by Awert, Wolf
He approached a mage whose green robe identified her as a follower of the Archmage of Wood. He would have preferred to ask a White Mage, because he thought them not quite as high up in rank, but the woman’s friendly face was encouraging. “Excuse me, I’m looking for the archivists, and someone said I could find them around here, but I don’t know where.”
The mage looked at him, her gaze wandering over his whole frame, scrutinizing his bare feet and unkempt hair, inspecting his every garment. Nill felt quite uneasy beneath this gaze and curled his toes self-consciously.
“You are Nill, student of the first winter, right?” the mage asked.
Nill nodded.
“Then there’s little sense in me telling you the way. You wouldn’t find it. Follow me.”
Nill was somewhat surprised. He had expected the mage to ask him why he was looking for the archivists and had concocted a tale for the question, but the woman seemed quite uninterested in his reasons. Nill would have liked to know what her rank or reputation was. It was probably not all that high, or she would have refused to guide him. On the other hand, the mages here were such a mystery to him that he understood neither their actions nor their behavior.
Again the path led him around many corners and through invisible doors, but they did not have to go far. They stopped in front of a huge, dark wooden door.
“This is the master archivist’s study. He’ll open the door for you when you knock – or he won’t.”
Nill gave her his thanks and knocked. No sound came from it. He tried again – this time far more forcefully. Nothing happened, but his knuckles hurt quite badly.
“I thought as much,” the mage said, having watched Nill’s futile attempts. “Archivists love the silence, and no sound will penetrate their doors. You have to make the door speak into the room for you. Your fist is too weak for that, so use your magic instead.”
Nill looked at her in dismay. “I’ve only just begun my lessons and I don’t know any knocking spells. I don’t know how I’ll get through.”
“Just think something up. Whack the door with a branch, or throw something made of metal at it. Make the door quake or send your aura through it. There’s no real knocking spell.” The mage was smiling.
Nill closed his eyes and fixated the door in his mind. He collected all the energy he had in his body and sent it towards the dark wood. The door shook at its hinges.
The mage clapped her hands over her mouth in fright, but suppressed a sort of giggle. “He ought to have heard that. That wasn’t knocking; you were trying to break the door down! What did you do?” she asked.
“I’m not sure, but I think Earth magic was somehow in it.”
She was now giggling like a young girl. The door was thrown open and an angry-looking man in a long gray robe stood before them.
“This young man would like to speak to you, master archivist. He does not have much experience in knocking,” the mage commented.
The master archivist’s expression stayed stern and annoyed, but a hint of curiosity seemed to have flitted past.
“Yes?” he barked.
“I was told that you knew where I can find parchment, brushes or quills and ink or colors,” Nill said shyly.
The mage let out a surprised laugh and the archivist’s face contorted with ire.
“You come to me for something to write?” he asked in disbelief, sending an angry glare at the mage. The woman gave him a look of sweet innocence. “You seem not to know who you stand before – who you are dealing with.”
The master archivist still looked very angry but the corners of his eyes betrayed the merest hint of a smile.
Nill was daunted, but not so much as to render him speechless. “You are the master of script and figures, ink and colors and perhaps of thoughts and ideas.” Nill was guessing out of the blue, as he still had no idea what an archivist actually did.
The master archivist could conceal his smile no longer. “I have heard of you. You must be that Nill fellow. None of the nobles would give me such an answer.”
Nill pricked up his ears. The archivist had avoided the word muckling; could this mean anything?
“No, I am not the master of script. I am the master of the archives and the archivists that serve them. The archivists are the keepers of magical history; they are the memory of Ringwall. And for that we need that which you seem not to have: parchment, quills and a little bit of tact.” His mouth twitched again. “Tell me what you plan to do with these things.”
Nill remembered Esara’s warning that he should never tell anyone he could read or write. He still did not understand how this could endanger him, but he answered cautiously nevertheless.
“I would like to paint, and if that isn’t possible, I would like to draw.”
The master archivist nodded. “There will be a time in your education when you will have to learn to handle runes or write scrolls. Colors are precious, so I will not give you any. If you want colors you will have to go out into nature and find them there. They are a part of the earth, they give the ore its power; they show or hide themselves in plants and animals. If you hunt for your own colors you will learn much of the magics of Earth, Metal and Wood. You can have parchment, a brush, a quill and ink from me. I wish you the best with them.”
In spite of his ferocious expression his temper seemed to have cooled considerably. He nodded at Nill and said: “Sister, as you brought this fellow here you might as well take him where he can pick the things he needs.” And with that the master archivist shut the door with a resounding bang.
“We would not have needed to disturb the master archivist for parchment and ink,” the mage said.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” Nill answered.
“Don’t be sorry, I enjoyed the encounter between the two of you very much. It was brilliant. Getting an archivist to talk isn’t easy, especially not that old grump. Archivists are high-ranking mages, very high. They know an awful lot but they don’t talk about it.”
The mage had stopped in front of another door, which opened of its own accord. Stacks of parchment and long containers stood behind it.
“This is the material you’ll need later. The container holds the brush, quill and ink. Take ten rolls of parchment and a pouch of bone meal. Oh, and a knub. The bone meal will hold the ink in the parchment. Once the ink is nearly dried you can rub it deeper with the knub.”
“And the ink won’t stain the knub?” Nill examined the round leather ball the mage had called a knub.
“No; the knub’s leather hasn’t got any pores in it. It’s made of the skin of the gray khanwolf,” she explained.
Nill understood. The gray khanwolf was a beast that did not sweat. Like many others it breathed through an open mouth and panted with its tongue. Its domesticated sons, the common dogs, were similar. Nill could not off-hand think of a single creature that had this property apart from the khanwolf and the dog. He never thought the khanwolf was such a special animal.
“How can I thank you?” he asked.
“That’s easy,” the mage replied. “Give me one of your drawings once it’s done. Come to the Wood quarter and ask for Empyrade. That’s what my friends call me. I’ll bring your drawing to the master archivist so he can see what you’ve made of it.”
Nill gulped. “I don’t think I’m good enough to give away the things I draw.”
“That’s beside the point. You’re in Ringwall now. Beauty is secondary – what matters is the magic. Don’t think too much about it; just do what you want.”
With that, Empyrade disappeared.
Nill stared at the spot where she had stood. “I’d like to do that. Vanish just like that.”
Brolok wandered across the battlefield. He found a spot close to the inner wall where the ground was quite flat, pulled his sickle from its sheath, unraveled the chain and began to twirl it. Long chain, short chain; reaching far out, or whipping dangerously close. His body turned and twisted, the circular motions of his arms going through h
im down to his feet. Everything was in motion, for the sickle must not stop moving for an instant. In motion, it was dangerous. Brolok cursed under his breath. A few days of rest had completely ruined his well-practiced flow. Where usually one swing would have followed the next he felt disjointed, stuttering inefficiency. He knew that he would regain the harmony of movement in less than an hour, but something was intruding on his concentration. He dropped the sickle to the ground and pulled out his shortsword instead. As a warm-up he swung it a few times from his wrist before slowly parrying attacks from all directions. He closed his eyes to feel more clearly how the blade cut through the air, how every parry carried the seed of a counter-attack, and how every strike enabled him to instantly retreat. Had Nill been standing there, he would have greatly admired Brolok’s performance, but Brolok himself was unsatisfied. He sheathed his sword again after a few feints and whirls, picked up the sickle and put that away, too. Not many things gave him the enjoyment he got from wielding a blade, apart from his blacksmith’s hammer of course. But here in Ringwall his exercise seemed strangely empty. Almost as though he were swinging the wrong weapons – non-magical weapons did not sing in Ringwall.
Brolok strode along the inner wall until he reached one of the many doors, and quickly found himself back inside the labyrinthine corridors of Ringwall. The dark colors on his right side told him quite clearly that he was near the Metal Mages. If there was a magic that made his heart beat louder, it was certainly the primal power of Metal. He leapt down a few unexpectedly wide and shallow steps and looked around in wonder. Everything looked so different to the quarters of Earth. There were no more corridors, but huge halls. There was no climbing of stairs after passing through a few rooms here. Brolok scraped the floor with the tip of his boot. Solid stone, not earth. He turned around to make sure that the stairs behind him had not mysteriously vanished. A short glance to help his orientation, then he set off like a gray khanwolf that had picked up a scent, until his senses were rewarded by the ringing sound of a hammer slamming down on a light piece of iron. Something was being forged here.
Brolok felt the heat coming from the ovens that radiated through all the walls in every direction. The sounds grew louder and people in grayish-brown, baggy clothes ran busily back and forth. He watched two thickset men beating a gigantic iron rod in turns while a third held the rod. Two more helpers directed the fire in the right direction with huge bellows. Just like home, he thought. Only bigger and better. I’d have thought there’d be more magic and less handcraft. Why isn’t there a Fire Mage controlling the flames?
Brolok saw a small figure, nearly as wide as he was tall. He stood almost completely still, apart from his head, which was twitching constantly in all different directions, rather like a bird of prey. Brolok approached the little man with all the reverence he could muster.
“Greetings. Are you the Master of Metal here in the forge of Ringwall?”
“What do you want?” The question was short and imperious. The man barely spared Brolok a glance, and his mouth had hardly moved.
“I want to forge!”
This short sentence carried the entire weight of the desire of a boy who never let go of his dream. It came with the strength that let the air shudder and left his body so empty that his next sentence seemed oddly weak and quiet. “Do you have work for me?”
The tiny colossus fixed him in his gaze. “You’re Brolok, aren’t you? Brolok, the blacksmith’s son, the half-arcanist from Metal World.”
“No, sir, I am Brolok the Blacksmith.”
“A man has two enemies he must fear, his overconfidence and his self-doubt. Seems you have no need to fear self-doubt,” the man said. He waved with one of his massive arms that seemed too long for his short body. “Fetch Mirx,” he called.
Before long a man came shuffling over whose best years clearly lay behind him. His back was hunched, his shoulders oddly stiff. His hands, with their calluses and scars, looked more like plate armor than human hands.
“Mirx, show the boy the forge, and if he’s got something in his mind, help him do it.”
Mirx bowed as low as his spine would allow him to and muttered: “Come with me, then.”
Once Brolok thought he was out of earshot he said: “My name is Brolok from the lineage of Ant. I didn’t introduce myself but the master knew my name. But who is he? And who are you?”
Mirx stopped for a moment. “Curious young feller, aren’t you? The master you’ve already spoken to is Galvan. He’s responsible for the forge of Ringwall and his rank is Master of Metal magic.”
Brolok gave Mirx a confused look.
“Doesn’t that mean anything to you? The masters answer only to the archmages and they’re their personal adjutants. But Galvan is the only master in Ringwall who’s not involved with the power players in Ringwall or those in Pentamuria. Don’t be fooled by his looks, he’s a sage.”
After a moment of hesitation he continued. “I don’t think anyone except a neophyte would dare just walk up to him and talk to him.” Mirx chuckled. “You seem to have survived.”
Brolok did not know whether the old man was making a joke or not.
“And you, who are you?”
“Who am I, indeed. I’m called Mirx, as you well heard, and I’m from the common folk. I serve the mages like my father before me. The work down here is hard, but I’m never hungry or thirsty. I’m safe from enemies and wild beasts. There are far worse places in Pentamuria than the forge of Ringwall.”
“So you don’t just work here, you live here,” Brolok observed, surprised.
“I was born here.”
Brolok stowed this piece of information somewhere in the back of his mind. He did not know what to make of it. It seemed like Ringwall housed whole families from the common folk, not just the odd worker. But Brolok knew that there may always come a moment when the knowledge of something seemingly mundane could save his life. Mirx was so far the only muckling he had spoken to, but he only had to look around to see more. They were in hectic movement, working. Doing real work. Forging.
Mirx stretched out an arm. “These here are the single forges. They’re all in the big hall. Helps with the heat, it doesn’t get too hot that way. The stores are in the alcoves and all along the corridors. You’ll find materials and tools there. Come.”
“Wait, wait,” Brolok called. “What sort of person can hammer with that sort of strength?” He had detected mighty blows reverberating throughout the complex even over the din of the other workers.
Mirx grinned. “Yeah, I’ll bet you don’t know. The master uses people from the common folk for forging, but also the Mages of Metal and the powers of Fire and Water.” Mirx was visibly enjoying Brolok’s surprise.
Brolok saw two huge hammers, too mighty to be wielded by mortals. The arms that swung them were made of steel. They lifted the hammers and dropped them again, always on the same spot. Two mucklings made sure that the blank was in the right position. Brolok wondered how they could bear the noise and signaled his question to Mirx.
Mirx tapped his ears with his leathery fingers, pointed towards the mucklings and shook his head. Brolok understood. They were deaf. But what kind of creature could possibly be lifting those hammers?
The steel arms were connected to a large orb that spun without pause. It was this motion that kept the arms moving, but what was powering the orb? It had to be a very powerful magic.
Mirx, still grinning, pointed to a spot under the orb. Brolok made to step forward but Mirx held him back, shaking his head energetically.
Beneath the orb there was a shallow bowl holding boiling water. Brolok could now see that the orb was actually hollow. The steam rising from the bowl entered into the orb and left it through two thin, angled pipes on its sides. He now understood Mirx’s warning. Approaching the hot steam was not a good idea. Even after it had given some of its energy to the orb it still carried a strong amount of Fire. Brolok was impressed. Using this method, they were able to forge huge pieces. What he did not
understand was why they needed such huge things. Weapons and tools had to be usable by humans, so they were usually forged by humans as well. But, he considered, Galvan probably knew why he was using such mighty hammers in his forge.
“Now I really don’t know whether this is magic or cleverness,” Brolok muttered.
“If you don’t know, who should?” Mirx grinned whimsically.
Brolok considered him for a long moment. “Sir, you live with Metal,” he said after a long pause, not noticing he had addressed Mirx in so courtly a manner. “Can you make such hammers to forge the iron as we just saw?” he asked the muckling.
Mirx nodded.
“Then it’s not magic,” Brolok stated.
“You seem most interested in the work with Metal.” Despite his young age, and without noticing it, Brolok had won Mirx’s respect. The old man shuffled his weight from foot to foot for a while. “I could show you something that barely anyone here in Ringwall has ever seen,” he said finally.
Brolok looked at him curiously, but was careful with his words. He could sense that Mirx was making a serious choice. Mirx smiled timidly. “I don’t know whether it’s right to show, but there’s so much here in Ringwall that nobody knows what’s right or wrong any more. Follow me, and keep very quiet.”
Keep quiet, in this din? Brolok shrugged at the oddness of this request and waited for Mirx to lead.
Mirx walked over to the other side of the grand hall with hasty steps and turned into a corridor that had sprung out of the rock with many twists and turns. After the third turn the noise from the great forge was merely a slight vibration. The corridor led into another hall, this one not very wide but longer by a fair margin. The long sides were full of small chambers. Mirx held a finger to his lips and gave Brolok a conspiratorial glance. “Shh,” he hissed, and set off with light steps, taking care to stay exactly in the middle of the hall. As slow and silent as a hunter he peered into each of the little chambers. Brolok understood the reason for quietness now: hasty movements might awaken anything that lived in those chambers. Mirx waved Brolok over and whispered: “There’s whytcrystals growing in those chambers.”