by Awert, Wolf
Nill flinched at the word demon.
Brolok looked at Tiriwi and gave her a calming stroke across her shoulder. Tiriwi twisted out from under his hand instantly. She did not like contact, much less from these boys she barely knew.
“Tiriwi, you’ll have to make a decision. Either you’re for us or for the nobles. Friend or foe. I think you have to declare yourself.”
It always seemed so simple for Brolok, but Tiriwi had had enough and burst out, “How do you get the idea that I could be your friend? We live under the earth, far away from the sun and all plants. We’re not noble. The only damn thing connecting us is that we can’t see the sun and we’re not noble!”
She turned on her heel and ran back to her cave. Nill and Brolok followed her wordlessly, confused and out of ideas. After a long time Brolok said, more to break the silence than to actually say something: “What now? It’s just past noon, we should do something.”
“I don’t care what you two do. I have to get out of here, out of these walls, they make me sick. I’m off to sit in the grass and play my drum. Ringwall is a terrible place,” Tiriwi said, and Nill heard the desperation in her voice.
Brolok shrugged. “It’s not too bad, for me at least. It’s warm and we’ve got food. What gets me on edge is all this standing around and talking. I’m off to the battlefield with a few of my weapons.”
“You brought your weapons to Ringwall?” Nill asked curiously.
“Nah, not all of them. Brought my staff, a shortsword and the sickle-chain.”
Nill nodded. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. It wouldn’t hurt to know the place better. I suppose I’ll walk around the place a bit. I’ve had enough magic for one day.” Nill waved at the other two and went on his way.
A thousand emotions rushed through Tiriwi. Ringwall was enemy territory, dangerous and, to her mind, baleful. Everything she believed in was worth nothing in Ringwall. All the things she feared were part of daily life here. And the wise women expected her, of all people, to bridge the gap between the differing worlds of the Mages and the Oas, to help their peoples stay afloat in a new time. As if that was not enough, there was war between the nobles and her and the two naïve boys.
Tiriwi sighed. “If only there were another girl here in Ringwall I could speak to.” She was missing a confidant, someone she could talk to about the important details that made up life. She did not even have to try with these boys. One of them wanted to be a great blacksmith, the other a great mage. As long as it was great – as if it were important in life to become anything great.
Tiriwi held her drum under her arm and went to the entrance with cautious steps. The closer she came to the stairs, the faster her steps became, until she ran out through the gate like a spring storm, out into the air and the wind, with fresh green grass beneath her feet. She did not care whether the students were permitted to leave Ringwall. The sun stood high between Fire and Earth. Tiriwi faced to the right to have the sun at her back and looked for a small forest somewhere on the smooth slopes of Knor-il-Ank. But there was not even a clump of bushes anywhere. There were a few thorny growths, but the wood had long since been felled, the slopes turned into meadows. Right in front of her was one of the culprits behind the lack of green. A single ram stood there, chewing contentedly. “Have you lost your herd?” she asked blithely. The ram looked up at her and then turned back to its meal.
In one of the ridges carved into Knor-il-Ank’s sides by the water the ground was bare and full of stones. Not enough earth for grass, but just enough for a few thorny hedges. They stood there, resolute and thin, keeping together out of defensive necessity. Tiriwi thought of the skinny ram she had just seen. He had been just as resolute, with not an ounce too much meat on his bones. The hedges were not very inviting, but they gave a little shade which Tiriwi accepted thankfully. She sat down and laid her drum before her. She began to beat a quick, irregular rhythm that best described her mood at that moment, and then slowly calmed the tempo. Her breath went deeper and her muscles relaxed. She had not noticed how tense she had become, how hard her entire body had been. Tiriwi could not even hear her own heartbeat or the blood flowing through her veins, so tightly bunched up she had been. But now, as life returned to her body, she felt the magic inside her again, and she felt much better. Perhaps it would be a good day after all.
Nill had learned that, in nature, wherever you are, there ought not to be any unknown places. No shepherd would let his herd graze where he had not investigated the surrounding area. So far all he knew of Ringwall were the caves and a few corridors that he had walked through with the others, and even these were blurred in his memory. He remembered the incredibly strong magical powers that emanated from the stones rather than the paths themselves. It was high time to change all that.
He left the caves and turned right, where, according to Brolok, the other students lived. He stayed on the lower floor, hoping to avoid any possible encounters. The main corridor led in the direction of the Metal Mages’ lodgings. The closer he got to their quarters the more intense the bitter taste of Metal’s energy grew in his mouth. It was everywhere in the air, at some spots a barely noticeable undertone, elsewhere so strong and obtrusive that Nill wondered if anyone ever managed to eat anything here. Metal was an element that was most comfortable on the main stage. Nill let his hands glide over the roughly-hewn blocks that gave the walls their power. He enjoyed the slight scratching of his skin against the stone, interrupted by the short leap of a gap between two blocks, then back to the stone again. Nill stopped walking and turned around. The monotonous rhythm of stone and gap had changed. His hand was leaping across the stones; there were so many gaps in the walls. The corridor had risen slightly and Nill noticed that the rough blocks only reached halfway up the walls. Here, where the corridor was higher, the stones were much smaller and more finely crafted. They looked like the stones atop the wall. The lowest part of Ringwall consisted of blocks that must have been placed by giants, the upper part was man’s work. Nill shrugged. He was not sure what to make of this.
The corridor Nill was walking along opened into a gigantic hall. Long tables with wooden benches offered room for several hundred people. At the moment, most of the tables were empty. Here and there a group of white mages sat together. Nill could make out a few nobles that he had not seen before. Probably a few years older, he thought. He had no intention of clashing with these stuck-up folks again and sidled into a neighboring room. The tables here were smaller and stood wherever there was no path to another room, some even up against the walls. There were no chairs or benches here. Judging by the number of paths through the room there had to be many chambers adjacent to this one. Nill chose one at random and ran into a huge figure.
“What are you doing here, lad?” a mighty bass rumbled. “On your way, don’t run around between my legs.”
Nill looked up and saw a crass hulk of a man with a bald head and hands like enormous bowls.
“I don’t know how I got here, either. I’m looking for something to eat,” Nill said, quick-witted.
“You’re looking for food?” The giant roared with laughter. “Nobody here in Ringwall looks for food. There’s more here than anyone could eat. Food is everywhere, and I take care that it never runs out. What sort of a fellow are you to not know that?”
“I’m here to become a great mage,” Nill replied, as artlessly as if he were discussing the weather.
The giant’s laughter swelled again. “Not a bit steep, milord? I suppose a warlock’s not enough, and a sorcerer, phooey, beneath your lordship, right?”
“I am not a lord, and I don’t know the difference between warlocks, mages and sorcerers,” Nill said humbly.
The giant squinted at Nill, scrutinizing him. “No, you’re not a lord. You’re one of those from the Hermits’ Caves, right? I’ve heard of you. Nobody wants you in their business. No noble blood in your veins, right, and half mucklings but not quite, eh? Just enough magic for the archmages to invite you here, right? St
range times indeed, hrm.”
The giant pushed Nill into a new room. The push was so hard that Nill had to catch himself from falling.
“There’s soup, there’s some meat. The bread’s over there, fresh out of the oven, and the greens are on the slats. Gotta get air on it or it goes all black. There’s honey in the pots over in the corner. My name is Growarth, Ringwall’s chef and also Ringwall’s chief warlock.”
Nill stared in amazed awe. He had never seen anyone claim to be the greatest of their kind before.
Growarth laughed his booming laugh again and clapped Nill on the shoulder. “I’m the only warlock here in Ringwall.”
Nill made a disgruntled face, causing the giant to break out in laughter again. “Don’t like being on the receiving end of a joke, right? Guess you don’t joke much either?”
At this, Nill had to grin. He reached for the bread, tore off a piece of the golden-brown crust, dipped it into a small honeypot and chewed. He had rarely eaten so well. Only once, actually: with Dakh, in the shade of a tree.
“There wasn’t much joking going on where I come from, and the only end I know is the receiving one. I’ve little experience in such things.”
Growarth shook his head in pity and looked as though he was about to say something, but he did not.
“Do you cook with magic and cast spells on the bread or why does it taste so good?” The words were rather stifled by the presence of the delicious food in his mouth, but Nill could not hold back the question.
“Every good meal is made with magic. Else everyone could cook.” Growarth chuckled. “My hexing has nothing to do with cooking though. Warlocks have less to do with the elements, and they prefer to use their spells to influence people or other creatures. Warlocks can hex objects, but as long as nobody uses them the magic is inert.”
“You could hex a spoon to tell you when you’ve stirred enough.”
Growarth laughed again and laid his hand on Nill’s shoulder. It felt like carrying a sack full of sand.
“More or less. Hang on, let me show you how we cook. Come with me.”
Growarth herded Nill, who was still chewing, into a new room, this one larger and full of excited voices. Men and women in simple linen clothing or badly sewn leather frocks carried baskets full of plants, sacks and slain animals into the room, threw them on the tables and disappeared to fetch new baskets.
“These aren’t mages – or nobles, either,” Nill stated.
“Why would you think Ringwall is full of nobles? In every city, and Ringwall’s no exception, there need to be cooks and cleaners, helpers and repairers. The mages would have their hands full with that. So there’s the mucklings instead.”
The way Growarth said “mucklings” did not sound malicious or derisive, as Nill noticed.
“Do you mean soks?” Nill inquired.
Growarth furrowed his brow. “Not a word you should use, lad. ‘Mucklings’ you can use because the mucklings work in and with all the muck, but nobody should use the word soks, least of all you.”
Nill was unsettled and said nothing. He made a mental note to ask Brolok what soks actually meant.
“The archmages rule Pentamuria. They take care of the way of the world. The white mages try to understand the world. The noble mages make sure the archmages’ will is done, and the mucklings make sure that everyone is fed, clothed and equipped. Some more, some less. Everyone has their use, and everyone has their place in the world.” Growarth explained this with his loud voice, but not a single head turned their way. The people here were probably used to his voice by now.
Yet there it was again, this talk about having a place and the unchangeable order of the world. Nill hated this order. He had experienced it in his village, but he had never been part of it. Everyone had a place, but he did not. He was not even a proper muckling; neither did he want to be. There must be another way than having a place and an order, he thought.
Growarth left no room for him to keep thinking. “The mucklings do the cooking here, I mostly just supervise them. I help them sometimes, like right now. There’s so many plants here that need to be cleaned and prepared right now. Watch this.”
Growarth raised his hands and the green contents of one basket flew into the air; a fine brown dust fell down and the plants landed in another basket.
“A pretty trick, right?”
“What did you just do?” Nill asked curiously.
“Lifted the plants, got rid of the earth sticking to it and put them in the next basket. It’s quicker when I do it than when I let the mucklings clean all the plants. And it’s more thorough, too.”
“But how did you do it?” Nill kept at it.
“Easy. Look at the plants, tell yourself ‘air heavy, plant light’ and the plants will rise. Then I take the Wood and Earthen energies and separate them. That’s all there is to it.”
Nill looked at the next basket and said loudly and clearly: “Air heavy, plant light.”
Nothing happened, and Growarth’s booming laugh rang out again. It was slightly subdued this time.
“It’s not the words of a spell that make it work. The words make your intent more… visible, if you will. It’s your magical power that’s lifting the plants, not the words. Feel the air and make it heavy, feel the plant and make it light. Say the spell and send the magic towards the air and the plants. After a while you can skip the words entirely.”
Nill tried again. A few plants twitched.
Growarth clapped Nill on the back again. “See, it works. You’re nearly a great mage now, the rest is practice. Now get going and make those plants fly.” Growarth laughed again. “Come by anytime if you’re hungry.”
Nill did not take the joke about being a great mage to heart. He felt too good at that moment. Growarth’s loud laugh had improved his mood dramatically, the taste of bread and honey was still thick on his tongue and he had learned his first spell. He had only managed a twitch, but this did nothing to dim the bright glow of his pride, for he had made the first steps. Nill waved goodbye to Growarth and was about to leave the kitchen, but then stopped and asked: “Can you tell me if there’s any place in Ringwall where I can get something to draw?”
“To draw?” Growarth asked in disbelief.
“Yes. Parchment, quills, brushes, ink, colors. The things you need to paint a picture.”
Growarth thought for a moment, as the high art of writing and drawing was not needed in a kitchen, and magic was quite easy to master without it. After a few moments the chef found an answer. “I’d suggest you go to one of the archivists. They’re behind the Wood mages’ quarters, but if you get to the Fire quarter you’ve gone too far.”
He considered this for a second. “Or you could go a short way back the way you came. Between Earth and Fire dwells the Archmage of Thoughts. You ought to find someone who can help you there, as well.”
Nill gave his thanks politely and went about his search for a portal or hidden door that led to the battlefield. He did not want to follow the great wall of the city all the way if there was perhaps a shortcut. He kept going towards Metal, taking care to choose the corridors that went along the inner ring. But either there were no such portals or he just could not find them. He crossed the Archmage of the Other World’s area, reached the Water quarter and found a small gate halfway to the Wood mages that led to the battlefield.
This entrance looked as though it was seldom used, and the part of the battlefield that surrounded it was not as scarred as the part he had seen earlier that morning with Tiriwi and Brolok. There were many plants there, some bushes whose roots grew deep into the ground along the wall. The greenery grew sparser the closer it came to the center of the battlefield, until all that was left was the quickgrass, which grew fast and short and never produced any blossoms.
Nill sat down, plucking at the plants’ leaves, raising small branches and making stems sway. He began to feel stronger about what exactly plants and air were. It was not so much about telling the elements apart, but rath
er a bundle of different elements that belonged together. Plants were more than just Wood, and the Air was a lot of different things.
Although he was starting to grow weary he could not resist following the roots into the ground with his imagination. He felt the area above his nose, between his eyebrows, growing warm. The earth really does have tremendous power in it, he thought. A feeling of digging grew inside him, although he was not changing the ground; he slipped past a root that had grown straight as a pole down into the earth. He followed every outward growth until he felt as though he was splitting himself, reaching the very furthest tips of the roots. The earth close to these roots tasted different. It was sharp, almost unpleasant.
Nill stopped exploring the earth beneath him and concentrated on the differences between Air and plants. He could feel the plant loosening where it stood. “Air heavy, plant light.” And the plant left the ground. A few roots had broken off, clumps of dirt stuck to the plant, but it was hovering in mid-air.
A grin spread across Nill’s face. Magical harvesting. It was faster by hand, but much more fun to do with magic. For now, at least. He tried setting the plant back into the earth, but failed miserably. Destroying is always easier than healing, he thought. But I will learn that too, soon. After this effort his tiredness had spread to his whole body, and he would have quite liked to fall asleep right there rather than making the long walk back to the caves. But he was content. He was so happy all around with his success that his satisfaction seemed to shine out of every pore in his skin.
Nill gave himself a little shake and got up. He still needed to go to the archivists. He did not know what sort of people they would be, or what their purpose was in Ringwall, but the title of archivist sounded important. And so he went on his way until the first red veins in the stones told him that he had arrived in the Fire quarter. What had Growarth said? “If you get to the Fire quarter you’ve gone too far.”