Wolf Awert
© Wolf Awert / Smiling Wyvern Press 2020
All rights reserved
Machandel Verlag Charlotte Erpenbeck
D-49740 Haselünne
first published with Zaptos Media 2016
Cover Zaptos Media
Machandel Verlag Charlotte Erpenbeck
D-49740 Haselünne
ISBN 978-3-95959-172-0
Did you like this book? Encourage the author with your review!
Find more information about the author Wolf Awert and his books on smilingwyvernpress.com .
Wolf Awert
© Wolf Awert / Smiling Wyvern Press 2020
Machandel Verlag Charlotte Erpenbeck
D-49740 Haselünne
first published with Zaptos Media 2015
Cover Zaptos Media
Nothing will be as it was.
Cities will crumble to ash.
Ashen wastes will become lush and fertile.
Rulers will serve, and servants will rule.
Pentamuria, the world of five kingdoms, is in a time of change. The power of the nobles and mages is threatened. War is upon them, although they do not know yet when or with whom. Thus, the mages are gathering in their capital, Ringwall, to prepare together against any possible enemy.
At this time, the orphan boy Nill is found by the Druids. He possesses considerable magical skills. So he is taken to Ringwall, where he is to be trained in the magical arts alongside his fellow students. Nill, who is an outsider, shows no respect for the traditions of the magical world, and challenges the ways of the mages.
Soon this mages start to ask themselves: Could this powerful stranger bring the foretold end of their reign?
If yes, Nill has to be dealt with. By whatever means....
Wolf Awert
© Wolf Awert / Smiling Wyvern Press 2020
Machandel Verlag Charlotte Erpenbeck
D-49740 Haselünne
first published with Zaptos Media 2016
Cover Zaptos Media
After the fall of Ringwall, Pentamuria lies in ruins. The magic of the elements is fading away and the realm of fire begins a merciless conquest.
In this situation, it is up to Nill, the last Archmage and possible Changer, to sort out the mess and stop Sergor-Don.
But the king of the fire realm is not the only threat.
A new, incredibly powerful magician who calls himself the "Pillar of Light", along with his followers, demands dominion over Pentamuria and forces Nill to decide whether to fight not only for his own life but for the fate of the whole world.
The last and final volume of the Pentamuria trilogy.
www.smilingwyvernpress.com
“Dakh, you spoke of a point where the lines of time converge. Is this that point?” Nill asked the druid when they all gathered at the lake’s shore the next morning, waiting for the light copper of the sky to be fully lit by the sun. “We are all here together, even Sedramon-Per. I know who my parents are, how the Nothing arrived in Pentamuria and much more.”
Dakh looked across them all. “You could almost think that, if there wasn’t still King Sergor-Don. He is the Changer who destroyed Ringwall. At least, that is how it looks. But King Sergor-Don has nothing to do with us except for the fact that he studied at the same time as you, Brolok and Tiriwi. Perhaps you will find your answer in the Book of Kypt, the only one left to read.”
“I’ve heard of the legend of the Changer,” AnaNakara said. “It’s not an Oa tale. We know the Green Man, and the Oas of the Waterways tell his story. He stands in a small boat and steers it through the silent waters of the moors. When the time has come and you need him, he will take his boat down the river and out to sea. The waves before him retreat and it is as if he is gliding on a lake. He disappears into the rising sun and comes back the next morning, with the next sunrise. When he goes back into the swamps, all the worries are over.”
“Is there any Water spell potent enough to freeze the sea? And I just can’t imagine poking a stick in the water to steer out there. The longest tree wouldn’t be long enough; besides, the strongest man in the world couldn’t hold it.” Nill was not convinced.
“You can’t take these legends literally,” AnaNakara laughed and ruffled his hair. But Nill remained thoughtful. Too many truths were lost in the old legends if you did not also take them at face value. The mages had considered every detail vital in the legend of the figure from the mist, so why not here?
“You said it yourself,” AnaNakara said soothingly. “No oar would be long enough and no spell strong enough to calm the sea.”
“I’ve got a completely unrelated question,” Brolok piped up. “Do you think I’ll ever see Galvan again? There’s this unfinished dream that keeps popping up every now and again. Well,” he elaborated as he noticed Dakh’s curious glance, “it’s a sort of fight. Not sure about the details, but Galvan is there, holding the left side of my shield.”
“You are a great blacksmith,” the druid replied. “Where else but in Metal World would a blacksmith like you work? Your father lives there, he still has much to teach you. Yet harmony has not returned to Metal World in the matter between you and the court. You will find out, I trust.”
“‘Harmony has not returned.’ You phrased that prettily. If I show my face in Fugman’s Refuge, they’ll have me forge them magical blades just so they can test them on me,” Brolok growled.
“Look,” Sedramon-Per interrupted him. “The sun rises.”
If the sun wants to light up the swampland, it must first ask the mist politely for permission. Sometimes – only sometimes – the mist will acquiesce, but not without a discussion. Often, it does not. And so, every morning dresses in its silvery-gray coat, pouring fresh silver onto every body of water in the open. The lake in front of them was one of many such lakes where streams ran together when they felt like a rest.
The lake was like lead this morning. Nothing moved in those magical moments of the early day.
“This is the Book of Mun’s place, then?” Dakh said in a tone somewhere between question and satisfied assertion. “Here in this shallow lake. I think I could have spent another uncountable number of winters dredging every lake in the world and I wouldn’t have found it. One lake looks like the other and once you know one hill, you know them all.”
“No,” Sedramon corrected him, “not in the lake. On it.”
Before Dakh, Morb or Nill could ask further, the golden sun lit the lake on fire and Sedramon put a hand to his lips to blow a kiss to the sun. Or was it to the mist and its generosity, or to the water below? Actually, as it turned out, none of them. Sedramon-Per had called the wind, for out of nowhere suddenly a slight breeze came along and gave the lake a few ripples.
“There you see Mun,” Sedramon said, pointing at the surface that now sparkled and gleamed like a thousand diamonds. They all saw the tiny waves distort the sun into small golden disks, sharp hooks and plump bands. Nill was the first to understand.
“Look!” he shouted. “The Book of Mun is written anew every day. The sun writes it in the water, like the spring-keeper wrote in the sand.”
It was difficult to make out the message. The symbols vanished as quickly as they came and reappeared elsewhere. Had Nill not had so much practice reading the ancient script, it would have taken more than one morning to read the book. Finally, he gave a satisfied nod.
“It’s not much.”
“Tell us or read it to us please,” Dakh requested. “You know I’m not fluent in this writing.”
“The book says nothing else than that the fourth element stops being air, that the elements reorder themselves and air becomes Fire, Water and the new element of Metal. Oh, and Wood will join it, a power that has never been in the world before. That’s it.”
“That is so little that I must wonder whether the things we found truly are the Books of Prophecy.” Dakh-Ozz-Han seemed crestfallen.
“They aren’t,” Sedramon-Per answered. “They are fragments, remnants, notes of a great mind. All that remains are the one hundred and twenty-eight stories in their eight versions. And yet I still believe that the Books of Prophecy still exist. If Eos was given a guardian of Fire, then it might be possible that next to the fire in the rock Nill told us about there is the full account of the prophecy. Perhaps it is merely more stories that are told over generations. I do not know, the Borderlands of flame are closed to me. Perhaps the books truly are long lost and we must make do with what we have found.”
“There’s something else in Mun.”
Nill gulped and hung his head. No one pressured him to say what else Mun told of, as they could see quite clearly that is was not good news.
“The end of the magic of five elements. The magic will break upon its own hubris. Those who feel untouchable will be toppled. In the end, Ringwall will fall.”
“So now we know everything except for how it ends,” Dakh-Ozz-Han said. “Sedramon and you have found everything except for the Book of Kypt.”
“Kypt is the most important of all,” Sedramon-Per claimed. “The others all interpret the future from a past so distant that their prophecies have become legends. The five books are scattered across the Five Kingdoms. The only place we haven’t found one in is Earthland, but going off on a chase without at least a hint is folly. Do you have any guesses where we might look?” Sedramon-Per looked at Nill, but before he could answer the old druid spoke.
“Why should it be in Earthland? The books were written before there were five kingdoms and five elements.”
“A remarkable insight for a druid whose world is based on those five elements,” AnaNakara teased him.
Dakh sighed. “It hurts badly enough as it is, without you throwing salt in my wounds. Instead, give me a good reason why the last, most important book would be in Earthland.”
“Because it’s the only place we haven’t found a corresponding book in. Everywhere else, in each kingdom there was one book. One.” Nill was adamant.
“Almost, my boy.” Sedramon-Per had a knowing look on his face. “There were two in the Fire Kingdom: the Book of Creation and the Book of Eos.”
“So the last book remains a mystery.”
“No, the last book, as the holy man’s stories said, lies at the center of the world. In the middle, or close to the middle, of all magic in this world.”
“Knor-il-Ank!” Nill gasped.
“Yes, in Ringwall. The Olvejin was to lead the way before it was lost, but there is no doubt. The Book of Kypt is in Ringwall.”
“Only Ringwall is destroyed,” Nill said flatly.
“Full circle again,” Dakh muttered.
“But where in Ringwall?” Morb urged. “Sedramon, you spent many winters there.”
Nill jerked up.
“I know where to find it. I have to go back at once. Back to Ringwall. Come, Ramsker, we’re leaving early tomorrow.”
Dear Reader,
You have now read two thirds of the saga of Pentamuria, for which you have my thanks. Nill’s adventure will continue, and the third volume is in the works.
Yours truly
Wolf Awert.
His back ached. His neck was stiff and his wrist screamed in protest at being leaned on for so long. Nill, the youngest archmage in the long history of Ringwall, had been crouching in the great hall for hours. The hall had been carved into the very core of Knor-il-Ank countless generations ago.
Knor-il-Ank! The pathetic, wind-worn remains of the first mountain in the world. It had boldly forced its way out of the deepest depths of the world to reach the stars, connecting earth and cosmos for but a heartbeat. Or so the legends claimed; their habit of toying with truth and imagination had puzzled not only the archmages of Ringwall, but also the wise women of the Oas and the eldest druids since time immemorial. But even if the legends were, for once, true this time, it was all far in the distant past. Today Knor-il-Ank was no more than the rounded skull of an old man, the mysterious city of Ringwall perched atop it like a crown. Ringwall, city of the mages, was like no other city in the Five Kingdoms; no sprawling web of houses and streets surrounding a regent’s palace in hopes of gaining meaning by closeness. No, Ringwall itself was a gigantic double wall. Behind the wall there was nothing but the old mountain’s soft peak. The wall was the city.
Nill’s neck gave a cracking noise as he raised his head to cast his gaze across the breadth of the hall. What lay here would never cease to amaze him.
One half of the hall was bathed in a light so glaring that the countless dark markings seemed to dance a wild dance. The other half swallowed the light entirely, covering itself in darkness. Only the shimmering glyphs, whose gold sank deep into the rock like a vein of ore, gave life to the shadowy half. Nill could not stop marveling at the light: white like the center of the sun, from which people usually turned away for fear of blinding. But even more than the light, the darkness captivated him. It was more than just the absence of light. It was a force of its own, and Nill wondered whether that was not the thing that decided where the light may shine and where not. Light was light, but darkness did not mean shadows.
Pillars around the room held the ceiling aloft with unshakable strength. There they stood in austere grandeur; leading away from the hall, eight further chambers had been hewn from the walls. And each of those chambers had two of its own, and each of those two had two more. The outermost circle counted one hundred and twenty-eight chambers, gathered around the great hall.
All of this, the chambers, halls, floors and ceilings, even the pillars themselves, was covered in writing, as if their only purpose was to give these markings a home to run rampant in. Or so Nill thought, at least; the symbols were grouped together like words, but they formed circles, spirals and bizarre zig-zagging patterns, never content with a single direction. Straight lines, the way academics knew them, were as rare down here as an archmage’s good-natured smile.
“What use is it,” Nill wondered, “to have learned to read the symbols if I cannot understand the rules they are ordered by? It feels like opening a random page in a book of spells, putting my finger on a random word and trying to make sense of it! It would take the rest of my life to read all the things the generations of arcanists wrote here, and two more lives to understand.”
The markings themselves were the least of Nill’s problems. What shook him far more was the magic of light and darkness, that it even existed. The powers that Knor-il-Ank provided to Ringwall and which filled all of Pentamuria was the magic of Fire and Earth, of Metal, Water and Wood. How could two magical worlds coexist, if magic was the nature of all things and there was only one world to house them?
Dakh-Ozz-Han had taught him that the opposite of truth is another truth, not a lie. But could two truths like this live in harmony?
The magic here, deep within Knor-il-Ank, was old. It smelled of the past, of oblivion, of abandonment, and it put Nill in mind of dark, dank forest pools.
Magic and silence were Nill’s enemies down here. The force of the magic was too strong, and no noise reached the depths of Knor-il-Ank. Even the rustling of his clothes was silenced quickly, as if it feared to stay. The silence remained unnoticed for the longest time, like a thief in the night, covering all like an unending snowfall. A white, tranquil cover for the surface, and a death shroud for all that lay beneath. Nill’s back was bent, his neck craned, his bones aching from the pressure. He had to fight it, or this oppressive weight would crush him.
Like so often before, his youthful audacity helped. He took a deep breath and broke the silence by uttering the shrill, challenging screech of a rockjester. Most people heard in the call a crazed laughter; tales were told of wanderers who had lost their way in the ravines of Metal World, only to lose their minds at the derisive screeching.
“He-he-he-haaa!”
The hall swallowed the cry effortlessly, and the second one sounded rather less spirited. “He-he-ha!” But as always, just as Nill began to despair, a small, stubborn part of him started to take over. “He-he-he-he-haaa!” And again. “He-he-he-haa!” Nill’s cries grew louder and louder, and soon he was throwing all his doubt and despair into them. The sound broke upon the pillars, bouncing back and back again; echo met echo, and together they raced across the rock, chasing out the emptiness, the loneliness and the sleeping age of a brooding time.
Nill had to laugh. Of course, nothing had really been changed by his screams. The hall was as monumental as ever, huge and unfathomable. But at least he felt better now. He stretched his weary joints, stood up and searched the wall for the exit.
“Enough for today,” he told himself. “Enough, just like yesterday, and the day before, and all days before that.”
No door led into the hall, and if one did not know the secret of the stone, there was neither entrance nor exit. Nill waved a hand along the rock, and with his first two fingers drew two signs on the wall. He waited. A gentle quaver told him that Knor-il-Ank had understood. The quaver became a quake, the rock cracked and a piece of the wall crumbled. The echo of tumbling rocks strayed around the pillars and the eight chambers. A black, jagged line tore its way from the ground to the ceiling, and with a sound somewhere between a moan and a sigh, the tear opened to a gap. Nill squeezed through sideways, taking care not to snag his clothing.
With another quake and a sigh of relief the rock mended itself. “When the mountain moves, all of Ringwall ought to move with it,” Nill pondered. He had never heard anyone mention it. “I wonder if anyone has any idea where I am.”
He conjured a pale orb of light to illuminate the path before him and moved quickly along the Walk of Weakness to the great gate. It was protected by a magical seal and by a small, ancient dragon, called the falundron. Twice the seal had been broken, and both times it had claimed a mage’s life, for the Walk of Weakness took first the magic, then the life force from their bodies. Only Nill could walk it unhindered.
Five steps before the gate Nill dismissed his light and used his hands to guide him instead.
The catacombs were the only safe place for him. Everywhere else in Ringwall, he feared for his life. It was little consolation that the mages were afraid too. It had been only a few winters past that the wisest of the world had recovered the fragments of a prophecy from legend and song, from myths and tales. When they had put it together again, they looked into the mirror of their fates, and saw in it their doom.
The tool of fate was the Changer, but the mages knew not who this was supposed to be; so far, the magon had only seen him in visions. Yet there was a core of mages in Ringwall who were certain that Nill was the so-called Changer.
“Nothing will be as once it was,” the prophecy said.
Was someone on the other side of the door?
Nill asked himself that question every time he left the Hall of Symbols. An elemental blast, too quick for a counterspell, and Ringwall’s problems would evaporate. Or so some mages thought.
Nill stroked the great gate and listened to the wood’s breathing. At the smallest touch of another presence it would recoil. His rank of archmage was no protection. He was not yet a fully-fledged mage. Even a common sorcerer would crush him in a fight.
And so Nill took all the time in the world to track traces of magic, and only when he was absolutely certain that he was alone down there did he push the gate’s doors open. He stepped through, minding the raised threshold that served to keep out creatures from the Other World, and allowed the door to fall shut behind him.
“Done. Another day survived.”
Nill tried to keep his spirits up, but surviving in Ringwall was only the beginning. He had to crack the secret of the prophecy.
He bolted the huge lock and jumped a little when a guttural hiss pulled him out of his thoughts. On the lock sat the falundron, as if crafted from rusted iron. Nill waited patiently for the lizard to restore the magical seal with the five layers of elements. Whoever wanted to pass through the gate had to remove the seal and fight against its keeper. Even the greatest mages could not do so alone.
But this time the falundron was singularly uninterested in doing its duty. The little dragon, whose rigid motionlessness made it seem like part of the door, kept its mouth wide open. The hiss had turned into a growl, a growl which made Nill’s skin tighten so much that his ears were pressed flat against his skull.
The lizard’s head swayed left and right to the rhythm of its feet, which seemed to walk on the spot. The pointed ends of the spikes on its back dripped with shining poison, its tail curved threateningly over its body, twitching as though prepared to strike at any moment. The door, too, had come to life beneath its tromping feet. It groaned and moaned and bent this way and that, so strongly that it barely stayed in its hinges. Nill saw the magic tear the old fibers apart and mend them again. He felt the air above the door becoming denser and denser; even his breathing was shallow now. All the powers from this side and the other side of the door seemed to stream together, melting and becoming one in the lock beneath the falundron.
“If only you could talk,” Nill sighed. But humans and dragons are too different. Only the basest, most primitive part of their brains, where emotions were born, where fear cowered, hatred exploded, but also where trust grew; that was the only connection he had managed to forge with this strange creature. Hissing, growling and spitting was a language Nill did not understand. So he closed his eyes and felt his way towards the falundron with his spirit. He sent feelings of warmth, friendship and even love into the dull mind. The falundron felt his touch, pushed and shoved, and when Nill still did not understand, it responded with magic. Nill flew back and was ripped forwards again by the force of the magical band.
The falundron’s magic was not that of the mages.
“It’s as if there is a magic within the magic,” Nill sighed. “How am I to understand that if I can’t get a proper grasp on even the five elements?”
The little lizard’s body was now rocking wildly on its stomping legs. Reflected light danced across the cracked leathery armor, a landscape of ravines and gaps, as though hewn by an ax. Scars and furrowed growths, defiantly holding themselves aloft against an invisible sword, and broken lines that attempted to keep the ruins of barely recognizable shapes. But it was not like that at all. The leathery skin bore the glyphs of an ancient power like a living book. Nill could read them, but not make sense of them. But now they became softer, unfocused, as a magical aura rose from the dragon’s hide.
“How did I never notice before?”
Nill could only shake his head at his own stupidity. Any magical creature ought to be surrounded by an aura, but the falundron had always been bare.
“How do you hide your aura, old friend? If only I knew the secret, no mage could ever find me.”
The aura grew and grew; it was a milky gray, densely woven and seemed to merge with the air in a manner that hid its size. What had Tiriwi said? “Dense auras with no real color are strong, melded and unreadable.” This was the aura of a powerful mage, not the pale shell of an animal.
As Nill stared at the falundron’s aura, an idea began to form in him, so mad and dangerous that he immediately dismissed and tried to forget it. But some ideas are unwilling to be forgotten. With the same stubbornness that was so much a part of him, the idea penetrated his skull, becoming stronger and clearer all the while.
The most powerful sorcerers defeated their enemies by destroying their aura. Anyone who succeeded in shredding or even completely removing their enemy’s aura was left facing a helpless idiot. Nobody knew whether someone who had lost their aura could ever regain magical powers. But such an attack was dangerous and foolhardy, for the stake was one’s own aura.
Nill’s true gift was not his power; instead, he could see auras much more sharply, read them better than other arcanists. He wanted to open up his aura to the falundron. Madness. An attempt born of desperation.
Nill re-established his connection to the swaying dragon. At the same time he inflated his aura until it reached the outer limits of the falundron’s. Gently, searchingly. No more than a shy first kiss. Nill hesitated. He did not want to be misunderstood. But the response came, and it forced him to his knees. The blow made him grab the pulsating wood of the door for support, and he felt with horror how the reality drifted away from him. All that remained was the urgent impatience of the falundron, and a feeling that was somehow connected to time. Everything was bathed in blazing flames. The falundron invaded his aura, a stab of pain shot through his head, followed by a flood of feelings and images. Nill understood the falundron.
There were neither words nor clear thoughts. Instead, he saw scraps of pictures, fleeting impressions and, most of all, emotions. A rush, haste, an almost palpable urgency that seemed to pound to a monotonous rhythm. “Da da dam, da da dam, it is time, it is time, da da dam, not much time, da da dam, not much time, not far now, da da dam.”
The stream of rhythm and fragmented words was endless. Or were they even words? The pounding hooves of a galloping horse? War drums? Da da dam, da da dam! No, they were words! Or not?
And between the hammering blows, the breadth of the world. Glimpses from mountain peaks, all the way to the horizon. Gray water, broken up by clusters of reeds, angry mountains under a coat of ash, throwing rocks and fire into the sky, choking on their own breath. Nill saw earth, burnt by the sun, its crust hard as iron, where no sapling would ever grow. He saw green woods, fertile and good, with branches and twigs woven so densely as to shield them from the world outside. And, again and again, the feeling of haste and fire. The falundron pushed Nill away with a last, painful shove, and became as rigid as ever before. The door shook one last time. The chamber grew silent, and the magical seal wove itself anew. All was as it had always been.
Nill’s legs gave out from under him. He fell to the floor, asleep.
Much later, he awoke again and dragged himself to his own cave. It was unchanged: all it contained was a chest, a pile of quilts and furs that made up his bed, a table, a chair and a jug of water.
“Fitting for a neophyte,” Nill thought, “and just as fitting for an Archmage of Nothing.”
He had not chosen this place on a whim. His cave was one of many small ones that the legendary founders of Ringwall had carved into the mountain, where they had hidden from persecution during the black times. These days, they were far enough away from the lodgings of the other archmages, and deep beneath the surface.
“I ought to rest and do something entirely different for a few days, but I’m running out of time.”
Nill felt the urgency that drove him in a very real sense, and his unrest troubled him. He slowed his breathing, making it deeper and calmer, and attempted to block out the thoughts that danced around in his head like a group of angry apes in order to get some sleep. Unfortunately, in vain.
The apes stayed and chased each other in circles. The falundron, the symbols, Perdis, the amulet, ancient magic, magic of nothing, magic of five elements, Other World, cosmos and thoughts, prophecy, truth (which truth?), fate and time, past, creation, magic of Nothing, ancient magic, magic of elements, Nothing, Nothing, Nill the Nothing, Nill, Nill, me, me, me. Nill punched himself in the head and the shock of pain interrupted the spider’s web of thoughts that sprawled through his mind. He coughed and gasped for air.
“I’ve been down here too long. I have to leave the catacombs. The magic down here will kill me.” He leapt up and hurried to the entrance that separated the Hermits’ Caves from the rest of Ringwall. He knew where and how to tame the chaos in his mind, where he could refresh his energy. The Sanctuary. But in order to get there he would have to leave his quarters and cross Ringwall.
“All the caution in the world won’t matter if I die down here anyway,” he muttered. He left the Hermit’s Caves and climbed the stairs that led to the entrance area of Ringwall. Down the corridor to his left lived Gnarlhand, Archmage of Earth. On the right side, behind the dining chambers and the kitchens, was the Metal lodge, where his old enemy Bar Helis had lived. Before him lay the path to the world outside Ringwall, to sunlight, to the sounds of wind and life. But that was not his goal.
Nill’s path to the Sanctuary led him to the other side of the city, close to the Wood lodge. He stepped through a series of portals and soon found himself standing before the circle of the five magical symbols – the basalt column for Earth, the shimmering, composite crystal of Metal, the gurgling fountain for Water, the tree for Wood and the everlasting torch, representing Fire. His own element, Nothing, was in the center of these five, and all that hinted at its existence were pale colors, fuzzy outlines and a profound feeling of emptiness.
Nill approached the Sanctuary with the same reverence he had felt when he had still been a lowly pupil. Here, the elemental magic existed in its purest form. He wished he had more command of it, but the art of magic required more than just the gift: hard work, practice and a lot of experience were mandatory.
He absorbed the silence of the place like the earth drinks morning dew. He was alone, connected only to the magic of the place. But next to being alone was loneliness, which suddenly crashed down upon him. He had to be cautious not to let loneliness become abandonment. He shook his head.
“I chose it this way. I chose Ringwall and Magic.”
The Sanctuary was rarely empty. Time and again, white mages and colored ones alike visited the place, for only here was the purity of the elements complete. Nill saw the flaming red of a Fire mage and the blue of a Water mage, but they vanished quickly. Nobody liked to share the company of an archmage, even if they were barely more than a boy. He paid them only a moment’s attention before stepping into the inner circle, where he sat down on the pale grass.
His thoughts dispersed, his emotions forgot about him, his body was lost. Only his self was still there in the grass for a while, until that, too, disappeared. The Nothing, the end of all things, had come to get him, and the Nothing, the beginning of everything, threw him back into the world. The traces of the ancient magic had fled his body, his mind was soothed, and the agitated exhaustion had been replaced by a more comfortable tiredness. Just before he fell to the side to sleep, a short chuckle escaped him. He, Nill, was the archmage and thus the master of Nothing. A jest lost on most others, he assumed. His mastery consisted solely of giving in to the Nothing for it to come and get him. Who could have any doubts as to who the master was and who the slave? Nill smiled in his sleep. He did not notice the watchful eyes that rested on him.
In a corner a fair distance from the entrance, in the shadow of the restless Wood, stood an old man in an ugly gray robe, the surface of which seemed to be constantly moving. The combined weight of many winters rested on his crooked back, and his roughly carved staff served more as a walking-cane than a tool of magic. He muttered to himself in silent conversation, words streaming constantly from his mouth. His eyes were hidden. Half-closed, they rested in the shade of the hood. It was a picture of peace: the old man and the sleeping boy.
Nill began to stir. His eyelids fluttered open like a butterfly’s wings and his feet twitched.
“Greetings, brother in spirit.” The old man stepped out from the shadows silently and unexpectedly, startling Nill. He had not noticed the brother and wondered how it was possible to move so inconspicuously.
“Greetings to you, Murmon-Som.” Nill carefully avoided addressing him as “brother,” for the Archmage of the Other World gave him shivers, although he could not say why. After his victory against Mah Bu in Ringwall’s library there had been a vote for a new Archmage of the Other World. The High Council had decided on Tofflas. But Tofflas had wasted away quickly. Everyone saw how he lost part of his life force every day, powerless to resist. Several archmages were disquieted by this, half-expecting an attack on the council; others saw a personal, unresolved conflict and denounced the attacker for not showing himself. But a newly-appointed archmage who could not protect himself was of no use to the council, and so they abandoned him to his fate.
After Tofflas had left the world of the living, Murmon-Som took his place on the chair. Among the council there was little hope that the old, rather pained-looking mage would last long. To their surprise, however, he found some way to prove himself. Malicious tongues wagged, claiming he had been the one to get rid of Tofflas.
Nill waited with the politeness expected of a youth, but Murmon-Som did not seem intent on adding anything to his greeting. He simply stood there, motionless, his eyes fixed silently on Nill, until Nill felt ever more uncomfortable under his gaze. More to say something at all than because he had thought about it, he muttered: “Is ‘brother in spirit’ not a little… dignified for one such as me? It is no secret that I am no true archmage. I lead no lodge and am little more than a neophyte. I must be the weakest archmage ever to join the council.”
Nill gave a pained smile; he knew within the first few words that his jest would not reach his fellow archmage.
Murmon-Som flicked his wrist weakly, as if driving off flies or a bad smell. “You yourself are the secret now, brother. Your classmate Prince Sergor-Don had little effort in defeating you. Indeed, not a sign of great strength. Yet in the tournament you succeeded against powerful sorcerers such as the great Morb-au-Morhg or old Infiralior. You passed under Binja and Rinja’s watchful eyes, and Malachiris, the old wood-witch, could do you no harm. And only shortly afterwards you killed Mah Bu, one of the most powerful archmages on the council.”
“I never defeated him,” Nill retorted passionately. “He killed himself, because he could no longer control the powers he presumed to use.”
“Oh, really?” The old man’s laugh was more of a coughing bark than a true sign of mirth. “And who has the power to make an archmage kill himself? An archmage is no simpleton, brother, who makes mistakes so foolish as to cost his own life. Especially not in a fight.”
Nill grew annoyed at this. He hated praise for accomplishments that weren’t his; quite beside the fact that killing an archmage ought not be counted as one in the first place. “I had help. Was that not mentioned? To this day I still don’t know how I won, but I suppose the Ramsleg accompanied me as a friend, and saved me in the end.”
“Yes, yes, I heard whispers… the Talon-foot, the Ramsleg and the great Serp. The three great Demon Lords.” The old man gave another bark. “In ancient legends they speak of mighty sorcerers who boasted of meeting one. None of them ever mentioned working alongside one. You claim to know all three. Not that I distrust you – only every explanation you give is more wondrous than the last.”
Murmon-Som stood still as a statue, immovable, untouched and with a blank stare.
“And the Nothing,” the Archmage of the Other World continued after a long pause. “You forgot the Nothing, Brother Nill. You may laugh about it, jest about it, but it looks as though you are the only one who can enter without personal risk. Not even the magon can do that. Ringwall housed many future victims of the Nothing, those who poked their noses in too often. These days, the path into Nothingness is no longer a search, it is a way for the desperate to escape their miserable lives.”
Nill agreed unwillingly. One of Mah Bu’s apprentices had suggested he visit the Nothing to find truth and magical power. In his naivety he had followed the advice and survived the resulting attack. The Nothing had granted him a questionable fame.
“Not for nothing were you chosen, by the magon and the archmages, to sit the chair of Nothingness, a chair that has been empty for so long, waiting for a master,” Murmon-Som broke the silence.
Nill wanted to reply that the empty chair was no more than a symbol, but suddenly speaking was incredibly difficult. He felt trapped in the opposing archmage’s aura and could not fight back. He did not even know how he could have fought. He felt as if time itself had become stretched and viscous, forcing its way forward ever so slowly. Murmon-Som did nothing but look, but he did so with such force that Nill forgot where he was. He could not even tell if it really was Murmon-Som holding him, or whether it was one of those magical moments in which time stops and the world ceases its movement.
Nill began to speak, but he heard his words as a drawn-out howl, incomprehensible to his own ears. He retreated to the symbol of Nothing and made himself light and lighter still. Time sped up again. Nill’s speech formed words, and he heard himself say:
From Nothing, from the one
it forms the two.
At war with itself
the three seems true.
Four, five manifold
in chaos bold
it breaks.
Nothing’s magic then takes
and keeps unseen
what was done.
The elemental symbols began to pulsate and lose color, the gentle wind stopped blowing, time moved forwards and Murmon-Som paled. His fingers dug deeper into the wood of his staff, and his already-crooked body bent lower still. Nill noticed none of this. He blinked, looked around in confusion, and finally arrived back in the present.
“What was that?” he burst out. “I felt time stand still.”
“Time does as it pleases,” the other archmage replied, having regained his composure.
“What happened?” Nill look helplessly at the man opposite him.
Murmon-Som merely shrugged. “I do not know. You spoke, it seemed to me, some sort of summoning. But I did not understand the words you said, nor did I feel their power. I cannot tell whether you were the cause or the subject of magical powers. But there is no doubt that something happened here in the Sanctuary. The smell of magic is fresh upon the air.”
The old man raised his head and sniffed. “Lots of magic, and powerful at that. Which kind, I cannot say.”
The archmage made a gesture of farewell, leaving a confused Nill behind. Nill never really knew what he was dealing with. It always felt as though someone was toying with him. Powerless, young and inexperienced in magic, yet at the same time a feared member of the High Council – it was a contradiction that would have confused those with far more knowledge than him. If Tiriwi had her way, he would have been better off turning his back on Ringwall, but she had seen that this was the only place where he could begin his search for his parents. Even more than Tiriwi he missed Brolok’s simple view of the world; fighting and resting, survival or death, food and drink were all he cared for. “Never try understanding the thoughts of an archmage,” he had always counseled. “They occupy a world others cannot.”
What he would have given to simply shepherd a herd of rams around the hills of Earthland, the sun on his back and the wind in his face! The encounter with Murmon-Som and the sudden standing still of time weighed heavily on his mind.
“People always want what they don’t have,” he sighed. “And what they don’t have seems to change all the time. But what else can you do but run after those things if there’s no place to rest?”
*
The student who had beaten Nill in a fight Ringwall, which was still spoken about, was Sergor-Don, of the lineage of Herfas-San, house of Ombras. As the son and heir to the ruler of the Fire Kingdom he demanded and received the obeisance of all those beneath him in rank as naturally as grass bends in a storm. Only Tiriwi, an Oa who did not recognize the nobles’ right to rule, and who was more than a match for the prince with her own, strange magic, and Nill, the muckling with magical powers yet without ancestry, denied him what Pentamuria’s order commanded. But this alone was not the reason for the intensity of their mutual dislike. Unable to bend the knee, one out of tradition and a sense of royalty, the other out of natural stubbornness, they collided in Ringwall more often than would be usual. It was only a matter of time until dislike became hate, and that hate forced its way to the surface.
On the day of his departure Prince Sergor-Don had challenge Nill, thrown him to the dirt and left no doubts as to who had more power and strength. But the final, fatal spell was never spoken; the mouth that commanded the insatiable flames had remained shut. It was not the fear of the mages of Ringwall that had stopped the prince from burning his opponent to ash. It was the game of cat-and-mouse, the satisfaction that Nill would have to carry the humiliation of his defeat with him until the day he died. To Sergor-Don, it was the just punishment for a common muckling who had dared demand a place with the nobility, all because Ringwall had given him the mercy of a few lessons in magic.
The prince had had little time to savor his triumph, for at that very moment Gulffir, the City of Flames, capital of the Fire Kingdom, was gripped by fear, worry and unease. The old king lay dying, valiantly fighting off the pull into the Other World. He had one duty left to do, the last duty any regent must: to give his son his blessing and a final smile. But above all else, he must witness his councilors and generals swear their oaths to follow and serve the new king. Then, and only then, was it certain that the future would look to the past for guidance, that the common folk obeyed a single will, and the surrounding powerful families accepted their new ruler. The court prayed for the heir to return in time, the sorcerers sent out magical calls and the wild riders on the plains mounted their ritualistic hunt, for the spirits to join those of the prince’s and his followers’ horses and grant them speed on the way home.
The prince heard the calls. Blazemane, his fiery chestnut steed, turned into a beacon of flames in the setting sun. The small stallion’s tough, indefatigable muscles moved in everlasting harmony. The prince had long since left his following behind. He rode at a rising trot, his knees drawn up to the horse’s withers, kneeling more than sitting. Riding like this spared the mount, but demanded everything from the rider.
The powerful hooves beat the dry earth, throwing a plume of dust into the dark blue sky. Fast riders need no herald: dryness and wind presage their arrival. The wind also brought the smells of the plains back to the prince: macchian, rosemiriam, horseweed and the powerful scent of the common bluish-gray thynus flower. After so long in Ringwall, he finally felt the freedom that was his people’s most valuable asset.
Sergor-Don sang against the wind, his long hair whipping against his ears, the tart, bitter taste of dust on his lips. The plainsflowers had never smelled sweeter, and the tears which the wind wrung from his eyes had never been saltier. Saltbringer, they called the wind; as quickly as it conjured tears it dried them again, and none in the prince’s retinue would have guessed that they were not tears of sadness. Sergor did not weep for his father.
These tears will be my last, the prince thought. They are but salted words, spelling the end of my youth and the beginning of a new future. He was surprised that the moment he had so eagerly awaited should be heralded by wistfulness. But wistfulness was fleeting, born only for the moment. Now life would have to pay what it had promised him.
Sergor-Don’s thoughts strayed from the present; his memories took control and brought him to the Tower of Worry and Hope. It was so named because one could see far into the distance from the top and witness before anyone else who returned, and who did not. Some called it Skyseeker. The tower was the tallest building in all of Gulffir. Tall and slender, it towered above the city; it almost seemed to sway in the wind like a blade of grass. Whenever his strict timetable of studies and duties had allowed for it, the young prince had been drawn to the small outlook. Depending on his mood he was either the lone sentinel that warned the land of approaching danger and saved the kingdom, or the all-powerful ruler who watched from above, rewarding the bold and punishing the idle.
Loneliness was the immediate feeling conveyed by Skyseeker’s peak, but one could also understand the strength that could grow from it. Loneliness did not bother Sergor-Don. He had endured it from the early days of his childhood, but never suffered from it. From lonesomeness grew strength, and from strength, power. And you could never have too much power, he knew.
The small platform offered little room to walk on. As he paced around it, a set of stones always interrupted his concentration. A watcher up here had full view of the surrounding area, save for the sun’s point at midday. It was blocked by a sort of bay. There was no entrance to it, nor windows to look out from. It was as solid as the walls below. In his childish anger he had beaten against it with his fists, and learned the lesson that anger can amplify pain severely.
One day, he had stood on tip-toe upon the winding stair that led to the top to touch the bottom of the walled-off area. There was no entrance here either, but as he scratched the stones he found that the mortar had rotted. He drew his knife and plunged it repeatedly into the gap between the stones until the mortar had fully given way, releasing a pitiful sigh of ancient air.
There was a hollow space there! It had taken many more visits for Sergor-Don to remove the first stone and place it on one of the steps, and many more still until he had enough stones to stand on to reach into the hole. He had to sink his arm up to his shoulder into the hole, and all he got for his trouble was an old cloak, rolled up and skewered by a spearhead. The cloak was so old that it started to fall apart as he removed it. Dust and brown tatters he held in his hands. But hidden within that rolled-up cloak was a treasure more valuable than all the riches of the Five Kingdoms. It was several old parchments, hastily bundled together. They were torn in places, burnt in others, and stained all over in different colors that told of blood, the sweat of countless hands and tears from long-blind eyes.
The prince remembered clearly how he had held them close to his face and breathed in the magical vapors that still clung to the scraps after so many years. It was all he could do at the time; the writing was unreadable to him. The map that was rolled up with the other parchment was equally useless to him. But Sergor-Don, the young prince, was not a child like any other. He stood still for a moment. Then he carefully stowed everything back in the space, returned the stones to their positions, cleaned the dirt and the dust from his precious clothes and made his way to Auran-San, his father’s First Advisor.
“Teach me to read!” he commanded in his child’s voice.
Prince Sergor-Don read all he could find in Gulffir, and as he did so he found himself pushing further and further into the past. He finally read the tales that the court scribes had written to honor their kings. The older the stories were, the closer their writing resembled that on the parchments he had found. To his dismay, the only thing he was not allowed to read were the books of magic they kept at court.