is it not obvious? We shall win time, and time is our weapon. If we engage fate and destroy its manifestations the tale will keep going with time, and it will change. The magical moment in the flow of time will pass, and so it will be fate, not us, that misses it; it will have to adapt and find a new path. These moments in which all powers are focused on a single point happen all too rarely in the flow of time. The deep, calm water will follow the rapids, the silence follows the storm; the morning after the battle is full of exhaustion and lament. The world may snarl, but it cannot forget to breathe.”

  “So who are we fighting?” Gnarlhand asked. His thoughts were, as always, slow, simple and to the point.

  “The students that have joined Ringwall. We will let them disappear. All it takes is one, let us say, magical accident. The Magon, in his wisdom, will be able to tell us whether his visions have changed.”

  At this, the archmages’ voices became akin to a hurricane, with the Onyx as its calm eye.

  “We will not wipe out a full year of our nobility, Bar Helis,” the Magon said, and that settled the matter.

  “And who’s this supposed manifestation of fate?” Ambrosimas’ voice was heavy with derision.

  “Any of the students might be, but I think only three are likely. This boy Brolok…” Contempt lined Mah Bu’s face. “The Oa and Nill, that pathetic creature, trying to conceal everything under a cheap banner of weakness. That leaves the choice quite simple.”

  “Brolok is a warrior,” Ambrosimas interjected.

  “A quarter of one!” Bar Helis mocked.

  “The Oa is a strong one,” Queshalla said. “That Tiriwi girl is a special Oa. We may learn much from her yet that will enable us to better understand the Oas. We knew she would be different to the other students before we took her. I would not wish for enmity between us and the Oas. Not now and certainly not here.”

  “The world will change when the mystical birds Roc and Phoenix unite upon the dragon’s command. The stars have begun to wander.”

  Whenever Keij-Joss spoke everyone listened, although it was usually difficult to understand him. Did he mean the celestial signs or the actual living beasts in Pentamuria? The Roc, this much was certain, existed; the Phoenix was popularly believed to exist although nobody had ever seen one. But dragons were creatures of the past. Who knew what happened in the Borderlands around Pentamuria? Nobody had ever returned from there.

  “So that leaves this boy… Nill,” Bar Helis continued, as though Keij-Joss had not spoken. “We will win this war with deeds, not words. If he is a barrel of mysteries we should not waste time deciphering all of them. We shall break the barrel, and then the mysteries are gone too.”

  “If it’s more than words you want, brother, and if the words of Keij-Joss aren’t enough to tell you that the signs are changing, how about you use those eyes of yours? You would see that stool over there, with its three legs, the only adornment being the quite plain grain of the wood. Kibracco wood, hard, grown to last.” Ambrosimas’ eyes were trained on the stool. Without looking at Bar Helis, to whom he had directed his words, he continued. “I’ve always wondered, why three legs? Why not five, as the elements would demand? Above all, I wonder why it scares me every time I look at it.”

  “Because you love snakes and are scared of anything with legs. Three or five, what is the difference? There might be claws on the end!” Bar Helis mocked.

  A crackling warning shot through the Onyx, but Ambrosimas just gave a silly giggle. “Tut, tut, my good man. I’m as scared of wooden legs as you are, the claws are naught but splices. I’m afraid of what the thing stands for. I’m full of trepidation at this new magic that’s just there – it does nothing! So we called it the magic of Nothing. I’d be happier if it just kept on doing what it’s best at – nothing – but what if it’s waiting to pounce? What is it waiting for, Bar Helis? Who brought it to Ringwall? Was it you, brother?”

  The Magon raised a hand in warning, but it was too late. The Onyx was in uproar. Pale lights sprung forth, rebounded off the edges, scattered in a shower of crackling sparks or died, whispering, near the Nothing. Bar Helis leapt up from his seat and pale blue bolts of lightning raced along the yellow grain of the stone, giving them a poisonous green tint akin to copper flames. The Onyx could not be fooled.

  “I fear neither the unknown nor your poisoned arrows, Ambrosimas,” Bar Helis called out. “They bounce off me like hail off the walls of Ringwall. If you have anything better to offer, do so now, before I am forced to repeat my suggestion to get rid of this boy Nill, who I consider a probable manifestation of fate.”

  Mah Bu nodded imperceptibly.

  “My apologies for the hasty words,” Ambrosimas purred. “Let us do all that we can, but I implore you all not to act rashly. Should Nill be more than
a mouse lost in a wolf-trap, then we should keep an eye on him. We don’t know fate’s plans for him just yet. If he is the Changer, then he has some growth before him; we can still strike before he becomes too powerful.”

  “You have a point, brother of doubt and hesitation,” Bar Helis answered. “It is also possible that he is the pathfinder. The eyes and ears of something more powerful than he, that follows him. Let us not pretend that we do not send out our scouts before acting. Scouts are clever, but never strong.”

  “But the enemy can still learn who sent the scout by watching carefully. If he is recognized, that is. This Nill is right in front of us: we should study him,” Ambrosimas suggested.

  This was all too complicated for Mah Bu. “We should just test him,” he opined. “Should he fail, then he is Ambrosimas’ mouse. If he survives, fate is on his side for now, and we should keep watching and keep testing him.”

  Mah Bu’s suggestion sounded decent, and so the archmages agreed.

  *

  Nill suspected nothing of the dark clouds gathering over his head. He was surprised to find fresh water and enough food for the day the next morning. At first he had sniffed the water before taking a sip; he would have preferred banis, though it could be headache-inducing if not diluted. In Earthland he had only drunk water in absolute emergencies. Those who could not drink banis had hot broth or tea. Children were given milk, sometimes sweet but mostly sour. Nobody drank water because they knew that water could make them sick. The mages seemed not to know this, or they had special water.

  He packed a portion of his food into a small pouch in the event that he would not be back before the evening. He laid the rest out on a flat board and took it out into the hall where Tiriwi and Brolok were waiting for him. They had little to say this morning, and all three were in the grasp of that strange mixture of fear and hope that accompanies every step into a new, unknown future.

  After a quick breakfast they made their way out. They did not know exactly where they were going, but they could hardly presume that there was a better place for the Fire Mages than the home of the sun. And so it was. As they stood around rather indecisively, wondering where they should find their teacher, a slender man in a gray robe came towards them. His bow was more of a nod, but his smile was friendly. “My name is Gweddon. I will be your teacher for today. Every person’s education here in Ringwall begins with a visit to the Sanctuary of the Circle. As not all of the students can be there at the same time and we have far more than just you three, that will have to wait for a bit. We shall go to the battlefield first.”

  “The other students are going to the Sanctuary before we do?” Nill began to understand some of the rules in this city.

  “Yes,” Gweddon answered. “If a place doesn’t have enough room for two groups, one of them will have to do something else in the meantime. Is there anything strange about that?”

  Nill held his tongue. Tiriwi’s face was impassive and Brolok commented: “Nothing at all.”

  The battlefield was the part of Knor-il-Ank that was enclosed in Ringwall’s inner wall. It was accessible from any quarter of the city and was connected to every major place by portals. The battlefield itself was little more than a large, green, sloping plain that became barer the closer to the top of the hill it got. But the green was not healthy. The overgrowth was torn and shredded as though fierce fires had raged there.

  “The battlefield is where the trials are held for those who wish to ascend to mages and gain eternal living rights in Ringwall. This guarantees that only the best arcanists stay in Ringwall.”

  “And you succeeded in your trial?” Nill asked. His voice shook with admiration.

  “I got lucky. There are only ever as many spots for the mages as the archmages are willing to offer. When I was a sorcerer and I stepped onto the field there were few other applicants. I had an easy time of becoming a mage. But it can go very differently.”

  “But you must be proud of your success.” Tiriwi’s voice was innocent, but her expression could mean nothing good. The mage looked at Tiriwi and seemed not to know what to make of this comment. “Do you not feel it? The place is ill and the floor is covered in scars! Every trial releases so much magical energy that nature takes days to recover. Even the sky changes. Do not deny it, I saw it when I arrived. One day, nature will resist – and will strike back.”

  Gweddon took Tiriwi’s onslaught like it was water and he was coated in beeswax. “Where did you get that idea? Magical energies bundle and scatter again. Nature and life are nothing but spontaneous clusters of magic that has taken form temporarily and falls apart sometime. That holds true for the magic I know, at least. If magic were to disturb the natural order of things we would have long since noticed.” He added in a reconciliatory tone: “I know the Oas have a different perception of the world to us.”

  “I’m certainly not going to take part in any trials!” Tiriwi hissed. She seemed very upset.

  “Nobody is expected to. Neophytes that have completed their education have the right to attend, but nobody has ever made use of that right. They rarely return to Ringwall with less than five winters of practical experience. But make no mistake: you will learn more than just illusions, healing spells and connections to Beyond. The core of any magic is offensive and defensive spells, for evil lurks everywhere, and every sorcerer is also a warrior. There is peace in Ringwall because Ringwall is strong, and it is a place of learning.”

  Tiriwi would not give up so easily. “Who says sorcerers must be warriors? There are no Oa warriors. Magic serves to maintain the divine order, and it serves the people, but it should never serve battle.” She was properly angry now, and her eyes flashed.

  The White Mage gave Tiriwi a long look. Nill could tell he was struggling to find the right words.

  “If you wish to change the world, Tiriwi, do so. But if you can’t change it there is no point in filling yourself with rage. The schooling of Ringwall helps sorcerers survive. If you don’t want the lessons, you do not need to take them. But that makes me wonder why you even came here. Nobody is stopping you from going away, and nobody will be angry with you if you do.”

  But Tiriwi could not go, and she knew it. She had wanted to be inconspicuous, and here she stood, arguing with a mage. Great job, she thought. But she could not distance herself from it, and that angered her more than anything else.

  Gweddon appeared to feel this, and he said: “Get to know Ringwall better. It is a place of studying, and the mages have no calling beyond learning and understanding magic. I believe that the Mages and the Oas want the same thing, it’s just that we take a different approach. But enough of that. Let us go.”

  Nill did not quite understand the discussion between the mage and Tiriwi. But more and more he began to let go of his goal to become a great warrior. Magic offered so much more…

  “You coming, then?”

  Nill jerked out of his thoughts. Gweddon and Tiriwi were no longer arguing, and the small group was moving again.

  “I don’t believe a word he says,” Tiriwi hissed. “Peace smells different.” She raised her head and sniffed. “Do you smell it?”

  “The Sanctuary is this way,” Gweddon said and stepped right through a wall. To Nill this wall looked like any of the others around it. He plucked up his courage and stepped through it and felt neither resistance nor magic. He was in an alcove, and passed through a corridor to a slim gate that led into a courtyard. The wall was thicker in this part of the city, but not as tall as elsewhere. This left the courtyard open to sunlight for most of the day.

  Nill was the last of the group to step out onto the expanse. He had been held back by awe and expectation of a storm of magical energy. But, standing there next to Brolok and Tiriwi, Nill had the impression that magic was specifically avoiding the place. It took him some time to understand that a place where magic is content in its purest form appears tranquil and unimposing.

  After a while he began to notice the beauty of the place. To the right stood a
column of black basalt as tall as a man. The dull, rough surface was soothing and yet threatening. To his left, further back, a mighty dark crystal had dug into the ground. At first glance it looked somewhat like a closed flower bud, its countless facets sparkling in the sunlight. It was not an even block. It was made up of multiple collections of crystals, which in turn consisted of even more, smaller crystals. Every small tower and rampart was black, but as the sun hit it rusty red spots appeared, and some of the tips shimmered in a dark green. Nill could hardly take his eyes off the crystal. The dark colossus looked as though it were older than Pentamuria itself, older even than the very world. Strong and stocky, compact and dense, it sat there with its roots in the ground, half-hidden like an old, venomous dwarf. Yet it was brought to life by the light that broke inside it, a presence missing from the basalt column. Earth in, Metal out, Nill thought. He felt the difference between the two elements more markedly than ever.

  Behind the pillar a torch burned brightly, carefully fitted into an ornate gold holder, and behind the crystal there was a pool with a fountain. The falling, glistening drops of water competed with the small crystals for beauty when shone upon by the sun. The crystals seemed dusky and the water seemed to fly. While the crystals carried an eternity with them the droplets were mere passing children of the moment. The colors did not care. Nill closed his eyes and listened. The column, the crystal and the torch were silent, but the fountain sang. There were white, elongated, rounded stones laid around the pool; they were of a brightness that Nill had never known from nature. The ones that faced the Metal were a blinding white, those that faced the Fire had a slight green tint to them, for there stood a small tree between the fountain and the torch. It carried few leaves, and its branches were easy to make out for it. They bent in strange directions on the way upward, crossing each other and blocking other branches, but all of their tips found the way to the sky.