C12 Chapter XII

Nill looked down at Fugman’s Refuge from above, the capital of Metal World, governed by the Trade King Talldal-Fug. The city lay at the center of a huge valley and was surrounded by fertile acres. The river that had once carved this valley into the land must have stormed here countless ages ago. It had gnawed at the mountainsides to the left and to the right in the fruitless effort of escaping its boundaries. Nature had let it rampage until it found an exit on the far side of the valley, where it fell to the depths over a rocky threshold. Water that calms down loses not only its anger, but also its burdens; and so the gargling giant had refilled the space it had dug with earth. This was a blessing to the people who lived there, for it granted them unparalleled amounts of fertile land, the lifeblood of any city. With each fruit that grew and was harvested, the ground gave a little of its strength, and just when it seemed exhausted, the river overflowed again and revitalized the earth.

The farmland was not the only basis for the legendary wealth of Fugman’s Refuge. The metal of the mountains, the diligence of its inhabitants and the infamous cunning of its rulers were simply less visible.

The trade kings of Metal World all came from the lineage of Fug. Only twice in the land’s history had the long line of Fugs been interrupted by temporary regents, and both times their rule had lasted only a few short winters until another Fugman sat upon the throne. This family lent the capital its name.

As power and influence were concentrated in Ringwall, Fugman’s Refuge amassed gold and silver, sparkling jewels and thick, densely-woven brocade cloth. When Nill first glimpsed the city from atop a rock in the mountains, he saw none of it; no gleaming rooftops, no extravagant buildings, nothing to suggest the legendary wealth of the city. Most of the houses were mere dark blocks of unvarying height. They stood close together in the center, by the trade palace, and further apart as they reached the outskirts of the city. Nill noticed something else, too: this city had no walls and was completely unprotected. The only other city he had ever seen without a city wall was Raiinhir, the great circle that surrounded Ringwall. But that city at least had the mages’ watchful gaze.

What would happen if an invading army burnt the farmland and the farmer’s huts to the ground? Nill wondered.

Fugman’s Refuge seemed to invite not only merchants, but conquerors. According to what Nill had read, the city had never been taken. Something must have been protecting it. Nill looked around. Perhaps it was its unique position? Several roads led to it, and each road went through a pass. Mountain passes were far easier to defend.

Nill raised a hand to his brows to block out the glaring sunlight. As far as he could tell from this distance, there were no buildings in any of the passes that would have warranted the description of a mountain fort. Only a few small houses that collected tariffs, or else checked on the lowlifes that usually lurked around cities. They were always the same, always on the lookout for easy prey, people too stupid, weak or sick to protect themselves. It was the first law of nature on a much smaller scale: only the strong and clever survived.

Nill decided to enter the city with special caution, for what looked weak but had never been defeated must have powers beyond his reckoning.

He was not quite sure at which point he felt like he had left the land outside behind and entered into the city proper. It could have been when he reached the first house with three storys. The lowest one was half sunken into the ground, and instead of windows Nill saw a number of small holes in the wall, about the size of a child’s head. It looked vulnerable to arson. The middle story was the first to have real windows. Small and narrow, they reminded him more of crenels than gaps designed to let the daylight in. A stair led to this floor rather than to the one below, and at its top there was a large, colorful wooden door. This door, too, looked as though it offered little defense against a well-swung ax or hammer. Nill’s wonder grew.

The living quarters appeared to be on the top floor. The windows were as big as Nill had come to know them in other cities, and they let plenty of light in. They were latticed with strong metal bars, anchored deep into the masonry. The house was topped with a flat roof that extended a little beyond the walls and blocked the sunshine from the street below. Nill was baffled as to the purpose of this odd decision, but he was certain that Brolok could explain it to him – once he had found him.

The wide streets were full of merchants attempting to shout over one another. Long, narrow carts were pushed everywhere, and a biting stench came from the holes in the wayside. The city waited for the next rain to come; it was long overdue and would finally rinse the streets of the filth and rubbish that had accumulated there. Nill dodged beggars, whores and cutpurses with well-honed precision.

“Say,” he addressed the person closest to him, “where is the blacksmith’s in Fugman’s Refuge?”

“ The blacksmith’s? Where do you think you are? There are more than two dozen blacksmiths here.” The man eyed Nill contemptuously, his gaze lingering on the threadbare clothing and shabby boots. “Just pick any. They’re all over the place.” The man snorted, turned back to his business and left Nill standing.

As Nill was considering his next steps, a young woman approached him cautiously from the side. She was thin, with sunken skin above her collarbones that made her slender neck appear even longer. Her long, blonde hair was unkempt and fell lankly to her shoulders. Her eyes looked huge in that thin, bony face, but Nill detected no hint of weakness. Something he could not quite make out flickered around the young woman.

“Some strength and warmth for me and my husband, kind sorcerer, please.”

Nill had to laugh in spite of himself. Although neither his village nor Ringwall had known beggars, they were everywhere outside of his sheltered world. The hopeless, the outcast, the poor. In the Fire cities, begging was an acknowledged art, or at least a skill that stood in some regard. Here in Metal World, it seemed contemptible; the beggars stank and were clad in filthy clothes; they smelled worse than the streets they lived on. They begged for bread, for coin, or sometimes even for drink. But begging for magic? For strength and warmth? Nill had never heard of such a thing.

“Do I not detect magic within you, Sister?” he therefore asked slowly.

The girl winced. “A little, m’lord, a little. But nowhere near enough. Would you help us?”

It cost Nill a considerable amount of effort to follow the girl. He did not know this city and was sure everyone could see it, making him a singularly easy prey for all sorts of criminals. He would not be the first person to get lured into a trap by a woman. But, he reasoned, he looked poor, and he had no personal wealth to speak of. Perhaps that would lessen the danger. Nevertheless, he conjured a basic shield of Metal and Fire energy to protect him. It was difficult to do surreptitiously, but at least it would shield him from a surprise swing with a short-range weapon.

“Don’t worry, there’s no danger here,” the girl said.

“I’m not worried,” Nill replied.

“Your shield says otherwise.”

“You can see the Fire and Metal?” Nill was surprised.

The girl shook her head. “No, m’lord, just the shield. Not the elements.”

Great, Nill scolded himself, now she knows what elements I used for it. You talk too much. Brolok would have told me to think before I speak, and by the elements, he was right.

“There!” The young woman pointed at a bundle of rags, cowering at the corner of a house.

Nill approached it cautiously. More than once he had known rags to spring into unexpected action. Magical shield or not, he was not keen on being attacked from below with a knife, although that was less likely in daylight anyway.

His steps grew ever shorter until he stopped, still a considerable distance away from the bundle. Nill closed his two corporeal eyes and opened his third, incorporeal, one, and Fugman’s Refuge transformed. The people around him went transparent, their edges undefined. Their auras were all the brighter for it. The rags in the corner had an aura too, bright and dancing like a fire. What frightened Nill was the gaping tear in the aura. Now he understood why the girl had not asked for bread or money, but for strength.

The tear went from the man’s brow along a wild zig-zag across his heart, down past the navel and ended just beneath the sad figure’s manhood. Several spots showed signs of inexpert healing, but the wound had reopened every time. This man would soon lose all his magic if no aid came to him. Whether that meant his life force too, Nill did not know – he was no healer.

The young woman crouched beside the hunched figure and stroked the man’s hair lovingly.

“I’ve brought help. You’ll feel a bit better soon.”

The man looked up at Nill and grunted: “I’d’ve preferred to welcome you properly, as befitting an archmage. Well, at least my kingdom’s big enough for you to rest; it’s every street in this stinking place. True, the pantry and kitchen aren’t up to scratch, but still.”

Nill jumped as he recognized the voice, but he forced himself to remain calm. “The stones are hard when you’re used to the glamour of underground caves, but at least here you don’t have to deal with arrogant nobles.”

The girl’s eyes flitted back and forth between the two; she heard the words but understood nothing.

“It’s about time you got here, old friend. I’ve been better. You got any food? You know, alms for the desperate and poor?”

“You don’t sound too desperate to me. Not nearly desperate enough for people to give you things. I detect a trace of hubris in you still. You’re a lousy beggar, my friend. Get up and find proper work. How about… blacksmithing?”

Nill grinned. The bundle of rags with the shredded aura was all too familiar to him. It was Brolok, his friend. The only person he felt he could truly trust. Well, almost: there was still Tiriwi, but they had only become friends a little later. Here before him sat Brolok, a sorcerer of Ringwall, and master smith, trained under the watchful eye of Master Galvan in the mages’ forge. Brolok the warrior, with the cunning of the cleverest muckling and the combat experience of the most privileged nobles.

Brolok’s dirty face grinned back at him.

“You’re right, I’m rubbish at begging.”

Nill dug around in his bags and pulled out something to eat. “Here – it won’t fix your aura, but it’ll fill your belly for now. How did it happen? Didn’t Empyrade teach you to nurture your Wood magic?”

“Of course she did,” Brolok replied with a full mouth. “But isn’t it every good piece of advice’s fate to be thoroughly ignored? Or did you always do what you were told?”

Nill laughed out loud. “Not entirely. I remember a certain Brolok telling me time and time again not to get on the nobles’ bad side, and to leave the archmages well alone. Today I know that I was extremely lucky. Things could have gone very differently.”

Brolok grinned again and scratched at his scalp; he caught a few lice and crushed them beneath his thumbnail. “Easy to see why people gossip about you being a ‘chosen one.’ That kind of talk is easier to believe than assuming that there’s something high above that shits luck and hits you with it.”

Nill gave a theatrical sniff. “Luck doesn’t stink.”

“Oh, you.” Brolok gave Nill a friendly punch to the ribs, but it was nowhere near as strong as once it had been. Despite their joking, Brolok was a mere shadow of his former self. No amount of laughter and joy in their reunion could hide that fact.

“We’ve got to fix your aura,” Nill said, suddenly serious. “You’re losing strength by the day. Imagine you’re in a fight with an enemy who’s sapping your strength, and you’re just lying around, letting it happen. Would you? No. So stop lying around. Do you have a home?”

“Not anymore. We live in the streets now. No strength for work, no work for money, no money for a home. As you said yourself, I’m not the best beggar. Before you can make it work, you have to tell your pride to get lost. Maybe I could do that much, pride isn’t worth much to begin with. But then you have to forsake your dignity, and I can’t do that. What are you when you’ve lost your human dignity? Doesn’t make a difference at that point whether you stay alive, or starve because nobody’s giving you food. You’re not human anymore.”

Brolok’s voice grew steadily bitterer throughout his tirade, and the laughter that had surrounded them only moments before had slunk away in a huff.

“By the way, I think you’ve met my wife. Her name is Bairne. She’s a witch.”

Nill looked at the girl sitting next to Brolok and chewing a piece of dried meat from Nill’s supplies with difficulty. She made no attempt at standing up again; her wide eyes were still flitting back and forth between the two men.

“Hello, Bairne. I wouldn’t have thought Brolok would get married so soon,” Nill said.

Bairne did not answer.

Brolok did. “It’s good to have someone around you. Helps with loneliness, and it’s good to have a warm meal when you get home from work.”

“You could have married a commoner.”

“No. That was my father’s mistake. The arcanists shouldn’t mingle with those who aren’t. The children born of such unions suffer too much. Even though I can’t feel all the elements perfectly, I’m still a sorcerer, even as a half-arcanist. I don’t want my children to suffer like me.”

“You could have picked a noblewoman.”

“And you could pull your head out of the clouds. What noblewoman would follow a half-arcanist? And besides, I may be proud of my status of sorcerer, but I earned it. I’m not proud of my father’s noble heritage. What good did it do me to be related to them? None at all. And you know that as well as I do. No, no, a witch is perfect for me; and besides, witches aren’t nearly as strange as the Oas.”

Nill took the time to study Bairne a little more closely. He did not know what Brolok had told her about the time they had spent together in Ringwall. Her expression did not show whether she had ever heard any more about the Oas than their name. She simply sat there, chewing her piece of dried meat. She chewed slowly and deliberately, not with the famished appetite of one who has not eaten in a long time. Nill wondered why.

“Do you have a blessing?” Nill asked.

“Are you mad? Who would have given us one? My father would’ve disapproved that she’s an arcanist, my grandfather only cares about noble blood, and my mother is scared witless by anything to do with magic. We’re just together.”

“You should visit your father. He’s waiting for you. His anger at your disobedience is only skin-deep. Make peace with him before the rift between the two of you grows too big and tears apart the most important bond known to man. Your mother shouldn’t have to choose between her husband and you.”

“You’re talking like an old man, Nill. All this chatter of fathers, mothers and children,” Brolok argued. “You don’t even have a wife yet.”

“You’re right as usual, Brolok. True, I don’t have a wife, but neither do I have parents.”

“Sorry. I’m just a bit caught up in myself, is all.”

Nill nodded sympathetically. “Now tell me, what happened to your aura?”

“Nothing much. I was forging a weapon and either I overestimated my abilities or I grabbed a piece of cursed iron. Whatever it was, the magic didn’t go into the weapon. It happens. You had more than one failed attempt at something, as I recall.” Brolok’s mischievous grin returned. “This time, it was different. I still don’t know what happened. The magic bounced right back off the iron and melded with my aura. It felt horrible. It was like life and death fusing, as if it meant for me to become part of the weapon, or the other way around. What ended up happening was some unholy fusion of the living and unliving worlds.

“I immediately cast a counterspell and the false magic vanished. Only problem was that it took part of my aura with it. That wouldn’t have been too bad on its own. Give your body time and your aura will regenerate. But this time it couldn’t, because the tear left behind a couple of wonderful hard edges. Calluses don’t heal, either. Wounds like that have to close from the inside, and that takes a long time. Ever since then my life force has been bleeding out. For now, it’s mostly my magical power, but with it I’m losing something else. You know, useless things like muscle strength, happiness, humor… apart from gallows humor. That stays until the bitter end.”

“So why didn’t you let someone else heal you?”

“To be honest, at first I didn’t think it was such a problem. I had a few more jobs to do that would have earned me a lot of money, which I meant to turn into some really special metals. Meteorite iron, for example. Here in Metal World you can get anything for the right coin. Talldal-Fug’s household keeps an iron grasp on these things; they don’t come cheap.

“Anyway, in the end I saw that it wasn’t healing so I went to a healer. He told me it was beyond his capabilities. I knew it would be difficult, or Bairne could have helped me. ‘Go to the court,’ he told me, and like an idiot I did as he said. Of course I didn’t get to the royal healer – he’s way too high up – but there’s always a bunch of them about court who know their stuff. So I went there, all kitted up with my leather armor from Ringwall and a couple of weapons. Showing what you’re capable of can be helpful.

“Then this healer asked me what sort of madness had crept into my muckling blacksmith brain to ask him to heal me. Pissed himself with laughter, the bastard. I could’ve told him I’m a sorcerer of Ringwall just like him, with less experience. But it’s not a good idea to go boasting if you’re asking for a favor.

“‘So you’re the one claiming to forge magical weapons,’ he went on. ‘Remember this, boy: blacksmiths are mucklings and mucklings have no business forging magical weapons. If you want magical weapons, you take your weapons to us court sorcerers and we’ll enchant them.’

“He was angry. Didn’t understand why until I saw through their dirty business. You know what they do, Nill?”

Nill had no idea.

“Alright, so when you enchant a normal weapon, it gets magical. But no spell lasts forever, and so the enchantment fades away after a while and you need to get it done again. Good money maker, that. Imagine relying on an enchantment and suddenly it’s gone in the middle of a fight.”

“I could enchant your weapons too, even if not as powerful,” Nill suggested.

“Forget it. The sorcerers are cunning; they weave a field into every piece of iron they sell. It’s never seen in battle, and lasts a long time for it. It’ll ruin any enchantment you put on it. Sure, you could get rid of it, or wait three winters for it to fade, but that’s far too much effort. If you can afford a magical weapon, it’s obvious you’ve got money, and if you’ve got money you’ve got no patience. These people just pay for convenience; they’ll get their gold back soon enough. I wonder if the court sorcerers didn’t sneak me that cursed blank on purpose.”

“And you do it differently?”

“From the ground up. I infuse the steel with magic as I forge it; that ignores the field. The magic becomes part of the weapon rather than a slim layer on top of it, and it’ll never fade. The kind of things I make are real magical weapons, the kind Galvan makes in Ringwall. It’s not even a fair comparison to the rubbish you get here. Oh, another thing: Ringwall gets its metal from here in Metal World too, even if the court sorcerers are far too scared to weave any sort of nonsense into those pieces. Ringwall pays with precious gems they get from Earthland. If Talldal-Fug doesn’t feel like delivering, Ringwall gets fidgety. As long as the old glutton doesn’t overdo it, Ringwall does as the Trade King says. Whatever. All I’m saying is that the people here in Fugman’s Refuge keep their noses pretty high up. Anyway, the healer threw me out, but first he confiscated my armor and weapons.”

“What? You’re not serious!”

“Oh, I’m serious. He said: ‘I’ve given you valuable time and information. Consider it payment.’

“So I went home, wanted to get my sword and make a bit of a ruckus up there. It gets worse: my little workshop was all locked up and cleared out. Bairne was hiding.”

“Why didn’t you go to your father? Couldn’t he have healed you?”

Brolok’s lips curved in a disparaging grimace. “Do you still have any sense left?”

Nill shook his head in disbelief. And this bullheaded boy once told me that mucklings can’t afford to be proud if they want to survive. As cunning as you are, my friend, at your core you’re no different from the rest of the nobles.

“I’m no healer,” he said out loud, “but I think I can help you. I’d imagine fixing an aura should be easier than healing a flesh wound.”

Nill concentrated his aura and melded it into the ragged one that surrounded Brolok. He absorbed some parts, weakening Brolok further still as he did so, but a human aura could not mend while the weapon’s energy still polluted it. Once the remains of the weapon’s magic were gone, the aura simply closed again. Brolok was healed, even if he still lacked magical power, and his aura was pale and thin. Nill lent Brolok some of his own strength, but the rest was up to his friend.

Brolok clapped him on the shoulder.

“Thank you, Nill. Can’t tell you how good it feels – it’s incredible. Give me your staff, old friend.”

“Er – why?”

“Who put those caps on?”

“Your father. Don’t tell me you don’t recognize his style.”

Brolok grinned and said: “The old dog.”

“What?”

“Don’t you see the magic in them?”

“No.”

“Blind as a bat. Archmage and you can’t even see a Metal spell. The tip is a finger longer than it looks, and the end has a springy layer in it. Saves you strength while you walk and climb. Great for the mountains. Oh, he’s an artist all right, my old man. Looks like he’s not given up on magic completely. Here,” Brolok said as he handed the staff back to Nill. “I’ll be back soon.”

Brolok disappeared into the thronging crowd and left a confused Nill and a silent Bairne behind. Even if they had tried, they could not have found him amongst so many people. Nill attempted to start a conversation several times, but Bairne responded monosyllabically and finally not at all.

“Are you worried about Brolok? Don’t be, he’s tough,” Nill said.

Bairne said nothing. Nill sighed and looked up and down the street. Strange figures walked around. In their blue and black cloaks and shirts and capes they all looked dark. Not dangerous, but joyless. The only spots of color in the dark crowd were several old men in their stately robes. There stood one; there, another ambled around. They exchanged gestures and a few short words when they met – otherwise, they kept to themselves. The citizens of Fugman’s Refuge avoided them wherever possible, but nobody seemed too bothered when bumping into another. Nill would have liked to know whether these well-dressed men were noble sorcerers or magical nobles, and was just wondering this when he heard a rough voice behind him.

“What’re you standing around here for? Get lost.”

Nill looked up, and then around. Bairne seemed to have left. Nill was staring straight into an unmistakeably hostile face. It belonged to a skinny man of indeterminable age, but evident authority. Nill opened his mouth to respond, but the man expanded his aura, touched Nill with it – which Nill found highly rude – and said: “I said, get lost. You deaf, boy?”

Nill found this rather more rude than necessary. He had his own aura condensed to the milky gray and was just thinking that he might answer in kind when he noticed he could not move.

“Take him away,” the man said.

Two armed men lifted Nill’s frozen body onto their shoulders and marched off. Nill’s position was uncomfortable, but just as he could not move, he could also no longer feel his body. Only some of his senses still remained to him. Four sorcerers were around him. He saw that much. One had distracted him, a second had stood behind him and the other two were the ones who had just before stood on the opposite side of the street, talking.

A tidy trap , Nill thought. What are they going to do with me?

He would find out soon enough. Up a few stairs, along long and narrow corridors, down some stairs – more down than up. Doors banged open and shut. Nill was thrown to the ground in a small room and another door closed – this time to the room he was in. Then silence.

The freezing spell on his body began to wane. The four sorcerers were gone and Nill straightened up with difficulty. Now he felt the rough fists and the hard floor’s welcome. He rubbed the aching spots and tried to get his blood to flow properly again. He opened up cautiously to the sounds around him and listened. Nothing. No sounds, and more importantly, no magic he could detect. He felt as though he was wearing a veil. Nill reached deep into the walls, spoke a Fire spell to illuminate the small room, but nothing happened. He felt the echo of Water magic quench his flames. His own Water spell was absorbed by the earth, and his Earth magic was crushed beneath Wood. Wood was split in two by Metal, and Metal melted under the Fire. Nill hit the shapeless contours of the large stone blocks that made up the wall. His light bolt was swallowed whole by the muddy Earth and Water; an attempt at darkness was nullified by Metal and Fire. Wood ignored them both.

The veil on the walls that blurred the edges of the stones was an illusion. Beneath their soft contours, the blocks were rough enough to scratch his skin. They were cold and breathed the kind of dampness that creeps into your bones and drains them of warmth, and yet there is so little of it that you cannot simply wipe it away. Everything was cold in here, even the air. The coldness came from a motionlessness that made it feel stale; there was hardly enough strength in it to revitalize Nill’s breathing. The only things in here that might once have seemed alive were a small hole in the ceiling, a larger one in the ground, and the gaps around the heavy wooden door; but they were now as dead as anything, filled with rotted wood and the inflexibility of a long-gone spirit.

Nill felt as though a weight was squeezing him, a weight he could not shake; it came from above, from the sides and from below, and it robbed all of his attempts at magic of their power before he could even begin. He tried to fight it off, concentrated his energy and rampaged against the walls, but for naught. The walls did not even fight back. They merely swallowed his energy, gobbled it up with large, greedy bites, leaving him exhausted and empty-feeling.

Panic flooded through him. The retreating wave pulled him along and under the sand of the sea floor and spat him back out. Nill coughed. What was this place?

Nill felt defeated but he was not about to give up. Even though he was no master of the five elements and had barely any experience in combat, he knew a thing or two about the ancient magic. He pulled the darkness from the walls and transformed it into light, prepared to burst the walls with its brightness – but it did not happen. The dark energy felt hollow, a shell on his powerlessness; the light magic unfolded as an idea and sank into the pores of the stones. Nill grew dizzy with exertion. He managed to grasp the wall before he fell to the floor. There was more than one power at work here. His elemental magic was parried before it was cast, and at the same time something sapped the strength from his body when he attempted the exact opposite. He had no choice but to wait.

And so the time flowed on. Nothing moved behind the closed door. Once, a scratching sound in the ceiling made him look up, but he saw nothing, no matter how closely he looked. He gave up when a cold wetness on his forehead made him jump. Thick droplets were falling from the small hole in the ceiling, right down onto him. Nill caught a few in his hand and tasted cautiously with the tip of his lip. It tasted horrible, but not poisonous. At least he would not die of thirst.

The sun was low when Brolok returned. With his bag of weapons over his shoulder and the leather armor on his back, chest and shoulders, he stood confidently and smiling a satisfied smile. They would have to hurry a little now, he thought.

“Where are those two?” he cursed under his breath. “We’ve no time to waste.”

As he spoke he saw Nill’s staff lying in the dirt of a gutter, half sunken in the mud amongst rags and half-rotted cabbages.

“Can’t I leave you alone for even a moment?” he grumbled as he looked around in worry. He bent over and picked up the staff. He hid his worry well enough as he walked along, taking care to remain in the shadows of the houses. A short hiss made him freeze for a moment, but then he recognized Bairne and relaxed.

“What happened?” he whispered.

“They got Nill,” the answer came back, even more quietly.

“Who?”

“Talldal-Fug’s sorcerers.”

“What do they want with him? Tell me what happened; leave nothing out.”

Bairne explained in a voice between a whisper and murmur how she had seen one or two well-dressed court sorcerers walking along the street, but had not paid them further attention. The street was, after all, a direct route to the palace. Everything was calm until one of the sorcerers addressed Nill. Bairne had not been able to make out what it was about; the sorcerer had shoved her aside and put himself where she had stood. She had thought it a good idea to hide in a corner where she was less noticeable, but could still watch the group. Then everything had happened so quickly: one of the sorcerers who had passed by returned, and two others crossed the road. Nill had apparently attempted something – she did not know what – but the four sorcerers had him in their grasp and two armed men had carried him away, towards the palace.

“If they meant to kill him they would have just done it there and then,” Brolok thought aloud. “They didn’t seem too worried about being in the open. Having two guards take away a paralyzed man in broad daylight would attract attention. The sorcerers must have felt strong and wanted to be seen. Anything else makes no sense. We have to get Nill out of there. Being stuck in one of Talldal-Fug’s dungeons won’t do him any good.”

“And how are you going to do it?” Bairne whispered.

“No idea,” Brolok muttered. “None at all.” For a moment he seemed helpless and indecisive, a mixture of emotions he displayed all too rarely.

“First we have to find out where they’ve locked him up. We’ll figure something out,” he added.

“Are you going to just fight your way out? I see you’ve got your weapons back.”

The tone of Bairne’s voice demonstrated clearly that she thought this method could not end well.

“A plague upon the lot of them!” Brolok exploded. He laid aside a small round shield and emptied his weapon-sack. A hammer, a sickle and several long, round pieces of metal fell out. Bairne did not know what to make of them.

“My weapons are in the hands of some noble or other. You can bet they had the gold pulled right out of their noses for my blades. Only my armor, equipment and this little treasure here weren’t sold yet.”

“What is it?” Bairne asked, indicating the odd pieces of metal.

“I’ll tell you later, if we have time. In any case, I’ve got no weapons. Can you make a fire hot enough for me to forge in?”

Bairne shook her head sadly.

“I feel naked without a weapon. I’m too weak a sorcerer to face the might of Talldal-Fug alone. Besides, I think there’ll be more than a few people after me soon enough. Trust me when I say that they didn’t just hand my sack over, if you know what I mean. I’ll try and scrounge a few weapons – I’ll be back as soon as possible. See if you can’t find out where they took Nill. Think you can do that?”

Bairne stared with her big eyes and did not move.

Brolok sighed and was quickly on his way. He did not stay long enough to see the fear in Bairne’s eyes turn to burning resolve.

The tall sorcerer stood before Talldal-Fug, who was sitting in a comfortable chair, his hands around a fine chalice of wine. He ran his finger around the top and it made a singing sound, then he laid it aside.

“We have the mage. It was easier than we expected. Is there any hint to why Ringwall thinks he’s dangerous enough for the magon to want him dead or alive?”

“The magon cares very much,” Talldal-Fug said, his fingers reaching again for the cup. “They want him dead more than alive; the money is for his corpse.”

“So why did we kidnap him? In front of half the city, no less!” The sorcerer was agitated. “Keeping him here isn’t without its own dangers. There’s something about that boy... it would be good to know what we’re in for with him.”

“Oh, you artists ,” Talldal-Fug sighed theatrically. “You have no sense for business. If Ringwall wants him dead, they can kill him themselves. We live off trade, not conspiracies and assassinations. It’s bad for business. And besides…” Talldal-Fug made a small pause to show that this was the important part, “we can demand considerably more for a living mage; if our price is not met, he just might escape. We have costs to consider, and we have something Ringwall wants. Ringwall was never frugal when it comes to getting what it wants.”

“Ringwall could read it as provocation… extortion.” The sorcerer’s face was filled with concern.

“Oh, not at all. You worry too much. It’s all a matter of negotiation. Dead or alive… there are misunderstandings. Death is so final. We wouldn’t want to do something wrong. My friend, leave the talking to me. You are merely responsible for the prisoner’s, ah, well-being, and keeping him where he is. How have you secured him?”

“He’s in a cellar room under my house and is guarded by three sorcerers directly under my command. One is in front of the door, he keeps guard over the front wall and the two side walls, another is responsible for the back wall and the floor. A third is currently in my chambers, keeping the room’s ceiling safe, and an eye on the boy. We have covered the room in magic from ceiling to floor. Nobody inside is capable of casting a spell. The walls are so strong and the door so heavy that he could not break out by physical means.”

“And his well-being?”

“For now he’s living off the water we let in through the ceiling, drop by drop.”

“A wise decision. We must hurry. We need a solution before he starves. Send word to Ringwall and inform our dear friends on the High Council what we have to offer.”

Bairne had come to Brolok like a dog without a pack, and then she had simply stayed with him. She had never told him where she had come from, nor where she wanted to go. She was definitely not from Metal World, and most certainly not a citizen of Fugman’s Refuge. Nevertheless, she found it easy to find her way around the city; all the big streets led to the palace, as if the Trade King wanted enemies to attack.

“If you invite your friends, invite your enemies too. If you want free trade, you have to risk weapons coming into your home and the hands that hold them.” It was a common saying amongst the trade kings, but Fugman’s Refuge had never been taken. Not that there had been no attempts, Bairne knew. But the stories of how the city had defended itself were conflicting.

She would have to infiltrate the palace complex unnoticed. It was surrounded by a very solid, but not excessively high, wall, which itself was enclosed by a broad circular street. The only means of entry was the main gate, where two bored guards were positioned.

Bairne slipped into a passing group of loudly-talking merchants and simply walked past the guards. They did not even raise their eyes.

The palace complex was a city within a city. Here, the streets were corridors, and in place of houses there were shops and offices. Several doors stood open, bright light flooding onto the floor in front of them. Bairne caught a glimpse of the inside, but she saw no more than talking people and busy scribes. She followed every corridor she came upon and slowly she understood the layout of the palace. In the center, behind a large, ornate door, were the Trade King’s private quarters. His residence was a tower, surrounded by a single narrow hallway on all sides. It was the only building without windows; in their place, there were two small crenels where archers might be positioned. Its roof was flat and crowned by a battlement. It looked as though it would be the best-protected place in the city, as any attackers could not gather around the tower in a group.

The rest of the palace was publicly accessible. Bairne muttered a few words and retreated to an unlit corner. She would never find Nill in this chaos. She closed her eyes and let her spirit wander. Three… no, four places had signs of awakened magic. Something was happening there, but she could not make out what it was. Another place… a strange aura grew, it grew stronger and bigger and seemed to devour any magic that came near it… and then there was—

Bairne keeled over from a forceful kick to her ribs.

“Move it, girl. This isn’t a resthouse. Who even let you in?” Two rough hands yanked her into a standing position.

“My apologies, m’lord, but I have something to sell and don’t know who to ask.”

“What’s an urchin like you got to sell? Something you’ve stolen, I’ll bet. Show me.” The voice was no less hostile, but had lost a little of its iciness.

Bairne hesitated as her hand moved toward her neck. Her talisman did not have the same powers as a true amulet, but it was no mere trinket. She grasped the leather band around her neck and with her other hand pulled out a tooth from her shirt.

“Please, it’s the last thing I’ve got left.”

“Just a tooth? Not even metal,” the guard said with palpable disappointment.

Bairne knew she had won. If the talisman had had any value, the guard would have taken it from her. A tooth would sell for nothing.

“It’s no ordinary truth. There’s writing on it. There’s a spell in that tooth.”

“What kind of spell?” The guard’s curiosity returned.

“Don’t know. Only the sorcerers can read.”

“Tell you what, I’ll help you, girl,” the guard said, his voice now warm and generous; but there was an uncanny gleam in his eyes. “The only ones who can tell you anything about magical items are the court sorcerers, you’re right. You’d best find one of the king’s councilors. There’s five of them. Their quarters are right next to the tower, you’ll have seen it. Just go in there and ask them, can’t get worse than no for an answer.” The guard laughed, as though he had just told an amusing tale.

Bairne heard the falseness in his voice, but she thanked him all the same and continued towards the tower. She looked over her shoulder timidly and saw the man standing there, his eyes upon her. He waved encouragingly at her. Bairne was not nearly stupid enough to be unaware of what would happen if she followed his advice. But as long as his gaze was fixed on her in anticipation of the spectacle that was sure to follow if she disturbed a royal advisor, she could not simply slink away.

The door to the house was closed. Carefully she pulled at the big, cast-iron ring. The door protested at first, but then swung open with a small creak. It was dark and empty inside. Bairne had no intention of running into any more guards, or anyone else for that matter, so she decided to wait here until the guard grew bored of waiting himself and continued on his patrol. She sat down beside the door, closed her eyes and allowed her spirit to walk again. At least here she would not get kicked in the ribs.

Magical streams jittered everywhere, forming fields small and large. The strongest of these was around the tower. Where there’s sorcerers, there’s magic , she thought. None of these betrayed any sign of a struggle. It was all just elemental magic, as it was used everywhere else.

The strange, pale aura still wandered around aimlessly, and it was slowly coming closer. Bairne decided to find out more about it. But what she was really looking for was something she could swear she had almost found when the guard had disturbed her. It was a place in Fugman’s Refuge that was utterly devoid of magic. Not simply the absence of an aura, when nobody was near; not even the tiniest hint of Earth or Wood. Even the otherwise ubiquitous Metal energy had not been there.

Bairne opened the door a hair and slipped out; to her relief, the guard had grown bored and left. She smiled. Men have no patience. A shuffling sound made her look around, staring into the darkness. A shadow crept along the wall; a shadow with a pale, mottled aura. It was wide and heavy. It came up to her chest, which was not saying much; Bairne was not a tall woman.

She stood frozen in the half-darkness. The shadow, too, stopped moving. Her heart skipped a beat. The shadow continued. Whoever owned that aura had some connection to the arcane, but it was no human. Or was it? If it was, it was crawling. And it had a magic Bairne did not understand.

Ramsker, as the diligent guard that he was, had noticed the four sorcerers long before they had approached Nill, but he had not anticipated the danger they posed. Other beasts were easy to read; humans, on the other hoof, were not. His mind was not advanced enough to understand what happened, but he knew on a deeper, more primal level that Nill was not consenting to being carried away.

As always when Nill was in danger, Ramsker’s mind cleared and made him see things from more than a simple ram’s view. It made him strong and clever. Although his stomach demanded to leave the city, for edible food was in short supply here, he resisted the temptation and instead followed the sorcerers to a tall black door. He stayed in the shadows nearby until the day was done and the sun had left the sky. Then he moved out, never staying in one place, never retracing his steps until he was certain he knew where his master was being kept.

Ramsker understood that he could not free Nill without help. So he made his way to find Brolok and the witch… he did not know her name, but he knew her smell and the sounds she made when she moved. That would be enough.

A ewe is a ewe, Ramsker thought slowly. She will be with her ram.

That was all well and good, but Brolok had disappeared too. Ramsker had no choice but to wander around Fugman’s Refuge, his eyes and ears and nose open to anything that might help. He kept mostly to the castle lane, and there remained mostly near the big door Nill had disappeared through. One of the four men had left the building since and entered the tower. Nothing else had happened. It was dark now, and even his keen ears could not hear a sound through the mighty door. The only noise he heard were cautious, quiet steps in the hallway ahead of him. Ramsker trotted closer. The steps had stopped, and so did Ramsker. He sniffed the air.

The ewe, he thought, and he stepped forward and nudged her belly lightly with his horns. Bairne’s fear evaporated.

“What are you doing here?” she asked numbly as she stared at Nill’s ram.

Humans are so thick, Ramsker mused and nudged her forward. Bairne tried to stand still, but she did not have the strength to resist the ram’s insistence.

“Alright, alright,” she whispered and allowed Ramsker to lead her to the black door. “In there?” she asked.

Ramsker’s slanted yellow eyes closed and Bairne could feel his aura expanding and then contracting again.

“Nill is behind this door?”

Ramsker’s thoughts grew more liquid and quick, and his opinion of humans and their abilities sank to a new low.

Why don’t you just go inside and check? he asked. Nill sometimes understood him, but this ewe was evidently too stupid for that. He nudged again, considerably more impatiently, and less gently, this time.

“I’m going in there,” Bairne told the ram. “If you see someone coming, hit the door so I can prepare.”

Ramsker pushed her even more forcefully and then retreated to the shadow of the stones.

This door, too, was unlocked. The passage behind it was unlit. It went straight ahead and disappeared into the darkness. As she followed it, she arrived at a winding spiral stair that led up. Suddenly she felt as though she had been hit with lightning. In front of her was the strange place with no magic. Several doors were locked with powerful magical seals. She had almost missed a small, steep stair that led down from the corridor.

If I can’t continue up here, I’ll have to go down. The stair was stone and steeply stepped. At the bottom there was a door, but it stood open, revealing yet another corridor. At the end of it, she could barely make out a man in a sorcerer’s long robe. He sat motionlessly on a chair, staring at something she could not see.

Small, afraid and silent, Bairne shrank against the wall. She breathed a few words. Her form grew blurry; her silhouette looked as though heat was distorting it, and without further hesitation she walked along the hallway towards the man, and then passed him.

The man’s head turned and Bairne broke into a run, then she stopped abruptly. A short, high-pitched squeak escaped her.

“Rats. We’ve got rats down here.”

Bairne could feel the suppressed anger in the man as he turned and drew a dagger from his cloak. He threw it straight at her. With another squeal she leapt aside. The steel met the wall and made sparks fly from the stone as it fell to the ground. Bairne sprinted down the corridor. The man rose from his chair as though he meant to follow her, but thought better of it and sat back down to watch the door opposite him. He shouted something Bairne did not understand. She did not need to, either; one of the doors opened and his reply came out, another sorcerer in a simple robe.

“We’ve got rats down here. Do something about it. I can’t leave for another half-day.”

Witches, unlike rats, can block flames. Bairne pounced towards the newcomer, dived under the jet of fire that shot her way and ran, squeaking shrilly, back to the other sorcerer in his chair. She leapt over him with a mighty bound and stood still, breathing heavily.

“Stop wasting time,” the first called. “The bloody beast is impudent enough to be hopping around between my legs, and I can’t do anything about it. I can’t leave.”

“Yes, yes, but if you want to keep that mane of yours you’d best get out of the way.”

Another blast of flame shot through the hallway, but it was aimed far too high. Bairne knew that danger was close now. She would manage to get to the stair easily, but getting up was impossible. The narrow rise would bundle the fire and burn her to ash. A shield could protect her, but that would require her human form.

Now what?! Think, think! Bairne’s eyes twitched around, taking in the stair, the sitting man, the second sorcerer with his threateningly raised hand.

What to do?

For a heartbeat, the scene was frozen like a painting, anticipating the deadly flames. Suddenly, an almighty crash came from upstairs. Wood splintered, voices came loudly closer. Heads turned and Bairne took the opportunity the general confusion offered. She ran up the stairs and out of sight of the sorcerers. Her assailant forgot all about the rat and stormed upstairs, where he stopped dead in his tracks as he stared, dumbfounded, at a ram standing amid the shattered remains of the door. It turned at leisure and disappeared in the darkness. The rat followed.

“Call that a warning?” Bairne said once she had assumed her human form again. She ran her hands through his coat and scratched his head affectionately.

Ramsker enjoyed the scratching but was amazed at the amount of stupidity that had found its home in this ewe. Did she not know that he had witnessed every single thing that had happened in the corridor below? Probably not. She was stupid and knew nothing about him. But he, whom Nill had ennobled with a name, had never noticed before that this ewe was able to fill the world with illusions. Ramsker grew very thoughtful.

Brolok had considered returning to his father. He would find good weapons there, easily the best he could lay his hands on. Everything inside him wanted to go home to his parents’ forge, but the road there was long.

It’s odd which directions your thoughts take when you’re in trouble, Brolok mused. And I thought I’d broken with my family forever. I will return. Nill’s right. I have to go back. But not now, not here, not today.

Instead, his path led him through one of the small passes into the mountains. Small forges were everywhere in Metal World, even outside of the settlements. The rich traders visited the cities; the wandering merchants preferred to deal in solitude, where the shadows could aid them. When he had left Ringwall for Fugman’s Refuge, he had been carrying a sack full of weapons, but no tools. One of these blacksmiths had traded shoddy tools for great weapons and offered him an apprenticeship in his workshop. This was where he went.

The small forge was located half inside a cave, half under a wooden canopy. It was cold up here, but there was a forging fire and metal. It was enough.

“Hello, Master Gerk. Already at work this early?”

“Brolok? Brolok was the name, right? Do you bring new weapons or have you reconsidered my offer?”

“This time I’m in search of weapons myself.”

“Good clean silver will get you anything here, sonny. Special orders might take a while.”

“No silver, no copper, and certainly no gold. I’ve been robbed and want my things back.”

“Yes, it’s terrible, isn’t it? No more honesty left in the world. But I’ve got a business here. No silver – no weapons.”

“I have some blanks left. Might I use your forge?” Brolok was polite as always.

“Of course, my boy. We’re kin; that makes us friends in my eyes. So how much do you mean to pay for the fire?”

Brolok ground his teeth and cursed silently. Money-grubbing bastard, he thought. Aloud, he said: “You are a true friend. If you would help me with the process and allow me to use your forge, I can grant a weapon of your choice immense durability with a spell.”

“I can do magic for myself,” Gerk snarled. “I have mastered the Fast Farewell, even if sometimes I still need my hammer to help out.”

Brolok had had enough of this farce. He did not have an eternity. He gestured towards the fire and the flames grew tall.

“I would keep a better eye on my coals. It burns faster than it used to. Even the coal’s changed with time.” Brolok’s voice was icy cold.

Gerk’s face drained of color. “A sorcerous blacksmith or a forging sorcerer. Alright, by the eternal fire’s demons, fine, you can use my forge. But reduce the damn fire!”

Brolok lowered his hand, stepped towards the anvil and took a short piece of iron out of his sack. He laid it in the embers until it softened and then beat it into a hook. In the lower part of the hook he hammered a few small dents, just big enough for his fingers to fit comfortably. He drew a spur from the outer curve of the hook.

“What’s this?” Gerk inquired.

“A grip so it doesn’t slip. I can hold it like a hand in greeting. An undying friendship’s handshake, if you will,” Brolok replied with a grin; he dropped the glowing iron in one of the tubs, where it sank into the water with a hiss.

He pulled out his engraver and with his hammer and tongs he extracted a long, glowing tip from its strengthened end. After retrieving the grip from the water, he put both pieces back into the fire. Very lightly he pressed the engraver against the grip and to Gerk’s astonishment both pieces flowed together without a single blow of the hammer.

“Metal and metal, easy to combine with simple magic. Very useful for blacksmiths,” Brolok explained.

“You frighten me. Are you a warlock?” Gerk’s voice had lost any trace of impudence.

“Warlocks don’t bother with forging,” Brolok answered. “It’s probably best if you pretend I was never here.”

“Be sure of that, Master Brolok. I will not breathe a word of this to anyone.”

Brolok was certain that Gerk was already calculating how much money he could press out of someone for the knowledge of a magical blacksmith, so he gave a spiteful smile and asked: “Did you get a good price for my weapons?”

“Certainly, they were well made. Although not quite the price I was hoping for, but you know it yourself, times are hard.”

Brolok nodded thoughtfully. “I forgot to tell you then. They were magical weapons. Remember that the court sorcerers aren’t too fond of any magical weapons beside their own. Pray they never find out that those particular weapons exist, or that you sold them.”

“You are a demon,” Gerk cursed.

Brolok laughed. “I will not visit again. Unless you decide to sell me out to the sorcerers. Then I might find myself forced to…” Brolok looked over Gerk’s shoulder into the rocky landscape, “find refuge somewhere here in the mountains. Not with you, but somewhere close.”

“You can rely on my word. Only a fool endangers himself willingly, but say – that thing about the durability spell… is that still an offer? I did help you, after all.”

Brolok was unfazed. “Of course it is. I keep my promises, good and bad.”

“Yes, yes, I understand. I have this scythe here, and it’s a headache to sharpen it every time I want to use it. Besides, I’ve already worn away half the blade.”

Brolok sharpened the scythe on a turning whetstone and made the metal grow denser. Then he picked up his sack, tucked his newly forged weapon in his belt and left. He could only hope that Gerk was as good as his word.

A piercing feeling in his guts told Nill that he needed food. Whoever was keeping him down here did not seem too interested in his well-being. Nill knew that he would get weaker and less capable of escaping with each passing day. He had to act. He could wait no more. His wild attacks on the magical walls surrounding him had cost him much strength, strength he now desperately needed. Nill retreated into the Nothing.

Contrary to his expectations, he was able to leave the first plane of consciousness easily. At first he still felt his body, but he left it behind soon enough. The shapes around him disappeared. The last things to go were the growling of his stomach and the murmuring words of half-thought thoughts. A veil of magic remained, and it covered everything: his spirit, the stone blocks in the walls, the door, the air he breathed. It was impossible to dive into himself and dissolve his innermost being. He surfaced, irritated. Someone had done a good job here. He tried a second time, this time letting himself fall towards the Nothing. He expected the sorcerers’ magic to hold him again, but he simply glided past the magical construct towards the Nothing, into the Nothing. Mysterious, archaic thoughts rose inside him.

Boundless

The shape decays

And drifts away

In Nothing’s haze

Thoughtless.

Everywhere

Lose themselves

Your, my, me, mine

My self and I

Falling there.

The world forgets

What was and is

The world forgets,

Forgets, forgets.

Nill’s thoughts were interrupted suddenly. Dissolving into Nothing leaves no memory; something that is nothing cannot remember or be remembered. “The world forgets, forgets, forgets.” The words that formed over and over again when the Nothing embraced him, the ancient verses of a magic, of which he never knew where they came from, where he knew them from, and how he spoke them, had no substance.

But this time was different. He had been able to hear his thoughts; he had felt his lips move and thoughts turn to words. The Nothing had long since released him and Nill returned to his body. Nevertheless, he remembered. He could feel as he found his self. He had still not regained his form, was no more than consciousness a little outside of the Nothing. And yet he felt himself. He could remain somewhere between the Nothing and his body.

There was nothing around him except his self and the patterns of the entombing magical veil that lay on his cell. The stone blocks were as distant from his self as his body, but the magic of his enemies went beyond the visible world. Nill did not understand the spell, but he had noticed soon after his first attempts at regaining freedom that the web had no beginning and no end in the world of senses.

A strength can be a weakness, he thought. He stretched and made the veil part of his self and returned to the Nothing. His self, along with the veil, dissolved anew. Nill began to traverse the long road between the worlds, again and again. With every visit into the Nothing and every return to Pentamuria the magic grew thinner and thinner, losing layer upon layer. It was like unraveling a shirt by a single thread, and in the end it was gone.

Time passed without his realizing. The encasing magic had been woven with great effort. Many layers of elements had been bound together to block every magical attack. But even all of them combined were powerless against the Nothing.

Many hours passed in the world of the living until the work was complete. Curious glances through the hole in the ceiling and a small window in the door saw only a motionless Nill lying on the floor in silent self-absorption. No one could see through him.

Nill was back. Hungry, but not exhausted. He barely noticed the clear outlines of the stones. What were stones and walls and floors compared to the knowledge of Nothing?

The world forgets. It’s still forgetting. And what it forgets ceases to exist. That is the secret of the Nothing. The answer many a mage has spent his life trying to find. The magic of Nothing is the power to undo things.

Nill would have liked to cheer out loud at his discovery, but he did not have the strength to do so. He now knew that he could unmake anything he wanted. He could have eradicated the stones that held him down here, or the sorcerers who had brought him to this place, or even the entirety of Fugman’s Refuge. But what then? What would happen if suddenly part of the world was gone? Would there simply be Nothing until some cosmic force decided what to do with the void? Or would it fill itself because Nothing had no place in this world? And if it did, what would it fill up with, and how? A chill ran down Nill’s spine.

Magic truly is the power that makes everything and holds it together. Nill was frightened of his own power and finally understood what Tiriwi had meant when she had warned him and Brolok about magic changing the world. Nill would never be able to use the magic to undo things, to make the world forget. He was no divine creator. Not a god. It had been difficult enough to dissolve the magic veil and it had not even been old and strong, but new and fresh in the world’s memory. But a stone, part of a house that had previously lived in a mountain – tearing it out and making it vanish was different. The world could not simply forget that stone. It would sooner forget him and all his friends and all the things he had witnessed that were worth remembering. A human’s life compared to a stone’s – it was like a fly compared to a human. He must never dare meddle with these things. But now he had to stop thinking and start acting, before someone realized that he had regained his powers.

He let his spirit walk. In front of his door there was a guard shifting restlessly in his chair. Nill could not see who this guard was, but he feared it was one of the sorcerers that had captured him. Two more were there, one behind and one above him. Opening the door was no difficulty now – there was only a bar keeping it in place. His captors seemed fully reliant on the veil they had conjured. But he was no match for three experienced sorcerers at the same time. Besides, there were more people in the building: servants and armed guards. He knew three of these to be in his direct area. He needed a plan.

While Nill worked on his escape, Brolok had returned to Fugman’s Refuge. “I’ve got a weapon,” he told Bairne, indicating his enhanced engraver. “It’s ruined as far as tools go, but it’s a first-rate weapon for close-quarters combat.”

He grasped the hook on the end and felt the iron slide comfortably into his grasp. The thorn he had extracted from the iron peeked out of the top of his fist and made sure that his hand could not slip. The tip was now a natural extension of his arm.

“If you thrust with this tip, it’ll go through bones, wood and chainmail. More powerful than a sword in a thrust,” he whispered. “It’s also good for parrying, but you can’t slash with it. More of a dagger than a knife. You’d best take Nill’s staff, with the tip on the top. It’ll work fine as a lance.”

Brolok doubted that his wife could handle the weapon properly, but a quick blow could be executed even by an inexperienced fighter. As he deliberated this, he was pushed aside roughly. He stared down at Ramsker in disbelief.

“What’s he doing here?”

“He helped me find Nill,” Bairne replied.

Brolok shook his head. “Just make sure he doesn’t get under my feet.”

“Are you going to storm the house?”

“Do you have a better idea? If the ram can give us a distraction, it could work. We need to be fast. How many guards?”

“I saw two. One court sorcerer and a much younger one. I bet there are more.”

Brolok cursed quietly all the way to the house. He did still not have a cast-iron plan, and he disliked fighting sorcerers. They were easy to take down with the advantage of surprise; unfortunately, they were difficult to surprise. Once the first attempt was over, it was difficult.

“This one here. With the broken door.” Bairne indicated the gaping hole in the wall.

“Looks like a trap. Who broke it?”

“The ram!”

“Really? I don’t like this.”

As Brolok weighed up his chances, Bairne explained the layout of the corridors, the winding stair up and the straight stair down. Ramsker grew tired of waiting and charged into the house. Brolok hurried to follow him. So much for surprise, he thought ruefully. The ram clearly had no intention of sneaking.

Nill sat in his stone cell and found to his disappointment that three guards had come in from the streets. Things were getting even more complicated now. He would have to find out whether they were sorcerers or simple soldiers, so he sent out his senses.

Sorcerers, or mages. Nill swore bitterly. That was exactly what he had needed, magical reinforcements for the enemy. The first had a mighty aura that was unreadable. It smelled of the Other World, but there was something else in there, something ancient he had only ever known in the falundron. The second’s aura was incomplete. Nill had to stifle the urge to laugh. Brolok! It could only be Brolok, he would know that aura among a thousand others. But who was the third? Someone else was behind him, someone with great powers, but it was all blurred. Nill’s hopes sank again. And if it was not Brolok? He decided to risk it. The sorcerer by the door had risen. He seemed to have noticed the magical field’s disappearance.

Dungeons are cruel; their walls and doors keep the prisoner apart from the world. Some are kept until the world has all but forgotten them. But this cruelty can be redirected to those relishing in it. When someone who has been powerless is suddenly strong, when the forgotten demands their place in the world again, then the world does not understand. Nill made the magic of the Other World crash through the closed door and it ripped the sorcerer’s aura from his body and absorbed his life force as it laid a case of dark energy on him. The noise around him was deafening; he forced wood, iron and earth apart and their cracking echoed through the underground chambers. The door broke apart; the bar that held it flew through the air and buried itself deep into the wall opposite; the hinges that had held the door left behind gaping holes in the stones.

Nill leapt out of his cell and rushed up the stairs. He flung himself flat on his stomach when he reached the top; he did not intend to skid right into a fire wall.

His destruction of the cell door had burst open all the doors in the upper storys as well. Nill had acted a little too early. Brolok, Bairne and Ramsker were too far away from these doors. Bairne flung the staff at the first sorcerer. It impaled him through his chest and the force of it knocked him back into the room he had just left. Brolok stormed ahead, flinging iron claws at them. His skills in Metal magic were considerable, but the more experienced sorcerers merely melted his attacks into puddles with their Fire.

From his cover at the top of the stairs Nill sent a spell of light creeping along the ceiling, dropping white-hot droplets as it moved. The sorcerers looked up, momentarily unsettled by this strange magic, then extinguished it with whipping waves of Water. But their moment’s hesitation had been enough. With a hideous crack, Ramsker threw his entire weight behind his horns as he smashed into one of the sorcerer’s legs. At the same time, Brolok aimed a powerful strike with his fist. The second court sorcerer had barricaded himself behind one of the doors and was working his spells through it. Brolok and Bairne pressed themselves to the wall. They could not counter it without direct contact. The third sorcerer attempted to climb the stairs behind Nill, but Nill stopped him easily by shaking the very foundations of the house. The sorcerer was forced to guide all his strength into keeping the building intact lest it bury them all alive, but it would not take long before he stabilized and pursued Nill again. He might be able to set him back, but Nill could not defeat the third court sorcerer. It was only a matter of time until his strength caved him. Brolok and Bairne felt similarly. They were trapped against the wall. Any step would bring them in line of the sorcerer’s attacks. No side could gain an advantage, and time was not on Nill’s side.

Ramsker made the decisive move. He rubbed his horns against Bairne’s hip and Bairne understood. She gave him the strongest elemental protection she could muster and wished him good luck. Ramsker charged. The Fire wall that came his way was broken so quickly that the fire had no time to do any damage, and the following sandstorm could not stop him. Nill felt the new magical presence, and could not believe what he was seeing. This was not the ram he had fought for herd dominance back in Earthland. Nor was it the same Ramsker that had helped him in his battle with Mah Bu.

Nill sent another Earthen shock into the foundations. His hesitation had given his opponent the time to sink Nill’s feet into the stone. Nill was stuck.

Ramsker shattered the door, shooting splinters, rubble and his own considerable weight into the room. Yellow and green flames burst out of the room, bolts of lightning chased each other through the corridor, and one of the walls leaned forward wearily, then collapsed. As suddenly as the outbreak of magical energy had filled the house it was calm. Brolok peered around the corner and saw the court sorcerer lying in a corner, groaning. A long shard of wood had speared him through his neck, although it had miraculously missed the vital veins. Ramsker stood in the middle of the room, his head bowed.

Nill released his feet from the stone’s cold grip. The sorcerer in the cellar had retreated. He did not dare face this unknown enemy alone.

“We have to leave,” Nill called. Brolok nodded and approached the injured sorcerer. He dragged off the man’s robe. “Don’t move. With all the ruckus you made I daresay it won’t be long until help arrives.” He gave a dark laugh and threw the robe to Nill. “Here, put this on and draw up the hood.”

Brolok shook out the contents of his sack onto the floor and stuck together several long pieces of iron to make a long lance.

“Hand me Nill’s staff, Bairne.” He pulled off the tip and put it on his lance, then handed the simple wooden staff to Nill.

“In that robe you ought to pass as a court sorcerer. I’ll try and look like a bodyguard. Bairne will take care of the ram. We should be able to leave this place without trouble.”

Nill nodded. His gaze traveled from his bare staff to Ramsker, whose aura had vanished, and nodded again.

Their escape was simple. Nill led the motley bunch. Even though they drew inquisitive stares, the court sorcerers were too intimidating for anyone to ask intrusive questions. Brolok was a warrior, and he moved like one; he bore his lance with ease, his eyes caught every movement. Bairne’s eyes were on the ground, as was necessary for her disguise as a shepherd to succeed. Ramsker’s slanted eyes were as sullen as always despite their golden gleam. Once they had passed the last houses of the city, Nill asked casually: “What kind of weapon is that?”

“Give me your cap and I’ll tell you.”

“Cap?”

“The one with the pointed tip!”

“Oh. But you’ve already got it.”

“Aye, but it still belongs to you.”

Nill laughed. “Fine, because you’re my friend and your father made it.”

“And because you’re so nosy,” Brolok grinned. “This cap turns my longstaff into a lance finer than any you’ll find in a royal armory. No enemy can parry it because it swings like mad. Meanwhile you’re parrying everything with the slightest movement, and the tip is always facing forward. No one except my old man knows about this kind of weapon. It’s even better than an ax and sickle.”

“But if it’s such a great weapon, why does nobody use it? I know they’re not the brightest bunch, but captains and soldiers aren’t exactly stupid when it comes to weaponry.”

“Here, take it,” Brolok said as he handed Nill the lance. He threw his ragged cloak onto a nearby rock.

“Go ahead and pierce my cloak with it. Go on, don’t worry, it’s just a rag anyway.”

Nill took the lance with both hands, made a step forwards and grimaced with pain as the magical tip hit the rock instead of his target, a good two hands away.

“See? It’s a right pain to aim that thing properly. You’d have to practice half your life to get anywhere with it.”

“But wouldn’t that be worth it for a warrior? I mean, as a person who spends their entire life fighting, you’d bother to learn it. A weapon no one can defend themselves from!”

“There’s no weapon that can’t be blocked. And you have to remember: it’s not easy to find a replacement if it breaks. It’s great for a blacksmith, but terrible for a hero.”

Brolok looked over his shoulder.

“We’d best move on. I’d like to spend the night as far away from Fugman’s Refuge as possible.”

Nill pouted and thought wistfully of a soft bed, hot food and a sip or two of wine, but he knew that these treasures were – for now – out of reach.

They spent the night in the mountains. It was cold and the small, smokeless fire gave heat to their food, but not their bodies. The sky was clear and the cold light of the stars seemed to drive the cold down here even further into their bones. The descent to the Waterways would be difficult and dangerous. Nill fidgeted. He wanted to reach the Seven Penitents and then move on to Woodhold as quickly as possible.