C13 Chapter XIII

As Nill, Brolok and Bairne slept away the exertion of the previous day, the news of what had transpired in Fugman’s Refuge spread like wildfire. It reached Ringwall first, and there it told of how easy it was to catch an archmage, and how difficult it was to keep one. It told of quaking earth and crumbling houses, that he had lackeys and could turn invisible; making sure nobody knew where he would strike next to sow chaos and destruction.

Ringwall’s archmages trembled in their seats; every member of the council believed their own worst fear to be confirmed. Bar Helis alone merely placed yet another piece into the puzzle he had been forming – to him, it was clear that the inexperienced boy could not have escaped far greater sorcerers unless he truly was the Changer. Ambrosimas knew that someone chosen by fate could not be held. Such was the nature of destiny: it would happen eventually. He wondered who, or perhaps what, had helped Nill this time. But the obdurate ears of the council were no longer prepared to listen. The archmages saw in Nill an unpredictable, volatile danger, and they agreed that the best way to deal with this danger was to banish it before it grew too great. Mah Bu was closest to the truth of the matter when he suspected involvement from the Nothing.

King Sergor, already taken by surprise at Nill’s ascension to archmage, sent his dustriders waterward and left Gulffir for Worldbrand. It was a demonstration of his unbreakable loyalty and brotherhood with Ringwall for all the world to see.

What King Sergor did with cool calculation, Talldal-Fug did with a rage-reddened face. Not only had his plan been foiled, no – the prisoner’s breakout had shattered his reputation in Pentamuria, and so he sent three waves of his armored riders fireward, then woodward.

Galvan, having finally left the Murkmoor, made a great curve in his path, first aimed at Water, then bending towards Wood.

The mucklings in their villages and towns saw only the dark clouds on the horizon, stacking and dispersing, torn apart, thrown about in the air. Clouds that so blatantly disrespected the laws of the wind could only be of magical origin, they knew. What they did not know was that with the hunting parties in the land and the archmages’ eyes upon them, the streams of magic were changing.

The shamans were the first to notice the quiet tremors in the Other World; they saw in the figures drifting across the Plains of the Dead how the memories of the people changed in the face of this new fear. The druids stood dumbfounded before the changes in the elemental patterns, and the black warlocks plotted how they could best use the new situation to their advantage. In short, Pentamuria was in turmoil.

Malachiris, the young Wood mage, had spent the last few days leading her troop through the hostile, damp world of the Mistmountains at great speed, and now they traveled through the forests of Woodhold. She used the infrequent animal crossings as her guide, as the undergrowth was so dense even a mage could often not penetrate it – unless they chose to burn their way through, or cause a landslide to clear their way. The density of the forest was worth the difficulty, though, as it offered protection. Her party proceeded unseen, because the towns and villages loyal to the king were positioned in the open countryside, where the land was free of roots and easy to farm.

Malachiris succeeded in remaining unnoticed even to the court sorcerers of Woodhold. The first magical disturbances only registered once she approached the settlements of the Oas. Lone sorcerers rarely dared go near the Oas. The mages left these women completely alone; they knew they were unwelcome. Into this brittle peace Malachiris and her mages stepped, causing disquiet among the people and drawing the eyes of the wise women.

The Oas’ small hamlets were just outside the forest, where they offered both arable land and the trees’ protection. Like pearls on a necklace, the settlements stretched all the way from Woodhold to the Waterways. Malachiris decided to stay within a reasonable distance of the villages. Sometimes, her troop was visible by the common folk, at other times they passed through unnoticed. She wanted to be seen, but not tracked. It gave her pleasure to bring the magic of Ringwall directly to where the Oas felt safest. From the shade of the trees that had been the Oas’ closest friends for countless generations came a constant odor of strangeness.

The wise women had retreated into their huts and followed the magical traces in their surroundings from the safety of their communities. The mothers kept their children close by, and the young girls wandered here and there, infected by the growing, unusual restlessness. Malachiris was satisfied; this was exactly how she hoped to startle her prey. If Nill had already reached the Oas, he would make his move when he noticed the approaching power of the elements. Or the Oas would make the decision for him, beg him to leave their village for the next – either way, the moment he moved, she could pick up his trail.

Tiriwi had been one of the first to notice the approaching magic, but she knew as much as anyone else what to make of it. Curiosity made her leave Grimala’s house, where she had lived since her return from Ringwall, and she bravely delved alone into the green shade of the trees and stepped before the mages. She was not scared in the slightest when she noted them making a circle around her, even when they drew closer.

Tiriwi waited until she was face to face with Malachiris. Then she addressed her in thoughtspeak.

“It is rare for Ringwall’s followers to visit us. I extend you my most sincere greetings. Please tell us if there is anything we can help you with.”

Tiriwi stood proud and tall as a quibotz sapling. Her hair shimmered gold in the dappled light that fell through the trees and silvery-white in the leaves’ shade. Her feet sunk into the soft, mossy ground and everything between her head and her heels formed a bridge between the sky and the earth. It was the magic of the Oas that gave this bridge strength.

“Look here, a little Oa who became a sorceress and turned back into an Oa. You must be Tiriwi. I have heard of you, little sister.” Malachiris smiled sweetly – almost too sweetly – and her voice was friendly, but definitely haughty.

Tiriwi’s brow furrowed. It was over in an instant, but lasted long enough for Malachiris to notice, whose smile grew sweeter still.

“I thought I knew every Green mage in Ringwall, sister, but I have never seen you before. Are you part of Empyrade’s household, bringing greetings? What brings you to us?”

The “little sister” jibe had annoyed Tiriwi, and she seemed to grow a little. Slim and agile, she was like a lance between two warriors, indicating “this far, but no further.” This was her land, and she would bow to neither visitors nor invaders, no matter their age or experience. True, she had little to oppose five fully-fledged mages except her determination, but the mages would not be able to counter the Oas’ fury.

“I am sorry, little sister, that we have crossed your forests without announcing it; I assure you, we have the king’s consent. We have been tasked to do so by the High Council of Ringwall, while your Empyrade is showing new students how roots grow in the ground and flowers greet the sun.”

Tiriwi had never found out what position Empyrade held in Ringwall. She had taught Nill, Brolok and Tiriwi about the magic of Wood, but she had considerable power beyond that and an influential voice in Ringwall, as Tiriwi recalled clearly. She had been a little jealous of Nill and Brolok’s wide-eyed adoration for their teacher, but it had been Empyrade who had helped her out of a very uncomfortable situation once. Tiriwi did not like the tone this mage struck when talking about her.

And so she said nothing, for silence can be stronger than words. Malachiris was visibly enjoying the situation, but in the end it was she who broke the silence and resumed the conversation.

“We are on the hunt, little sister, and our game is the most precious of all.”

“And you won’t tell me what game you are hunting in our forest?”

Malachiris smiled gently and answered in a low, conspiratorial voice: “I would if I could, little sister, but I have been forbidden from doing so. All I can tell you is that our hunt was commissioned by the High Council. The affair is of such importance that not only does every element have a hunting party of its own, but even the White mages and the Archmage of the Other World have sent out troops. And more than that: Galvan himself leads the element of Metal. He is no usual mage, and you should know him all too well as the Master of the Forge and Bar Helis’ right hand. Even an archmage is out there: Nill, the Archmage of Nothing, has left Ringwall to partake in this magnificent hunt. But I’m sure you have felt this yourself, little sister; you were, after all, close friends in Ringwall.”

Tiriwi’s heart gave a small leap. She had often thought about Nill since they had parted ways. She remembered his disrespectful, reckless use of magic, his innate skill at finding enemies everywhere, and his vulnerability that was so at odds with the burden he had chosen to shoulder. Nill, the nothing! What a name.

“I heard he remained in Ringwall after our final test, and I was happy that he was given the chance to study the ancient scriptures. I never heard he had become an archmage,” Tiriwi lied easily. “I’m not surprised. He seems as if his destiny was always in some divine hand.”

“Nill has become an important mage. Some say he is the first behind the magon, because he is the only one to control the magic of Nothing. The other members of the High Council seek his advice, and no small number of female students seek his attention for other reasons.”

Rubbish , Tiriwi thought. Foes don’t become friends overnight. What are you after, you lying viper? But her face betrayed nothing of the venomous thoughts in her head, and she asked in thoughtspeak: “And which party does the Archmage of Nothing lead?”

“He departed alone, as always. He probably went to Earthland, where his home lies, where he knows the hills and valleys like no other. Nill and I are good friends. We took part in the same tournament, and we both emerged victorious. We did not get the opportunity to fight each other, though, so I only know his reputation, not his powers. He is also rather less reserved than the other archmages. He must be a very special man for the High Council to include him despite his youth.”

Tiriwi was getting angry. Nill, a very special man? He was a childish idiot, pig-headed, clumsy and filled to the brim with mad ideas. He had barely learned to control the slightest amount of magic and was already full of talk on how to break the seal to the Walk of Weakness. If Nill was special, then so was every animal that escaped from the farm, every jutting branch on a tree, every rebellious hair on an otherwise smooth coat.

Calmly, with a smile on her lips to match Malachiris,’ she replied, “I wish you good fortune in your hunt. I would not be surprised if Nill was the victor again, ahead of all the competition. There are sorcerers far better than him, but fate seems to keep a keen eye on him.”

“Not just fate, little sister,” Malachiris remarked sweetly as Tiriwi turned around and started to walk home. The mages made a gap in their ranks to let her through.

“Am I allowed to tell the wise women your name, or is that another thing you mustn’t share?” Tiriwi asked, aloud this time.

“My name is Malachiris,” the Green mage called at the retreating girl. “I’m sure you’ll hear it again.”

Malachiris was satisfied and waited just long enough for Tiriwi to be out of earshot, then she beckoned for her party to come closer and whispered: “It seems as if Nill hasn’t reached the Oas at all yet. What a stroke of luck – but now we must act quickly. Onwards! We must stop the Archmage of Nothing from reaching the Oas at all costs. If he manages to hide here, it will be difficult to catch him.”

Malachiris led her troop towards the Waterways. She intended to follow the border until they reached the first rocks of Metal World, and then turn earthwards.

The Water mage’s party received word of Malachiris’ plan. Their leader decided to limit their search to the swampy areas. They would make slow progress and likely be overtaken by Malachiris; but if Nill did happen to be in the Waterways at that moment, he would either run into them or be driven straight into Galvan’s arms by them. Only a tiny strip of land offered safe passage, but where did it lead? Straight back to Ringwall, where Morb-au-Morhg the Mighty waited.

The Water mage gazed confidently into the wavering gray mists, the dead trees, the muddy hills. Any magic that strays away from Water will shine like a fire in the night, he thought. The archmage can’t escape now.

*

“So what are the Seven Penitents?” Nill asked Brolok.

“Not sure – some landmark, I think. Once we’ve found them, we just need to follow the coast and we’ll get to a trade road.”

“Cliffs. They’re cliffs. We can’t miss them,” Bairne said, but no one was listening.

The Seven Penitents were indeed quite unmissable, especially on such a bright day. The sun did not shine, but hid behind a thin layer of mist; the diffused light made the sky bright white and gave the calm sea a silvery gleam. The water slapped against the cracks and furrows in the cliffs, making a gulping, chuckling sound. The sea is never silent. It always tells stories and fables, whispers them to the wind or roars them at the world, no matter whether anyone is there to listen.

It speaks in its own tongue and has done so for countless ages. Only those who speak it themselves can understand the sea. Everyone else only feels its raw power, and will either dream or retreat in fear of its awesome strength.

Nill had stopped.

“Do you hear that?” he asked.

“Hear what?” Brolok asked back.

“It’s talking to us,” Nill said, wide-eyed.

“What’s talking?” Brolok’s voice was impatient.

“The water,” Nill elaborated.

“Nonsense,” snorted Brolok. “What’s water got to talk about? Somewhere back there is the end of the world, and what you’re feeling is the twisted Water magic of the Borderlands. Let’s move on.”

“It speaks of other lands,” Bairne said.

Nill’s head jerked up. Bairne always spoke so quietly it was hard to notice her – if she spoke at all, which she did not do often in Nill’s presence. But now? She seemed to disagree vehemently with Brolok’s opinion.

Brolok snorted again. “Other lands. There is only Pentamuria, and around it is the belt of the Borderlands. They meet at a single point on the other side of Pentamuria, and that’s the entrance to the Other World. Everyone knows that.”

“The waves and the wind, the birds in the sky and the fish beneath the surface all speak of something beyond the water. Not the Borderlands. Something else.”

She spoke as if Brolok had not said anything at all. This was the first time Nill had witnessed her disagree with her husband. Was there really something other than the Borderlands out there?

“I think Brolok’s right. We should move on,” Nill said, keen to avoid an argument. Like a stone dropped into water makes waves, Bairne’s words had touched something in Nill and he wondered what truth there was in them. The great salt sea did not lead to the Borderlands, he was sure. But then, where did it go? What did Bairne know about it? More than she said, likely. Nill began to see her with new eyes.

Seven jagged rocks pierced the silvery surface. From their location they looked like a khanwolf’s lower jaw. The biggest of the rocks was like a fang, and next to it, smaller but still huge, the pointed canine, beside that the smaller incisor, half sunken beneath the waves. These were no penitents; they were weapons of the earth. If a ship in a storm came near them… The small group walked on, and the impression of the cliffs changed. Gone was the menacing similarity to teeth; the cliffs bent towards the sea, their hunched, guilt-laden backs pulled them down to the water below to submit. Their leader had sunk almost all the way, its tip barely visible among the waves.

And who could tell what they really mean? From one side, wildness, combativeness, freedom; from the other, guilt and repentance. I wonder what they’d look like from below, from the water? Nill knew that looks could be deceiving.

The uproar in Ringwall had not yet caught up to them; they had reached the border to the Waterways with no followers from Fugman’s Refuge on their tail. The rocky landscape here drowned beneath the tides. For a while, there had been a struggle between Water and Metal as the strength of the rocks had resisted the endless waters, and the indefatigable waves crashed into the stone, but once they passed the border, it was clear that Water was the dominant element here. The clear coastline that had separated hard from soft, dry from wet, ceased to be and gave way to a place where standing water and resting mud lived harmoniously alongside one another, with no rocks to split them apart. These were the swamps, where every step had them dragging their feet out of ankle-deep muck that did not relinquish what it grasped so easily. They had taken their boots off; it had happened too often that, in pulling a foot out of the ground, the shoe had been left behind. At first they had laughed at it, but soon the humor was replaced by a gray feeling of exhaustion. Ramsker had the worst of it; the coat on his belly sucked up all the muck and weighed him down.

“If we want to get out of here some time before we all die of old age, we’ll have to find more solid ground,” Brolok voiced everyone else’s thoughts.

So they turned their backs on the coast and as evening fell they reached slightly firmer terrain; a short while later they found a path actually deserving its name. It was still muddy and full of potholes, but it was nevertheless a recognizable path, distinct in the brown surroundings.

“Finally,” Nill sighed.

At that moment, Bairne grasped him by the arm. “Wait!” she hissed. “Someone ahead.”

Nill was surprised. It was the first time Bairne had touched him since she had begged for strength and warmth – a lifetime ago, it seemed to him. Her posture, too, had changed. She dragged him behind herself and pushed past Brolok. Nill closed his eyes and attempted to track any unknown auras, but could not find any.

“Are you sure?” he whispered. “I can’t feel anything.”

“You can bet on that. Bairne is a fen-witch. This is her home. If she sees something, it’s there alright.”

“What is it?” Nill breathed.

“Sorcerers or mages – certainly arcanists. More than one.”

“Let’s get away from here,” Nill said and the three hastily fled further inland.

“It’s like a curse. It’s like someone is doing everything in their power to stop me from getting to Woodhold,” Nill coughed as he and his companions stopped to draw breath.

“It’s not a curse. The people there were not troubling to remain hidden. Seems like more of a battue to me,” Bairne said. “No idea what their intention is.”

“What gives you that idea?” Brolok spat out a mouthful of mud and drew deep, heaving breaths. He was still not in the best shape.

“And who are the hunters?” Nill still hoped they were not the prey.

“At first I felt something like a hand groping around as if it was looking for something, then there was a sudden strong magical presence like a shield or force field, and then in that presence there were some different bodies. Five or six arcanists, if I had to guess.” Bairne’s voice was still quiet and even, despite the sprint that had got them here.

Nill looked into the young woman’s big eyes.

“Are witches so strong they can detect things a mage can’t? I met a warlock in Ringwall once, but he wasn’t too different from any other sorcerer. You’re the first witch I’ve met.”

Bairne lowered her eyes.

“Witches are, by nature, women. We hear much, we see much, and we feel much more than warlocks or sorcerers. That is our strength. Witches can curse and make others do things they might not want to. We can influence thoughts and emotions to a certain extent. But our spells are weak. No witch would ever accompany an army.”

She had never spoken as much in one go – Nill suspected it was some kind of record. He looked over at Brolok, who merely shrugged. “She never used her magic when we were living together. Not really necessary in Fugman’s Refuge,” he mused, looking a little lost as he did.

I think you couldn’t be more wrong, old friend, Nill thought. His view on Bairne had completely changed. His time in Ringwall had taught him of the gentle, magical fingers of arcanist women. And there they were again, Tiriwi’s huge eyes in her thin face. Nill remembered well how Tiriwi had once freed him from one of Ambrosimas’ spells. He had not forgotten, either, how some mages had once tried to poison him. He had survived only narrowly. And Ambrosimas himself… he had had great fun appearing to Nill as a pitiable creature, as a friend with a warm heart, as a complete monster and whatever else he could think of. All the while he had not changed his appearance. Nill knew the power of thoughts and feelings. It was a magic not easily slurred over.

The sun was no more than a bright spot behind the dark, rainy clouds, but it was enough for Brolok to find the direction they needed to head in. After the brief respite the solid path had given them, they found themselves again in a draining morass that sucked at their feet. It was small comfort that the earth beneath the mud was still relatively solid; this advantage was taken mostly by the plant life that lived there and spread its roots all throughout the firm ground.

It was a wearisome march for Nill and his friends. They had succeeded in avoiding the hunting party, but now they had no choice but to give the men a wide berth and return to the coast later. They would make a decision then, but it was too late today. Their camp would be an uncomfortable one. There was no place to rest without muddy water seeping through their clothes and stealing away the last warmth, and there was no dry wood to start a fire, even a small one to boil the water pure and soften the dried meat they had. As trained sorcerers, it would have been a simple matter to make the wet wood burn, but the smoke would have given them away; even if they had been able to conceal the smoke, the mere presence of Fire magic would have betrayed them.

“So what do we do now?” Nill asked his companions. “We can’t march in the darkness and we can’t rest in this place.”

Brolok watched the last light of the sun vanish beneath the horizon with displeasure and uttered a quiet oath. “Well there’s one good thing: whoever’s hunting has to deal with the same problems as us.”

“Some help that is,” Nill retorted. “Really, I feel safe and sound.”

“We’ll rest over there,” Bairne said, indicating a nearby low thicket.

“Do you mean to cut a hole into the bushes?” Brolok asked. “The only thing we have that can cut is Nill’s dagger. It’ll take ages.”

“Men always think about cutting and smashing and breaking. Women know how to fix things, how to weave and spin. The branches will be our twine.”

Bairne picked out a few bushes that stood close together and pulled the thin, whiplike branches to a bundle.

“Most branches in the swamps are pliable. You can knot them together without breaking them.”

Once Bairne had done so to the stronger branches, she wove a slight spell into the twigs. Nill and Brolok saw the branches slowly glide together and touch, then they wrapped around each other and stopped.

“If you get up here on that stump you can lie down on the branches. They’re softer than any feather bed you’ll find in a city.”

Brolok was not so sure of this and he thoroughly expected to crash through the bushes and land in the mud. To his relief, the branches and twigs bore his weight like a hammock.

“There are a few more bushes over there. Nill, you can sleep there. And for you, Ramsker, I will ask the bushes to lay their blanket on the ground.”

While the bushes were indeed soft, neither of the young men slept much that night. Fear of breaking their improvised beds held them motionless like statues, their ears keen for any sound in the night. On top of everything else, the clouds had descended from the skies and now lay low over the marsh.

Water and water , Nill thought as the mist came slowly to earth and melded with the moisture in the ground. Mist is a mysterious thing. It takes your eyesight and your hearing so you can’t see an attack coming until it’s too late, and at the same time it makes you hear things that don’t exist. Or perhaps they do, far away? I don’t know.

It took a long time for sheer exhaustion to lull them into an uneasy sleep from which they were woken several times. Nill jerked upright in the dead of night; he could have sworn there were riders nearby, splashing through the swamp. But as he looked around, he saw no torches and heard no sounds. He must have imagined it.

“Someone passed us last night,” Brolok said the next morning. “I couldn’t make out who it was.”

“A troop of riders, right next to my camp,” Nill agreed.

“Riders, yes; next to you, no. They were back there. I saw the lights.”

“You mean they had torches?” Nill asked, confused. He had seen no such thing.

“No, not torches, deadwood. It glows slightly. But you need the eyes of a fox to see anything in their light.”

“I couldn’t feel any magic, either.”

“That’s because they weren’t mages,” Brolok said. “Riders from Fugman’s Refuge, I’d wager.”

“Great,” Nill groaned bitterly. “Mages beside us and warriors ahead. At least the way back is still free.”

Brolok laughed. “I don’t think Talldal-Fug only sent out one pack of bloodhounds. We can’t go back. We should follow these riders at a safe distance. If there are more searching parties in the swamp, they’ll meet sooner or later, and that means either they’ll join up or there will be a disagreement. Then we’ll know what’s happening. He should hurry. The riders have a head start on us, and they’re much faster.”

The newly dawned day was precisely like the previous one: cold, gray and wet. As long as they were moving, it was bearable, but the moment they stopped to take a break the cold crept into their bones through their feet. Nill felt dead beneath his knees. But they had to take breaks; they were not like animals, trained their whole lives to run all day. Along with that, their pauses gave them the chance to listen and trace signs of magic. The animals in the swamp were silent. Their silence said more than quiet sounds could: not only in their vicinity, but in the distance, there must be people.

The sun was already low when the ground finally began to harden and rise beneath their weary feet. They would have to forgo a warming fire again tonight, but at least their camp would be dry. Nill daydreamed of warm beds, warm soup and a mug of warm mead – but the pleasant vision was interrupted by distant sounds. Brolok and Bairne had stopped.

“What is it?” Nill asked

“I think the better question is who is it. It’s voices – I’d say someone singing. More than one, several. They’re singing loudly.”

“They must feel safe in this place,” Brolok hissed.

“Safe enough to sing,” Nill agreed. “Do you smell that?”

Brolok nodded. “Smoke. And roasting meat. Hopefully a good glug of drink.”

Nill was amazed. “They’ve got a huge fire going as if nothing in the world could scare them.”

“Maybe it’s the exact opposite and they’re terrified of Nill, the Marsh Monster,” Brolok laughed. “The fire and the singing are there to keep your bloodlust at bay. Come on, let’s take a look.”

They crept closer to the camp until they could make out distinct voices. The fire burned high. Several large joints of meat were roasting on a spit, droplets of fat oozing from them and dropping into the fire with a hiss. Nill’s mouth began to water. He swallowed audibly.

“Greetings, fair warriors!” Brolok called out. “Might there be a spot by your fire for weary travelers?”

The men by the fire turned their heads calmly in the direction they supposed Brolok’s voice was coming from, and a giant of a man got to his feet.

“Come here,” he called back. His voice was deep, rumbling and steady. “More than one spot, I daresay.” He had the hard face of a man who lived in the wild, and the scars on his arms told the story of countless fights.

Brolok slowly made his way through the dark bushes, Bairne close behind him and Nill bringing up the rear. Only Ramsker stayed behind. Brolok did not miss the looks the men gave them. The giant looked from Bairne to Nill. He took no notice of Brolok.

“Help yourselves, there’s enough for everyone.” The giant sliced a couple of pieces from the roast and handed them to Brolok, Bairne and Nill. “You’ll find hot drink over there.” He casually indicated a long, spindle-shaped pot.

Roughly ten men were gathered around the fire. Some of them had stepped away from the warmth into the shadows to make space for the new arrivals. Brolok squinted. He did not like being unable to see half of the people there. Although they did not look dangerous, they greatly outnumbered three young people and a ram.

Only one of them looked like a warrior: he wore a chainmail hauberk and had a short sword and shield lying next to him. His features were rough, his hair light like a leonpedon’s mane and just as matted. The others were, apart from their gigantic leader, unremarkable, equipped like Brolok with light weaponry and boiled leather and furs. But Brolok did not allow the laughing, singing and joking to take away his caution. Despite their noise, the men barely moved. Their motions were sparse. It took them two steps to get a piece of meat from the spit, and when they drank their eyes looked over the rim of their cups. Brolok flashed a warning look at Nill, but he was lost in thought, chewing his slice of meat.

Now and then someone rose to carve off more meat or fetch a mug of drink. But Brolok was wrong about Nill. As silently as he sat, his senses were strained – Nill felt magic in this group. Bairne’s aura outshone everything, but that was to be expected from a witch. Brolok, too, was distinct. But there was something else Nill could not quite put his finger on. Too many of these humans’ auras were unusually strong for common people, and they were strange, like the magic he felt. There was some of everything here: the five elements, the Other World, and something he did not know.

One of the men broke into song, and a second and third soon joined before the armored warrior held up a hand.

“Our guests can’t sing along. They don’t know our songs. And they’re hungry. We should wait until they’re full.”

“Don’t let us stop you,” Brolok said through a mouthful of meat. “A warm fire, good drink and a jolly song are more than we’ve had in days. We’ve come from Metal World, straight out of the mountains. We thought we’d find some metal there, where other people haven’t looked yet. Our journey was marked by a huge lack of success. We want to try our luck in Woodhold next. Do you know Woodhold?”

Brolok bit into his joint again.

“Do we know Woodhold? I’ll say,” the giant laughed. “Born in the treetops, raised between the trunks and buried under the roots. But we’ll take our time before we get to the third part.”

“Aye,” the armored warrior agreed. “We want to have some fun before then.” He took his sword, thrust it into the ground and pulled himself to his feet. “If you sit too long your bones forget how to move,” he shouted as he stretched. He tugged his sword from the earth and pointed it first at Brolok, then Bairne. “You’ve eaten our food and drunk our mead. I want your armor and I want her. You, milord, are safe,” he gave a mock salute to Nill, “but we’ll have our fun with the whore and the boy.”

The warrior had a chilling grin on his face as he spoke and left no doubt that his polite tone had nothing to do with his plans.

“If you honestly believe I won’t help my friends, you’re even dumber than you look,” Nill replied calmly.

The giant leaned on his club and laughed. “There’s more than three times as many of us as there are of you. Put down your weapon and run. You might even survive.”

Nill drew his dagger.

“Oh, a magical blade. It won’t help you. My spell will hit you anyway.”

As he spoke, the giant’s pale, lifeless aura exploded and hit Nill. It was nothing too strong, rather like being jostled in a crowd.

So that’s the source I was looking for, Nill thought. He appraised the giant coldly; he was picking strings of meat from between his teeth.

You’ve got no real magic, friend, he thought. That might impress a muckling or scare a bird, but not me.

Nill felt a second blow, stronger than the first, this time with definite tones of Wood and Earth. The giant’s outline faded; the huge figure disappeared and reappeared in another spot. There was a short bang and he felt a sharp blow just above his ear.

A bit of everything, but enough is enough.

Nill’s patience had been stretched too far. He sent a light Earth shock through the ground to grasp the giant and shake him through the air a little. But his grip went through the dissolving body like sand as the giant materialized a few feet away. The magic of the Other World won’t save you either, Nill thought and shot a bolt of Metal at his adversary. The giant leapt into the Other World and Nill followed. His spirit twitched as he felt a pull on the connection between his body and spirit. He leapt back into his body – and to his horror it did not take him. His spirit bounced off and was flung back into the Other World. A sharp pain shot through his mind and suddenly his body stood next to him. For the first time, Nill had entered the Other World with body and spirit. He had little time to marvel at this new development, as the giant was now raining punches down on him. Nill had little difficulty in dodging the big, slow man’s attacks, but his body and spirit were not in unison. His spirit was fighting while his body stumbled around drunkenly. His enemy was a single entity, and he was now relying more on his club and knife than on his pathetically limited magic. Nill was surprised for the second time in short order. He had not known that weapons could be used in the Other World.

The giant tried to parry Nill’s attacks as he swung his weapons at the younger man’s helpless body. Nill managed to block the blows, but his own attacks suffered from it. It was a strange fight between two thoroughly unequal combatants: a giant of a man with strength to match, but limited magical power, and a mage who could not properly use his magic because body and spirit had been severed.

Nill decided to use magical shields to block the club and knife and concentrate on rebuilding the connection to his body, but his body did not react. At first it felt merely disconnected, but then it was slow, numb, and unable to feel.

Nill began to drain the giant’s life force as he conjured a shield of Fire and Earth to protect himself. The giant paid the fire no heed, and his weapons went through it like cloth, but the Earth seemed to work.

Confusion surrounded Nill’s mind. What was happening? He no longer knew who or what he was fighting. It was no rogue sorcerer. The life force he was draining had barely any magic to it. No wonder he had felt barely any back at the fire. One thing was certain, his foe was no arcanist. But then, what was he?

The longer the fight lasted and the more life force Nill absorbed, the weaker the giant’s blows grew, the less accurate his aim became. The only thing still keeping him upright was his unbreakable will. With a twinge of regret Nill struck again. In desperation, the giant clung to Nill and with the last spark of his life he clawed into Nill’s body. Nill incinerated the dying remains of his enemy, but the last little spark of determination, or perhaps the pitiful remains of the man’s weak magic would not be extinguished. Nill left the Other World and found himself back at the fire. He heard the clanging of steel on steel and tried to look around and locate Brolok in the commotion. His body did not obey his commands. His motions were torturously slow. His eyes showed him images that had little to do with reality. The only thing he could hear now was a deep, dull hum. His tongue felt furry and his skin was rough like an old tree’s bark. And time… there was something wrong with the time. It seemed to have stopped. Nill sat still by the fire and was incapable of anything other than swaying back and forth.

Brolok and Bairne did not witness much of Nill’s fight; Brolok had his hands full with blocking the raging blows that were coming from the armored warrior as he tried to dislocate his engraver-turned-weapon, whose unique curved grip had got stuck in his clothes.

I have to make a sheath for this damn thing, Brolok promised himself as he raised his shield again to block the next attack, at the same time turning on his left foot to dodge his enemy’s shield.

Don’t lose your balance!

The other warriors were still sitting around the fire, and some of them had risen to their feet to cheer for their comrade. They had few doubts in their little minds about the outcome of the fight. The stranger could not rely on help. The girl was no fighter, and their leader would keep the oddball in the robe busy enough. They were all experienced fighters and saw Brolok’s natural strength, but a small round shield was a rather one-sided affair compared to a sword and pavise. And so they bellowed their support and drank and enjoyed the show.

Bairne sat petrified on the ground. The only thing that showed she was alive was her eyes as they darted from one to the other. She saw Nill suddenly flinch, and one of the warriors in the background was reloading a dart into his blowpipe. Bairne closed her eyes for a moment. The assailant froze, grasped his head in both hands and collapsed. The others might have thought he had fallen asleep in boredom at the one-sidedness of the fight.

Brolok had finally managed to detach his weapon. He leapt backwards and switched his shield to his right arm, and grasped the custom-forged hilt tighter. The odds were evened now: weapon against weapon, shield versus shield. The warrior laughed and sent a mighty slash at Brolok’s head. Brolok almost danced into the movement and parried the sword in its infant swing, and at the same time he slammed the edge of his shield into his enemy’s. It hit the pavise in the exact spot where the metal strengthened the wood beneath. The strike knocked the shield arm backwards at the elbow like an unlocked door in a storm. It was all he needed. Brolok turned with his shoulder beneath his enemy’s sword arm and received a painful whack of the pommel on his shoulder as the warrior brought his arm down, but ignored it; he thrust the engraver’s tip right into one of the metal rings in the hauberk. Brolok put all of his weight into the thrust and twisted the heavy thorn he had drawn from the metal in the hole he had made. The ring burst and the cloth beneath it offered no protection. The tip sank into the man’s soft flesh. The warrior stood for a few more moments. An incredulous expression spread across his face as his hand slackened and his sword fell to the ground. Brolok stabbed three more times into his stomach before the warrior finally fell to the ground. His right cheek scraped Brolok’s armor, but the dying mind no longer registered the scratches. Brolok left his engraver in the wound and picked up his opponent’s sword. He flung the dying body away and decapitated the next foe before he even had time to leap up and draw his weapon. He split the third one’s skull. He had killed three in short order, but now the surprise was gone, and his opponents flung themselves at him, screaming and roaring with bloodlust.

Bairne rolled over to avoid being trampled by the feet all around and mouthed a few silent words. She got to her feet and threw Nill a last look; he remained as still as a statue. To her surprise she noted the giant lying at his feet, blank eyes staring at the sky. All the warriors had leapt up and pounced on Brolok, who stepped backwards as he attempted to overcome this immense disadvantage. Bairne kept whispering and saw to her pleasure that Brolok was mowing down his enemies, supported by a characteristically grumpy ram, who was knocking men through the air. Covered in blood and panting heavily, Brolok struck one final blow and hunched over, supporting himself on his sword.

“Are you hurt?” Bairne asked.

Brolok looked surprised. “No, not a scratch. I never thought I’d survive that, but that wasn’t a fight. It was a slaughter. Not worthy of a warrior.”

Bairne said nothing and turned back to Nill.

“Never thought I’d beat more than ten fighters at once,” Brolok mused. He was talking more to himself than to Bairne, who was checking on Nill. “But they got in each other’s way and were so slow you’d think they’d had too much to drink.”

He went through the corpses and took what he needed. A few copper coins, several long knives. He stood before his first, armored enemy indecisively. The armor was rich in metal, which he needed; on the other hand, they still had a long way to walk and heavy luggage would kill their already slow pace. Brolok stripped him of his armor and wrapped it in leather and a woolen shawl and hid it between the roots of a nearby tree. He took one mail glove. Then he returned to Nill and Bairne.

“What’s wrong with him?” he asked his wife. “Nill? Are you alright?”

“He’s still breathing,” Bairne replied. Nill was not moving, and she pulled a small dart out of his shoulder. “He got hit with a poisoned dart. It’s in his blood now.”

“I don’t understand. A mage can counteract any poison. They all work on the same basic idea. They disturb the balance of elements in your body. Nill just needs to restore it.”

“He might have waited too long, or the poison went straight to his nerves or his brain.”

Brolok kneeled down, laid a hand on Nill’s brow and felt the poison. “You’re right, he’s poisoned and his mind is clouded. Wait a moment… alright. I have changed a few things, I took some Metal and gave him some Fire. All I can do is mend wounds, not remove poisons. We’ll have to wait. There’s no more we can do at the moment.”

“Don’t worry,” Bairne said calmly. “His breathing is already normal again. Once the poison ebbs away he can heal himself. But look here: this is where the giant was lying. Right here, I saw him. And now all that’s left are his clothes. I don’t think he fled naked and unnoticed. It’s as if he’s gone up in smoke.”

Brolok looked around, although there was no real reason to do so; the giant’s body would have been immediately noticeable among the dead. “Magic?” he asked finally.

Bairne’s eyes grew wider still. “I don’t know. I didn’t feel anything, but there’s no other explanation.”

Brolok began to empty the abandoned clothing’s pockets and gave a low whistle when he found three slim silver bars in a hidden lining.

“Ringwall,” he said. “Sometimes Ringwall pays with silver bars. Whoever gave these bastards their task paid dearly for it. I’d just like to know whether the task concerned us, or whether we met by accident.”

“It was a trap,” Bairne said. “The bright fire and the smell of food and drink could only attract people out here in the wilderness. And who apart from us is here? I think it was meant for us. And that means someone knows where we are.”

A low groan jolted Brolok out of his thoughts. Nill was rousing and attempting to control the poison in his body. It took some time, but when he had done it he simply got to his feet and said: “We must move on.”

“You’re right,” Brolok answered, “but for one, it’s the middle of the night, so there’s no point in walking off, and for another, you sit right back down and tell us what happened. Some sort of magic went off here, but neither of us felt a thing.”

Nill’s eyes were expressionless He tried to gather his thoughts, which caused him visible difficulty.

“The magic was in the leader, the giant, but it wasn’t his own. It was borrowed and well-hidden. He himself was no arcanist, but he possessed a bit of power over the five elements and the Other World and something else I couldn’t recognize. We fought in the Other World, not here.”

“And you won,” Brolok said appreciatively.

Nill closed his eyes and screwed up his face in the effort to remember.

“I think so, but I’m not sure. He wasn’t a sorcerer, so it shouldn’t have been hard to win the fight. But I was handicapped. There was something in me that broke the unity of body and spirit. But now I’m here, and my opponent isn’t. So I suppose I won.”

He was really not sure. Something troubled him. Behind his eyes and the root of his nose something was scratching, something that did not belong there. Nill shook his head as if to shake off a swarm of flies, but the strange feeling stayed.

Brolok flung some earth onto the fire to reduce the blaze. There was no point in keeping the fire alight; it might attract unwanted guests. Then he dragged the bodies of the slain onto a pile. No time to bury them, he reasoned. The scavengers would pick them out anyway.

All the same, it was not a pleasant feeling to spend the night next to a mound of dead men whose souls had not yet come to rest.

It was a short night. Brolok slept deeply; Bairne whispered all through the night, and nobody knew whether she was casting spells or giving herself courage; and Nill slept badly. He had bad dreams that night. Many voices shouted in his mind. At first he could not understand them, but then in the ruckus one voice grew louder and stood out, and Nill heard a triumphant laugh.

“Finally I have you. This time you did not escape. The last fight to decide everything… how long have I waited for this moment. Your death will be painful and very, very slow. As I have always intended.”

Nill listened to the voice intently. It was powerful and pierced his skull like a magically-sharpened arrow. Nill did not know whose voice it was, but he knew that his enemy wanted more than to simply kill him. There was a feeling of superiority, of power and satisfaction. The voice’s owner was in Ringwall, spinning his webs, and it seemed to grant him joy to tug at these threads. Amargreisfing had been the first sign of his enemy’s character. Nill was certain that the voice would return.

They continued their journey early next morning, keeping to solid ground as they did. One path was as good as another. Nill was strangely calm. His gaze focused inwards, his ears were shut. Suddenly he looked up.

“Where did you get that sword, Brolok?” he asked.

Brolok looked taken aback. “I took it from the warrior who thought he was entitled to my wife and armor.”

“And the others? There were too many of them. You can’t have killed them all.”

Nill’s agitated voice was at odds with the slack mouth it came from. Brolok’s eyes went from Nill to Bairne, who had also adopted a worried look, and back again.

“I don’t know,” Brolok said finally. “Ask Bairne. I can’t shake the feeling that she helped me in some way.”

Nill looked at Bairne and forged a connection between their eyes that made the young woman stumble. But then his gaze crumbled and retreated behind his eyes, back to the confusing chambers of his mind. Without another word he tramped on.

“Nill, this way,” Brolok said and gripped his friend by the shoulders to steer him in the right direction.

Bairne looked almost desperate as she glanced from Nill to Brolok, who merely shrugged helplessly.

Nill’s condition worsened as they marched. He thrashed around at night, shouting incomprehensible words. By day, he was tired and absent-minded. How could his friends know that he was locked in a constant battle with the voices in his head? And that laughter, again and again. Evil. Triumphant. “Mine, mine, mine.”

But who was “mine,” the voice did not say.

They walked a fine line between morass and solid ground and edged around the great swamp that way. One day, Nill simply stopped walking and began to curse loudly, causing even Ramsker to leap aside in alarm. Brolok decided that the time to act had come.

“We need help. As long as we don’t know who’s after us and what’s wrong with Nill, we can’t enter the cities of the Waterways or Ringwall. I’d most like to find a shaman or druid who knows their way around the healing arts. But I’m no better at finding people than a muckling. Can you feel anyone around us?”

Brolok’s eyes sought Bairne, but Bairne did not reply, instead retreating further into her oversized cloak. She looked back along the path they had come from, looked at the path they continued to walk on and slowly turned in the direction of the swamps they had avoided. Without a word she pushed her way through the bushes. Brolok followed her, dragging Nill along. Ramsker made sure that Nill did not stop walking and drove him onwards with the occasional gentle push.

The land stayed firm and mostly dry. The water had convened in its own spots rather than covering everything here. They crossed several rivers, some larger, some smaller. Nill did not want to enter the cold water at first, then, when he was waist-high in it, did not want to leave. It was so bad at the last river that they had to wait for the coldness to sap all his strength before they could carry him out. They had no choice but to make a fire in the middle of the day to dry Nill and their clothes.

With the warmth, Nill’s strength returned and he stomped and hopped around the fire, yelling out strange and wild noises that had lost all resemblance to human language. Even beetles and flies avoided him. Within a heartbeat he sat down on his blankets, still as a rock. Between his fits of raucous exuberance he had lucid moments in which he tried to speak to his friends.

“I’m sick. Must have caught something bad.”

Brolok nodded.

“Where are we? Is the mage still after us? Sneaky fellow. We’ll have to plan our next move carefully.”

“What mage?” Bairne asked.

“Don’t know. Other World. Ancient magic maybe, not the one I know. Bad magic. It’s all so…” He hit himself in the head.

Some of his rambling was understandable; then, he mentioned things neither Brolok nor Bairne knew about. Sometimes, his words and thoughts were separated completely, leaving him to stutter and shout at random. The young witch decided they had to move faster.

“We haven’t much time left.”

One early morning they reached a small settlement that lay between a coppice, two small brooks and a few muddy fields. The huts looked bleak and dreary, but the women that walked between them seemed strong, healthy and jovial.

“Oas!” Brolok gasped.

If Tiriwi’s tales of her homeland and her people were true, then these women would flood to them and take good care of them. So Brolok hoped.

It did not look like it. The women did gather round, but their joy seemed to evaporate as they came closer, and there was no geniality in their faces. Instead their expressions were serious; disapproving looks were cast on Bairne, and more than one finger pointed at Nill, whose eyes were rolling uncontrollably in their sockets. Only Ramsker received a few curious glances. Brolok, Bairne and Nill stopped.

“We need aid,” Brolok shouted.

“Wait, our eldest will come and speak with you.”

It did not take long for a woman with a light step and youthful stride to come out of the small coppice to meet them. Only her white hair gave any hint of her age.

“My name is Haraak. Be welcome, come into our midst and warm yourselves,” she said, but her voice was without warmth itself, and the greeting sounded more like a formula that no longer meant anything but tradition.

“And I always thought the Oas were generous hosts to all strangers,” Brolok muttered to Bairne.

“Not to a sorcerer of Ringwall, a mad mage and a witch, you dunce,” Bairne replied. “But who else can we turn to?”

They sat down beside the fire. Brolok held Nill with the tenderness usually only afforded small children or lovers, and Nill took it without complaint. However, the next moment he tore away from Brolok and began to screech again. Brolok despaired and, with a silent sigh, aimed a punch right at Nill’s chin. Nill was knocked out cold.

“My apologies,” Brolok said sheepishly. “He is my friend, but sometimes I just can’t take his fits anymore. How could I ask you to? We came here because we need help. We’re on our way to the Oas of Woodhold to visit a close friend of ours, but we’ll never make it there if you can’t help us.”

Haraak’s head swayed. “You may stay overnight. But I cannot help you. There is an evil magic at work in your friend, one from the Other World whose only purpose is to separate the sky and the earth forever. Go to Ringwall. There are mages there that can help you. For us Oas, an attempt at healing your friend would be immeasurably dangerous.”

Brolok opened his mouth for another try at persuasion. Even though he knew it was in vain, he could not give up on his friend. But before he had formulated a sentence, Nill had one of his rare lucid moments.

“Haraak, please leave us here, hide us from our pursuers and call a druid.”

Two black swampravens flew up into the air. The Oas all looked flabberghasted; not only had Nill addressed the eldest by name, but had also uttered the bird-cry that belonged to it.

Haraak looked at the swampravens and waited until they had returned to the ground before saying, “We can offer you protection and will do so if you ask it of us. I do not know why, but you touch me, mage. But a druid will not be able to help you. Druids know the elements, but the Other World is not their given path.”

“My druid knows it… and if he doesn’t… he knows a way.” Nill’s voice grew weaker as he spoke. Everyone present could see how much strength it cost the young man to hold to the ropes that kept him in reality.

“I am sure the druids would be honored by your faith in the powers, but who is the druid who can do the impossible?”

“Dakh-Ozz-Han.”

Haraak flinched, composed herself and then said with all the warmth and kindness that had previously been missing from her demeanor: “Dakh-Ozz-Han is a figure of legend. He left us thousands of springs ago. I am surprised you know his name.”

“He’s not dead, my lady,” Nill whispered. “He taught me much and took me to Ringwall. If you don’t believe me, send for Kelim-Ozz-Han, his son. I don’t know him, but he was the one who answered Grimala’s plea to teach our friend Tiriwi the magic of the five elements.”

Haraak leaned back. “You seem closer to our people than I thought. Please forgive us your less than warm welcome. I do not know Tiriwi personally, but Grimala is an old friend, although she is not an Oa of the Waterways. I will do what I can.”

With these words the eldest touched Nill’s forehead. Her fingers left a dry spot on the sweat-drenched face.

“He will sleep dreamlessly. It will help him regain some of the strength he so desperately needs. Take him to the hut over there. Remain there until I call for you.”

The days passed. Brolok, Bairne and Nill were well cared for. Now and then the eldest came and touched Nill’s brow, but despite her efforts the young archmage could not always be stopped from storming out of the hut with madly-rolling eyes, naked and screaming.

“I am Perdis!” he would scream, or else: “Perdis, you foul dog, come out of your hidey-hole!”

Perdis was everywhere. Nill was Perdis. Perdis was his pursuer and his savior. Perdis was begged for help and cursed to eternal damnation. The entire world became Perdis. And it grew worse with each passing day. Ramsker had found a low hill from which his stood guard like a stone sentinel. Whether he kept watch on Nill and his friends, or all of the huts and their inhabitants, no one could say.