C15 Chapter XV

Bairne had no difficulty in slipping away unnoticed. She headed back to the Seven Penitents. The sea was calm, and so she reached the last and smallest of the unhappy stones quite unencumbered. There she sat on the shoulders of this monument of guilt and penance and gazed out over the endless waves. For a long time, nothing happened. A tiny tear peeked out from the corner of her eye and considered whether it should drop, but it felt too small. The longer she waited, the smaller the tear shrunk as the wind took it into its comforting embrace. Her eyes remained dry. Only a slight redness hinted at the tear.

“Do you still need me?” Bairne called out. “Shall I come to you?”

A miniscule light appeared in her thoughts.

“Stay in the Waterways. That is your home, little witch. That is where you are needed. Your task is not yet fulfilled. Roam the swamps and marshes. Terrible forces are convening here. The key must be here too, and if not, the waters will tell us where it is. But more important than the key itself is the one to hold it. Keeping that person in my sight is my goal. Protecting them must be yours.”

*

Nill, Brolok and Ramsker traveled from hamlet to hamlet, inquiring about Perdis wherever they went. Nobody had ever heard the name before. As the news of Nill’s healing had preceded them, they were welcomed with open arms. Yet the women did not compete for their favor, as was supposed to be typical of them. Nill wondered whether Tiriwi had been entirely truthful in her explanations. But he did not mind too much; he was not looking for a woman, but for his father. He asked the wise women about the magic of the sky and earth, about the Book of Arun and whether the Oas had a sanctuary of their own. Mention of Arun called forth the same mystified expressions as his questions about Perdis, but they did learn that the Oas did have a sacred place. The knowledge of it had long since been lost to the ages, and its location had been forgotten countless springs ago. Everyone agreed, though, that it must lie somewhere in Woodhold. Nill was satisfied. He was convinced that this sanctuary still existed, and there he would find the Book of Arun. Sedramon-Per must have found it. And if he had found it, Nill would too.

The two friends and Ramsker left the Oas of the Waterways and after a few more days of marching reached the kingdom of Woodhold. “To the forest and then right,” Tiriwi had once playfully described the route. That had been when they were still in Ringwall, but now they came from the Waterways. No one knew Tiriwi, but wise Grimala’s reputation was known far and wide, and the Oas directed them to her.

Another few days later they were standing at the outskirts of a small village half-nestled in the forest. Brolok looked around expectantly. A slight tension in his movements as he wiped his hands on his trousers showed how nervous he was, despite the calmness in his eyes as they wandered over the huts. Nill, in contrast, stood quite still. He swallowed; his mouth was dry, and his heart was beating somewhere in his throat. Ramsker had meanwhile lowered his head to the ground and was feasting on the lush grass. The only sound was his chewing.

“Tiriwi might not even be here. She might be traveling,” Nill muttered.

“She’s probably got some important task to do in the misty forest – or she decided to come looking for us and has reached Fugman’s Refuge by now. Maybe—”

“Stop with that rubbish,” Nill snapped.

“Who started the rubbish?” Brolok asked innocently. “Now, are we going to keep standing here until we become two more trees in the forest? Ramsker might eat us if we do.”

So he pushed Nill forward, and Nill, not expecting this, almost fell face-first to the ground. When he still did not move, Brolok simply marched on. The first Oas had gathered and Brolok wanted to finally experience the fabled hospitality all the men raved about, even if none of them had experienced it first-hand either. Apart from the druids.

“Hello!” he called to the nearest group. “My name is Brolok. Not to worry, you wouldn’t know me. But I know you. Or at least, I’ve been told who you are. Tiriwi’s arguing sisters, or something.”

Brolok’s voice grew quiet in the distance. Once he could be heard no more, Nill finally gave himself a little shake and decided to first pay his respects to wise Grimala. With firm steps and resolve in his face he strode between the buildings.

“Please,” he addressed the first woman he came across, “can you tell me where wise Grimala lives?”

The Oa laughed, then slapped a hand to her mouth. “This way, archmage,” she said, struggling to fight back a giggle. Nill’s expression darkened. Was she making fun of him? He hated when people made fun of him. If you don’t know what to say, say nothing at all. Better be clever and silent than stupid and loud. Dakh-Ozz-Han had taught him that, a lifetime ago.

“Would you be so kind as to inform her of my arrival? She might be expecting me.”

The Oa laughed again. “That’s not very likely,” she disagreed. “Grimala is quite old and has no time to wait for things anymore. Come now.”

Nill found the answer almost as confusing as her silly laughter.

Grimala’s home was built on stilts, like many of the huts in this village. Nill followed his guide up the short stairs, taking pains to avert his eyes from her swaying hips mere inches from his face. He thought he caught a smell he had never smelled before and turned his head. Some sort of forest flower? he wondered as he inhaled again through his nose, but the smell was gone.

The Oa had stopped and was now calling into the dark hut: “You have an esteemed visitor!” Then she pushed open the door. “Just go inside, lord archmage.” She giggled again and leapt down the stairs. Nill pondered the total lack of respect in her tone, to her wise woman the same as to him. He looked around after her, but quickly turned away when he noticed a group of gossiping women nearby. Some were even waving at him. They laughed and exchanged comments that caused even more laughter. Nill felt highly uncomfortable and was grateful for the shadows the hut offered.

A woman was sitting in a corner. She did not stand up to greet him. “Everywhere in Woodhold, they are talking about you. I’m glad you’ve arrived. Be welcome.”

Nill’s eyes widened in surprise. The darkness was interrupted by little spots of sunlight shining through holes in the artfully woven branches. He knew that voice. It did not belong to an old woman. It was Tiriwi’s. But Nill did not want to show himself surprised yet again, so he made a formal bow and said: “You must grow younger every spring, high healer. You almost remind me of a little stubborn girl I knew at Ringwall. She always made a mess.”

“What?” Tiriwi squawked indignantly. “Who was the one breaking every single rule the city has ever had, collecting enemies like others collect leaves and spells?” She grinned. “Come, sit down. Grimala will be back soon. Tell me everything that’s happened since we last saw each other.” She did not wait for him to take his place, instead leaping up and putting her arms around him. Nill returned the hug gladly, his nose buried in Tiriwi’s long silvery hair, and decided in that moment that he would dedicate the rest of his life to the smells of Woodhold. For a long time, that was his last thought. All his senses were occupied, feeling the gentle pressure of Tiriwi’s body against his, the tickling of her hair on his skin, the countless tiny adjustments she made to keep her balance. His spirit floated away from his body and rose above them, from where it looked inquisitively down at him. Nill swallowed dryly and coughed – and the spell was broken. Tiriwi released him and fetched a hollowed-out fruit and two small cups. She poured a measure of clear, sweet-smelling liquid into both.

“Gorb juice?” Nill teased.

“Not Gorb juice, no, you rascal. What did Empyrade tell you?”

“Nothing,” Nill said innocently. “Nothing at all. But I heard a story once about an Oa, lost in Ringwall, who almost fell into the wrong hands.”

“They weren’t hands. Gorb juice messes with your mind. The moment I understood that, Empyrade appeared and took me away.”

“Yes,” Nill laughed, “that’s the way I heard it.”

“Liar.”

“Well, similar at least. Now tell me. How have you been?”

Tiriwi did not have much to tell. At first she had visited the wise woman daily and they had spoken at length about Ringwall, the mages, the elemental magic and the future of Pentamuria, until Tiriwi had barely left Grimala’s house at all anymore. Now she lived with the older woman, receiving daily lessons from her and trying to learn everything important about the Oas’ magic.

Nill, on the other hand, had many stories to tell, and he talked for a long time, for Grimala did not return as soon as Tiriwi had claimed. When Nill and Tiriwi finally left the hut, night was falling and it was time for supper. Nill was treated royally. Tiriwi picked out his dishes and laid them on a round wooden plate in front of him, or wrapped them in a large leaf.

“I can’t remember you ever making this much of an effort with me in Ringwall,” he whispered to her, but she merely looked at him and said: “You couldn’t be more wrong. I put far more effort into it then. You just didn’t notice because you were busy dying in fever dreams. Besides, today you are my personal guest. It is the way of the Oas.”

After they had eaten, Tiriwi led Nill to the common house, where they found Brolok, two druids and several more Oas attending to the men. Tiriwi – to Nill’s displeasure – hugged Brolok tightly, and he returned the embrace enthusiastically and clapped her on the backside. Then he held her at arm’s length and said: “Let’s see if you’ve gained any muscle in the meantime.”

“Enough to throw you in the river if you don’t behave.”

Brolok laughed, flung Tiriwi over his shoulder and pretended to toss her out of the door. Tiriwi clung tightly to his matted locks.

“Warriors shouldn’t have long hair,” Tiriwi gasped, “unless they’ve got a helm to hide it under!”

“You see?” Brolok said to Nill. “My teachings! I’ll make true fighters of the two of you yet.”

“Later, alright? For now, you should rest, and you,” Tiriwi turned back to Nill, who was standing there somewhat awkwardly, “will be shown my home tomorrow.” She slipped out of the door and was gone. Nill found a spot somewhere between Brolok and one of the druids and gazed for a long time at the door that had closed far too quickly behind Tiriwi. With a sigh, he shook his head and began to unpack.

The next morning was one of the kind nature keeps for special occasions. It was fresh, bright and with the sort of light breeze that blew away worries and brought with it the smell of wild herbs and flowers. The hamlet was built on the edge of an impenetrable-looking forest, but a closer look revealed many small paths and animal crossings that made traversing the trees possible. Going into the forest meant swapping the yellow of the sun for the green of the trees, the dry fresh air for silky humidity and the constant quiet song of the wind for a silence only broken by abrupt birdcalls. Stepping out of it meant a leap into sunshine, a view of blossoming meadows, swaying grass and small coppices of trees and bushes that offered just enough shade to lounge around in.

Tiriwi showed all this to Nill, from one tree to the next, from one flower to another. She showed him where the woodpeckers brooded, the caves where the honey-pickers lived and the flat grass nests of the brightfootwhistlers. After about half a day they sat down on a fallen tree-trunk, throwing small twigs and bits of bark into the sleepy little brook nearby. After all the laughter and the eloquent explanations, they were oddly silent.

Nill gazed at Tiriwi’s hair out of the corner of his eyes; the way it changed, depending on the light, from silvery-gray to sunshine yellow fascinated him. He had only ever seen gray hair on old people – it was a dull color, only gradually reawakening to bright white, and even that happened rarely. Tiriwi’s blonde mane, however, shone silver like a lake beneath fragile clouds. Even the glimmering of the waves found its equal in her hair. Only in direct light, like the sun or the torches that adorned Ringwall’s many halls, did it shine like woven gold.

“You fit far better here,” Nill muttered.

“What do you mean?”

“Here, with the air and the wind and the green grass. Not in Ringwall’s stone corridors.”

He looked into her eyes and marveled at the depth of color he found in what had always been gray, now adopting shades of green and blue seemingly at random. Tiriwi broke the shared look and gave a sudden laugh; without a moment’s warning, she pushed Nill off the trunk. She laughed again and ran. Nill had jumped up immediately and sprinted after her. Tiriwi had the longer legs, but Nill was more naturally agile and was able to cut off every feint she made. With a mighty leap he managed to grab hold of Tiriwi’s hips, and the momentum of it bowled them both to the ground, where they rolled over, still laughing. Nill hugged her tightly but she broke his grip with her own arms. She tucked her knees in and threw him off to the side, but Nill was still holding on to her shirt and pounced again. His hands flat on her face, he pressed down lightly over her eyes and mouth. “Works a charm against the evil eye and spellcasting,” he said lightly.

Their playful fight obeyed a different magic to the one the mages or the wise women taught, but it was no less powerful. Tiriwi put her arms between their chests and raised her head a little; then she suddenly slackened, but pushed upwards with her arms and Nill was knocked sideways. The match went back and forth for a while, constantly punctuated by laughter. Legs collided with heads, teeth bit playfully onto bare skin. Feet stomped on chests and backs without really hurting, and open hands slapped unprotected parts. The fight drew them closer and closer to the river; it was predictable, as everything rolls downhill if it is not careful. Tiriwi leapt up, but one foot was stuck in the muddy ground. For a moment she struggled, spread-eagled like an absurd puppet, then she fell face-forward into the mud. Nill roared with laughter and threw himself beside her. Utterly breathless, they gazed at each other’s dirt-spattered faces until they managed to calm down. Finally, they stood up. Tiriwi flung aside her filthy clothes and jumped into the flowing water. Her golden hair spread around her under the shining sun. For a moment, Nill was frozen; then he, too, discarded his clothes and washed away the mud.

Hand in hand they returned to the village. Out of every door came Oas to ogle the young couple. Tiriwi felt every single step. The magic of Earth caressed her soles and rose through her legs, gathering somewhere in her lap. Showers of stars cascaded down from her head and shoulders and flickered out below her navel, on her hips, in the little dimples above her buttocks. Her face bore the deeply satisfied look of a cat that has unexpectedly found an extra special meal.

Nill’s eyes were focused in the distance. His stride was so light he gave the impression of floating. The only thing holding him to the ground was Tiriwi’s hand. Nill alone was the reason the Oas were flocking together. It was not his gaze that looked as though it came from another world; it was his golden aura, surrounding him bright as the sun above. But he noticed none of it. All he felt was the hand. Everything else was fresh memory; memories of skin, smells and wildflowers.

One of Tiriwi’s mothers stepped out of the crowd. “Come to my house, I won’t be there. Grimala has invited me to visit with her.”

Tiriwi’s happy smile grew more radiant still. Once they had disappeared into the proffered hut, many of the Oas started to hug each other. Only Grimala looked thoughtful. “It looks as though we Oas are part of the future after all. That is comforting, at least. But the future disappears a little more every day, behind a thick curtain of mist.”

Nill stayed with Tiriwi. Only for a while, he thought, but he vastly underestimated the power and magic of women. For him, time had stopped. Nothing in the hut changed; only the weather outside and Tiriwi’s closeness that burned hotter and brighter with each passing moment, holding him tight. But beyond the peaceful world of the Oas, time was racing, and the world was in turmoil.

*

King Sergor stood upon the foundations of what was soon to become his tower and looked down on what had once been Rockvice with relish. The small fortification he had named his new capital was completely unrecognizable with all the stones, dust and voices everywhere. Only Worldbrand, the name he had chosen, hinted at the young king’s ambitious vision. But where were the glamour and the power a capital deserved? The courtiers Sergor-Don had brought shied away from the bright sunlight and the small troop of chosen soldiers was so thinly spread that the city belonged to the mucklings alone as they built the walls of Worldbrand, cursing and gasping beneath the merciless sun.

Sergor’s face was impassive in the light yet constant wind of the dry plains and not a twitch betrayed how hot the flame of his coming triumph burned. “Nothing will be as it was.” Those were the words of the prophecy. The entire might of Pentamuria, united under a single crown: this was Sergor-Don’s vision. Absolute power. Absolute control. Only these two could guarantee the world’s reshaping to his liking. What did the king care for the talk of the Changer, or fate’s plans, if he could take matters into his own hands? He had done so, and thus far, all had worked out.

Much had happened in the Fire Kingdom. Sarch, the slimy worm, was dead, and the tribes were united for the first time in history. And yet, the peace’s cause was not understanding and wisdom, but sorrow and pain.

As Sergor had predicted, Grand General Sarch had not taken kindly to being stripped of his rank and named captain of the family. His boundless ambition and vastly inflated, wounded ego had caused the former grand general to take unnecessary risks in the fight against the Earthlanders. The sons of the desert, whose courage King Sergor-Don had openly doubted, had not held back when it came to battle.

Tell a man of honor he has no courage and he will break his neck to prove you wrong, Sergor thought, and his mouth twitched.

It had only been a matter of time until Captain Sarch fell into an ambush and was killed. Without their leader, the first sons of the most powerful tribes knew their days were numbered. The king’s troops exacted revenge and spread death and destruction all along the border, but as the sons’ blood seeped into the sand, so too did their hopes. They did not hold for long.

Sergor-Don knew that honor and pride were the last things a man could cling to when he had lost everything else. Nothing was more vigorously defended than one’s own honor. Idiots, the lot of them. What was honor against power? Honor came as a by-product of might. Honor was only words.

Haltern-kin-Eben still had command of the court, but his power was broken. His children were hostages to his loyalty in Worldbrand; his most influential followers were dead – slain in battle, killed in service, or tragically lost under mysterious circumstances. Oh, their funerals had been extravagant, the court scribes had written down their deeds and published them for the common folk to lap up, and their families had received personal blessings and condolences from the king.

Now there was finally calm in the Fire Kingdom. The soldiers stood behind the king to a man, and the would-be crown stealers cowered in fear of their own shadows.

Calm behind me, and I can look ahead. And the strength… at this thought, his lips curled into a true smile this time. The strength is always hidden, but readily accessible for those who know where to look.

It is time. He stepped down from the foundation. The next few days will see a decision. For me, for the Fire Kingdom, for all of Pentamuria.

The horizon was white and the sky above still black when a troop of riders set out from Worldbrand in a highly uncoordinated formation. Ahead of the group were the bannermen, their flags of black and red flapping in the desert wind. Behind them, a few sparse rows of sorcerers. Some of them had foregone horses entirely, instead choosing to lighten their own steps to keep pace. Following the sorcerers closely was a squad of archers. Then came the king and his court sorcerers. He was at the tail end of the loose troop rather than the head. Behind them was nothing but the dust their horses kicked up from the ground. Far in the distance, too far to be counted as part of this procession, several more archers rode out. They could still intervene if something unforeseen was to happen. If anyone came across them, they would not see a mighty ruler approaching Ringwall, but a young man, a boy king too fresh to worry about trivial things such as security.

King Sergor-Don reached Ringwall as the sun approached its peak. His riders rested a respectful distance from the magical gates, somewhere between the double wall and Raiinhir, which surrounded Ringwall like yet another wall. Cooking fires were built, tents erected; yet it was no army surrounding Ringwall, but merely small, meaningless groups of four or five men. Some camped in plain sight of the gate, others where they found water, and others still further away, outside of Raiinhir.

“Ringwall does not like soldiers. Nothing must so much as hint at a threat. But stay in sight of the walls.” That had been the king’s command.

Only the king and his sorcerers entered Ringwall. As was custom, Gwynmasidon was informed of the royal arrival immediately. Unnecessary tradition, a remnant of old times. It was more a show of respect; the mages always knew ahead of time who was approaching their city. Sergor-Don and his companions were received graciously, as was every other visitor who had come in the days leading up to the great magical tournament. At a certain level, King Sergor was no more than a returning student amongst many that had come to watch. The only nod to his position was in his sleeping quarters: he was given a chamber of his own, whereas the others shared the common halls.

The king himself was unrecognizable. Usually so reserved, even at the center of a crowd of servants and subordinates as calm as if he stood alone in the desert, he was now smiling, shaking hands, embracing old acquaintances and enjoying private conversations. He visited the individual lodges and paid his respects to the high-ranking mages, accompanied White mages to their chambers and met with all sorts of folks in the dining halls where old friendships were rekindled and new ones forged. Ringwall was to know that King Sergor-Don was here and that he had important things to say.

But not all of his conversations were for more than two pairs of ears. The threads he had spun as a young neophyte had to be tautened. Just as he had done in his youth, the king sought dialog in those hidden corners and chambers where he had learned the deeper secrets of Fire and Metal and the Other World, usually reserved only for experienced mages. And neither his teachers nor the magon had ever known.

He visited his mentor from the old days too, but they did not meet in his chambers. They had, at first, met for a public meal, and now Sergor-Don waited impatiently in a room that was more a hole in the ground than a chamber, deep within Ringwall’s foundations. A magical field materialized nearby, then a gentle knock on the door and the scuffing of feet announced that Catsilver, his old master, had arrived.

“All is as we arranged?” the young king enquired.

“And it will stay so. Do not forget what you have promised me.”

King Sergor-Don flinched. He was no longer accustomed to being addressed like a schoolboy.

Catsilver, you stupid, greedy fool , he thought contemptuously. The first words from your mouth say everything an enemy needs to know. But the young king’s words were delivered in a tone of politeness and respect as he replied.

“Much has changed here since I left, has it not?” It was more a question than a remark, but the high mage gave a derisive snort.

“All the same. Only the High Council grows more restless with each passing day. The fear is almost palpable within these walls. They whisper that the magon is weakening, and his archmages are losing their respect for him. You chose a good time to return, Sergor.”

“I would be grateful for an opportunity to speak with Murmon-Som. I noted with some joy that he has been elevated to the rank of Archmage of the Other World. That simplifies much, but I could not possibly arrange a meeting with him without arousing suspicion.”

“It’s hardly possible for me, either. We shall have to wait until the archmage condescends to address us. But do not fret; he knows you are here, and you will hear from him. But you will have to wait, just as you will have to wait for an invitation from the magon and the High Council.”

“And you think this invitation will come?”

“Without a doubt. Rumors were planted, insecurities tended to. Everyone wants to see or hear of the Olvejin, and the scriptures of our founders are to receive a special place in the Chamber of Glyphs and Runes. The idea about the Olvejin and the scriptures was a good one. It will draw the archmages out of hiding. No one believes the rumors, of course, but there might be something to them… fools, the lot of them.” The high mage spat, then laughed, and the arrogance of power seemed to seep from his every pore.

“I will do my best not to disappoint them,” King Sergor answered coolly. “But the Olvejin is too large to carry around. And as far as the scriptures are concerned: I do not intend to hand them over. Not before everything is set in stone.”

“You mean it’s not just a rumor? They really exist?” A shadow flitted across Catsilver’s face and his mask of confidence began to crack along the outside.

Sergor-Don could not suppress a tiny smile as he noticed the change in his interlocutor’s demeanor. You’re all the same. Greed and fear are all that drive you. And fear you will have, by the elements. But you still have a task to fulfill, mage. Aloud, he said:

“I found them. However, I lack the knowledge and power to use their magic. But in the right hands…” Sergor trailed off, leaving temptation thick upon the air.

“Murmon-Som and I will help you. We have taught you before, and we will continue to do so. When the right men meet at the right time, a true force forms. We will be unstoppable.”

Sergor-Don could only voice his agreement. Yes, my friend, you are quite right. Unfortunately, you are not one of those men. You will learn that soon enough.

Sergor rose and made a departing gesture. Then he ran up the worn-down steps, light-footed and silent. The High Mage of Metal waited down in the hole for a few more moments, then vanished.

“Metal moron!” Murmon-Som grumbled. “What use is it meeting in hidden places if you leave behind a magical flare that sings songs to the whole world?” Not for the first time, Murmon-Som had doubts about the high mages’ capabilities. It was time to act. Murmon-Som disappeared into the Other World and reappeared in this one, right in Sergor-Don’s small chamber, where he waited for the young king. The idiot should know that the only way to remain hidden is to use the Other World.

King Sergor had climbed the stairs to the ramparts on the walls. There he stood, gazing up at the stars like an ordinary mage who needed to clear their head after a long day’s work.

Nothing is harder than appearing normal , he thought as he ambled about, occasionally stopping to stretch. His outward appearance belied his actions. Every sense he sent out to scan the area. Only when he was absolutely certain he was not being followed did he return to his chamber. In front of his door he paused. He felt as though the smell of decay was coming through the cracks around the door, but he was not entirely sure. With forceful steps he entered the small room and was immediately pressed against the wall by a sudden force. He grimaced. Murmon-Som’s aura must have grown immensely since last they had met.

“Can’t you suppress your aura a little, archmage?” he asked acidly.

“My apologies, your Majesty. It would appear you have little contact with true magic at court these days.” The subservient words were in harsh contrast to the biting tone of the voice that came from the mottled gray aura. “If you ever want to win against a real opponent, you mustn’t be so sensitive. But I have already spent too much time here. We will continue our conversation in my chambers. Now. Come closer, do not tarry.”

The murky figure, more similar to a weather-worn statue than a real human, faded and became blurry around the outside, then disappeared, taking Sergor-Don with it. A heartbeat later they were standing in the inner chamber of the archmage’s lodge. Murmon-Som took the only chair in the room. The chair was the only tangibly real thing; the walls, ceiling and floor all faded out to gray, wavering streaks.

“Sit,” the archmage said, and Sergor-Don had no other choice but to sit by his feet like a child. Soft cushions were plentiful, but it was still humiliating.

“Now then… tell me all you know about the Olvejin and the founder’s scriptures.” The voice was impatient and gruff and had little in common with the constantly-tired look the archmage liked to adopt.

“Where to begin… the Olvejin really does exist,” the king said slowly. “It is a stone, similar to the symbol of Metal in the Sanctuary. It is a broken pillar, standing in the Other World. It is easy enough to find, provided you know where it is.

“The founders’ scriptures are a myth. They left no books, merely some strips of parchment that led to the Olvejin and other obscure fragments of forgotten prophecies.”

Sergor-Don’s lie left his mask intact. Robe your lies in a cloak of truth and they will grow forevermore, he thought. He would never relinquish the scriptures. That treasure was his and his alone.

“Lead me to it. Now. We have no time.”

“I would be honored, archmage,” Sergor-Don replied. “If you would give me your hand?”

The magical bridge was formed anew, but this time Sergor-Don led, and Murmon-Som followed. They left the here and now and arrived on the Plains of the Dead; they vanished from there and reappeared in the Sulfur Gardens, leapt over streams of molten rock, crossed the dried-out Riverbed of Oblivion until they finally reached an ashen field, where the ground bubbled like water on the brink of boiling.

“This is our way,” Sergor-Don explained and pulled the archmage along. They ran through the ash and sank deeper with every step until they were utterly surrounded by the gray dust. Once they broke out of it, they were again on the Plains of the Dead.

“Every path leads us humans to the Plains of the Dead. Every step taken, every leap made. We all must return here someday,” Murmon-Som said. “Why did you not lead me straight here? Where is the Olvejin?”

The accusation in his voice was not to be missed, and Sergor-Don bowed his head. “I took you along the path the founders left for us, archmage. There might be a more straightforward route. Perhaps not, and the plain we find ourselves on now is just one of many such plains. Please remember that I am no mage of the Other World. What little I know of this place, I know from you. The Olvejin you seek is over there. See!”

Murmon-Som, who had been steadily losing patience throughout Sergor’s groveling speech, turned around abruptly and saw a dirty-brown, rounded column. Across its surface, faint purple shadows flitted. The archmage stepped closer and ran his fingertips over the dull surface. A tiny crack split the stone down the middle. From within this crack glowed a weak green light. Murmon-Som dug into it with the nail on his little finger, and the stone opened.

“It is as I thought,” he murmured.

Inside the column, crystal upon crystal was packed densely together. The light that shone from the surfaces gave the impression that the crystals were alive and moving. Some were the size of a fingertip, but upon closer inspection they turned out to be made up of many smaller cubes.

The green light was soothing, but in the earthen surroundings strangely uncanny. Along the edge of the crack, the crystals had changed color. They were red, or blue, and reflected the green light like metal.

“There is magic in this stone,” Murmon-Som remarked, impressed. “A great amount of magic. But I cannot understand it here. The magic of the Other World obscures it. We will take the Olvejin back to Ringwall.”

Under the archmage’s gentle caress the stone eased shut again. Murmon-Som flung his arms around the pillar and took possession of it like a commander takes his slain enemy’s woman after a victory. Intoxicated by his triumph, hungry for flesh, thirsting for the smell of her skin.

Murmon-Som’s aura began to flicker, then to pulsate stronger and stronger. Sergor barely dared draw breath. The archmage’s outline dissolved.

King Sergor-Don stared at Murmon-Som. He took a deep breath and fought the urge to laugh. If only you could see yourself, archmage , he thought. Clinging to the Hermits’ Stone like a toad on his mate. A dung-fly has more dignity than you.

Sergor-Don had quickly recognized that the pillar did not want to leave its place on the Plains of the Dead. Unlike the archmage, its outline remained clear. Murmon-Som returned faster than he had gone and slid off the column. A wet streak on the surface showed where his mouth had opened in a slack kiss.

“The stone does not obey my magic,” Murmon-Som whispered in disbelief.

“I feared as much. I was, of course, not able to move the Olvejin either. I assumed it was due to my lack of experience in the magic of the Other World, but if even an archmage as powerful as you cannot do it…”

Sergor-Don had difficulty in maintaining his mask of reserve over his delight at the archmage’s failing, but Murmon-Som was too preoccupied to notice the malice in his student’s voice. All his attention belonged to the Olvejin.

“The founders brought it here. They will have known a way to get it back. We will study the scriptures together and find it.”

We will, will we? Sergor-Don smirked, and then he was whisked back to Ringwall. Somewhat dazed from the rushed departure, he found himself standing back in the archmage’s quarters – no, sitting. Again. He would pay for this.

Sergor-Don clenched his teeth and mustered every ounce of conviction he had to maintain the smooth expression that hid his thoughts. For a long time, he eyed the fine silk covers of the cushions as though there was nothing more important in existence; he focused on them, gave himself up completely to the weavework until his entire world became a few strands of silk. Only then did he attempt to adopt the correct balance of expressions: obeisance, as was proper for a young student facing his master; pride, befitting a young king who was used to being in command; and the calm confidence of a warrior who saw in the archmage an equal partner. He was not very successful in balancing them, though like many powerful men the archmage was too busy with himself and his own visions to pay Sergor-Don any heed. Finally, he raised his eyes to look at the young king.

“We have enemies on all sides: eight archmages, several hundred elemental mages and as many White mages. Compared to that: You, me and Catsilver. You have some town tricksters behind you and perhaps a few elementalists who might be prepared to join us. Power is so unequally distributed that no one will suspect a takeover. First we must free Ringwall of the White mages. They are loyal only to the truth, and will follow neither you nor me; they will fight for Ringwall and its library until their last breath.”

“Free, you say?” Sergor-Don repeated. “Apart from our allies, I wish to see every last mage in Ringwall destroyed. Spirit, soul and body shattered, with no possibility of reprieve. Dissolved and annihilated! Forever wiped from the face of our world!”

Odioras, the Demon of Cold Hate, seemed to have followed Sergor-Don from the Other World. The voice coming from the youthful mouth was so terrifying that Murmon-Some made a quick, startled gesture.

“Seen and banished, return!”

The hastily-spoken spell made the air in the room cool down considerably.

“You must control yourself, young king. Would you endanger all we have worked for before we can even begin?”

The archmage’s voice thundered through the room, nothing in common with the tired old man of Sergor’s memories. The archmage had risen from his chair, his aura inflating to fill the whole chamber. Sergor-Don felt pressed and powerless. He knew the archmage was right; but anger, and more importantly, hate would give him the strength he needed to carry out his plans. His momentary powerlessness and the fresh humiliation would anchor his hatred even deeper.

A mage like all the others, Sergor-Don thought. Once you have done your duty, you too will bow before your master. I promise you that. Sergor shut his feelings away, compressed them all into a tiny ball of willpower and swallowed them, along with his retort. His body did not take the unexpected concentration well and responded by sending poison through his veins, making him buckle up in pain. But at least now he was calm. Sergor-Don wiped the sweat from his brow before continuing in a voice as normal as if he was asking for the next day’s supper options.

“So what do you suggest, archmage?”

Murmon-Som had begun to pace around the room, his focus inwards, and when he finally spoke it was more to himself than to Sergor.

“The Olvejin. To the White mages, the Olvejin is like light to a moth. You will let them – none too willingly – talk you into showing them the way to realizing their deepest dreams. Tell them they can only see the Olvejin from the Other World. Tell them you don’t know whether you can touch it. Your magical knowledge it not vast enough, that will work as an excuse. Tell them – oh, tell them whatever you want.” The archmage whipped around and glared at Sergor-Don. “The White mages will flock to the Olvejin and then we’ll have them all in one place.”

The archmage’s hand clenched as if he was crushing a walnut, and he punched into his empty hand. The resulting clap was lifeless and dull and not very impressive.

Sergor-Don frowned.

“What use is it? The White mages are capable of returning to Ringwall at any time to fight for the magon. If we are to gather them in the Other World, we must destroy them there. You are the Archmage of the Other World. Is your strength not enough for such an act?”

The archmage’s aura exploded and red tips appeared in the wavering gray. Sergor-Don was knocked back and hit something hard with his back; the back of his head met the floor and he saw stars.

“You will not talk to me like that again, your Majesty.” The royal address felt like a slap to the face, quick, painful and loud. Aggravating an archmage was a dangerous game.

“Forgive me,” Sergor groveled hastily, “but I still don’t see where you’re going.”

“I will greet them wherever you lead them and scatter them across the Other World. Some will find their way back here, no doubt, but many will not survive the journey.”

“Enough might live to make our lives difficult,” Sergor-Don argued cautiously, but the archmage shook his head.

“Only if there is something to fight for. The White mages’ loyalty is to Ringwall, not the magon. The only thing that keeps them here is the knowledge in Ringwall’s depths. If we could convince them that the library has fallen victim to a stray blast of the elements in the struggle, they will not bother.”

Sergor-Don nodded slowly. We won’t have to convince them, my friend. Sergor-Don’s plans were not the archmage’s. They never had been. “And the elemental mages?” he asked.

“They will follow their leaders into the abyss or they will join us. You will see. Once the High Council is broken, the elementalists hold no sway. Only the eight Archmages and the Magon count. Overcoming them is the true challenge.”

“Seven,” Sergor snapped. “The Nill boy doesn’t count either.”

Murmon-Som indicated a muttered assent, though he decided not to confide that it was “the Nill boy” in particular who worried him. Like the magon, he feared what he did not understand, and there was no greater riddle in Ringwall than Nill and the Nothing.

“Seven, as you say. Nill left Ringwall some time ago. We do not expect his return any time soon. We need not care. Seven or eight, with the magon at their front the council has monstrous power.”

“It does bother me, though, that Nill has disappeared. I would have liked to see an old schoolmate again… and freed the world of his pathetic stain at the same time. Where did he go?”

“Forget the boy. He left Ringwall fireward and nobody seems to know where exactly he is. We will take care of him later. Only a fool takes the second step before the first foot is on the ground. And our first step is the council. Nobody will expect a former little student like yourself to go against the archmages. That is an advantage, albeit small.”

Murmon-Som, for the first time, consciously contemplated Sergor-Don’s lean, muscled figure. His eyes were cold, like a bird about to dive at its prey. You will provide the distraction, he thought. And to make sure you don’t die in the first two heartbeats, I will empower your magic. I hope you last long enough. Enjoy your life while it lasts, stupid boy. It won’t be long.

Murmon-Som felt a secret joy rising in his chest. No matter the outcome, Sergor-Don’s attack on the magon would cause considerable uproar. The magon would no longer be the same, even if he survived. With any luck, the council might be caught in collateral. Murmon-Som had planned everything precisely. They underestimate the power of the Other World. It’s stronger than anyone knows. Even Tofflas, Mah Bu’s successor and his own predecessor, had not been able to protect himself against his own magic. The archmage slowly turned his attention back to the young fool before him who called himself king.

“Our success hinges on whether or not you can defeat the magon. You will challenge him. That was the plan, correct? I hope you are not banking on my involvement in the fight proper, for I will be busy shielding you from the archmages. Tell me how you mean to kill him.”

“It is simple, really,” Sergor-Don said, and he explained his plan. “You see, I have only one attempt. I must make it count.”

What Sergor-Don did not share was his backup plan. Contrary to what he had said, he had considered the eventuality of failure and done his best to cover it. Only a fool put all their eggs in one basket; a greater fool still if he felt brave doing it. Murmon-Som was nothing but a useful servant to him, a shield against the archmages and completely disposable once the council had fallen.

“I admire your courage, but a lot depends on the correct moment,” Murmon-Som reflected. “We must find a way to finish Keij-Joss before he can return his attention to more earthen matters. The Archmage of the Cosmos is a formidable opponent. Luckily for us, he spends little time in this world these days. If we are fast enough…” He left his sentence hanging in mid-air.

“Bar Helis and Ambrosimas also give me reason for concern. Both have terrifying reputations. Bar Helis will be taken out by Catsilver. He has been lusting for his master’s rank since the day he was promoted to high mage. I myself will take care of Ambrosimas. I will have to utilize the demons from the Other World to aid the magon and the council against you, sire. Do not wonder if the unexpected should happen. My brothers will be caught off guard if my servants suddenly do not do as they are told.” The archmage hid his face and thoughts behind his dense, spiraling aura. “Once the fight is over, Ringwall will bow to me; you will receive, as a sign of my gratitude, dominion of all of Pentamuria. Do with the people as you please. I care not.”

Catsilver, High Mage of Metal, upon whose shoulders rested the expectations of King Sergor-Don and Archmage Murmon-Som, dipped a dagger into a red, shimmering liquid. So close, after so long… He had been the one to take up Sergor-Don’s patronage, to general surprise, when he had been merely a prince and a neophyte. He had taught him the secrets of advanced Metal magic in secret, knowledge far beyond what students were usually allowed to learn. And he had forged the connection to Murmon-Som, the weak-looking mage of the Other World. The high mage’s thoughts wandered around in the past; while there, he thought the mage’s rapid ascension to the rank of archmage was a little abrupt. But this, he reflected, was only proof that his dreams could become reality. He, too, could become an archmage, just like Murmon-Som. Archmage of Metal! Was it all he could wish for? Perhaps… complacency was dangerous… why not aim for magon?

Catsilver had been carrying a dagger in his robe for the past few days. It was no ordinary blade: it had a hollow tip, now filled with Purple Poison. One drop of the poison was all the hollow could take, but it was all he needed. Purple Poison contained large amounts of Fire and melted Metal. A lunge at Bar Helis in the commotion… his body would fall apart, and it would cause great pain to force it back together. Cautiously, he laid a thin layer of Water energy on the blade. It would weaken the steel and control the Fire within.

“As the Earth bears Metal, iron sweats Water and Water extinguishes Fire,” he recited part of the Circle of Energy.

His master’s call was suddenly in his head. Catsilver looked around. Had the fight already started? Had Murmon-Som successfully scattered the White mages?

The high mage ran to Bar Helis’ chambers, robe flapping wildly behind him. The doors flew open as he approached as if invisible servants were standing at attention. Before him now lay the last room, the center of the lodge and his master’s meditation chamber. He slowed his pace and breathed deeply. He must not fail. He stepped over the threshold and came face to face with Bar Helis.

“I do like it when my call is obeyed so quickly.”

Bar Helis stood in the small room like a commander, and the room itself seemed to shrink at his presence. He had not bothered with a shield and his hard face was unobscured. His mighty aura filled the room and expanded further and further. It went straight through Catsilver’s own aura, as he noticed painfully, and devoured it. Crippling fatigue crept into his bones.

“Did you honestly believe your scheming went unnoticed? Did you truly think you could have taken over Sergor-Don’s patronage without my consent? Secret lessons in dark places, eh? You must have felt so grand, showing a lowly student a little of your own power. I could tear you into countless pieces right now. The Metal you have gathered in your body would fly apart in a million directions and all that would remain would be a shred of bloody meat and bone shards. But no. I will demonstrate my generosity. You will not be punished for your betrayal. Quite the opposite. Are you prepared to serve me, unflinchingly?”

Catsilver gulped and bowed his head. He could not move his arms. “Drop the dagger. You won’t need it anymore.”

Bar Helis turned and reached into the air, and in his hand a two-handed sword appeared.

“This is your weapon,” he said as he passed the sword to the high mage. “I will make do with a simple saber today. You may begin.”

Catsilver circled the sword above his head to get a feeling for its weight. His breath was shallow and his mind was in chaos.

I am a mage, his sense screamed at him. My weapon is magic, not steel! But magic did not help him. Not against an archmage, far less against one of his own lodge. A memory of a long-forgotten past resurfaced, and he recalled his combat training as a youth. Now he depended on what he had always scorned.

Out of the circling, he brought the blade down and cut a line from Bar Helis’ shoulder to his hip. The archmage merely took a step back and listened to the whistling of the sliced wind.

“You must try harder. Perhaps you have not yet understood: you are fighting for your life. I have taken your magic but given you this wonderful sword. I do not need magic.”

Catsilver brought the blade down again with more force. Bar Helis slipped diagonally ahead and raised his saber; with his other hand on the flat side of the blade, he parried the two-hander just above the hilt. The other sword reverberated from the unexpected inertia. Bar Helis took another step, past the trembling mage. With his right hand he brought the blade down onto his opponent’s body, with his left he pushed the back of the saber down into his flesh. He twisted on the spot and made the cut. The blade went through Catsilver’s body like a hot knife through butter. The two-hander clanged as it fell to the floor and a spurt of hot red blood followed. Then there was silence.

“A mage is still a warrior, and a warrior should master every weapon. You have learned that lesson at last, my friend. A pity you can never apply it.”

The implications that arose from the finding of the Olvejin were not immediately clear. The magon took his time in considering it, and only once he was done would he call a council meeting. But the magon overestimated the White mage’s patience. The rumors grew every day and soon began to take strange forms. Every day, a hidden voice brought more details to the surface, and soon no one knew fact from fiction. The mutterings grew so loud, and King Sergor-Don was accosted from so many sides, that he finally had to cave in and promise the White mages to show them the Olvejin. The magon and the High Council had still not met. It was therefore happenstance, rather than his own mandate, that caused the magon to issue a formal invitation, and so Sergor found himself alone in the tower that was home to the highest power in Ringwall, and all of Pentamuria. Gwynmasidon was irritable. He was not in the habit of asking others for information. The fact that a mere sorcerer held secret knowledge he knew nothing about tormented him like hot needles on his skin, king or not.

“Why did you not come straight to us with your knowledge of the scriptures? No one else need have known.” The magon’s voice was terse and a vein was throbbing in his temple.

“I reported my arrival to you, as is tradition, your Excellency. I told some mages of my findings and left nothing out. Everyone would have found out in the end anyway,” Sergor-Don replied somewhat defensively. The weight of that terrible golden aura threatened to crush him.

“And where are the Olvejin and the scriptures? I demand you hand them over this instant!”

“I will do whatever I can,” Sergor-Don said obsequiously. “The Olvejin is in the Other World, as you no doubt have heard. I can lead you there, if you wish, but I cannot remove it and bring it to Ringwall. I simply do not have the means. The White mages can barely contain their anticipation. I have had to promise to lead them there as well. If I promised rashly, I beg your forgiveness. Or should I inform them that you believe my actions were premature?”

King Sergor-Don put on a slight smile, full of pride at his own magnificent portrayal of a groveling student.

Black clouds gathered around the magon’s head and his aura lashed out more wildly than a roc’s wings before a fight. “You will do no such thing. You will not speak for me. You will bring me the scriptures and we shall decide on the Olvejin at a later point.” The magon’s voice thundered like breaking rocks falling into a chasm. The young king felt as though the words were grinding him into the ground, and it took more than a deep breath before he felt ready to respond.

“The books are in Worldbrand, my new capital. I can have them delivered in less than a day. I have just received word that the copies have arrived safely in Gulffir.”

The answer was unexpected and the magon fell into silent brooding, to Sergor’s silent satisfaction. What has seen the light of day is no longer a secret. All he can do now is limit the damage, he thought, and decided to continue acting the vain fool.

“Then you will hand over all the writings you have found and all the copies you have had made to the council. When the circle has had time to examine them, we will return your copies and keep the originals. Having copies made was a foolhardy mistake. There are more hidden counterspells than you can imagine, and I am sure the founders of Ringwall did not leave their most sacred treasure unprotected. Furthermore, I wish for all those who have been in contact with the books to come to Ringwall forthwith. We shall keep them here until we decide otherwise.

“That includes you, your Majesty.”

The magon was determined to regain control of the situation. Sergor-Don kept his head bowed demurely until he was utterly confident in his ability to mask the sudden delight at this unexpected stroke of luck. He could bring more people into Ringwall without arousing suspicion. His thoughts raced around his head and a new plan to remove the magon began to form.

Who to choose? Who can I claim was in contact with the scriptures? My archers, or perhaps warriors, better suited to indoor combat?

He slowly rose to meet Gwynmasidon’s gaze and furrowed his brow as though he was trying to remember something. “Surely you cannot mean my warriors? The brave men who guarded the books?”

“Every last one. No exceptions.”

“As you wish, your Excellency.”

A few days later, King Sergor-Don, his court sorcerers and a small troop of soldiers appeared in the Hall of Ceremony, which was already half-filled with White mages. The rumor had spread that today was the day they would finally see the Olvejin. Sergor-Don had had a table set up by one of the walls that was part of Ringwall’s inner wall.

“I have the founders’ scriptures with me, and I have come to report on the Olvejin as the magon has demanded,” he called, and a hush fell over the White mages.

The echo had not quite died when the air began to vibrate in several places around the hall. The magon and his archmages entered the room. Sergor-Don looked around. All the archmages were here. Only Nill was absent, but he did not count anyway. The magon had a look of ill humor on his face. The time and place for this historic event ought not to have been determined by a mere sorcerer; but before he could raise a hand, Sergor-Don started to speak as if he was the one in charge here.

“The Olvejin is in a place the founders called the Other World within the Other World. It is similar to the Plains of the Dead, but more difficult to enter from the here and now. I can lead anyone there who wishes to see it; but I have barely any knowledge of the magic of the Other World. I know little of what the founders left us. Is it possible, honorable magon, that you or one of your archmages might lend me support in this difficult task?”

Before the magon – torn between the wish to see the Olvejin and peruse the ancient texts, and to tear the impertinent little king to shreds – could reply, Murmon-Som stepped forward.

“You have my support, King Sergor-Don; but I must remind you that checking the scriptures is at least as important. I wonder whether we might not postpone our visit to the Olvejin?”

Sergor-Don could not believe his ears. What nonsense was Murmon-Som up to now? It had been his own idea, after all, to trap the White mages in the Other World.

But Murmon-Som had correctly anticipated the mages’ reactions. A murmur grew louder and louder all across the room, and the first irritable shouts burst forth. Now that Ringwall knew the Olvejin was in reaching distance, even the magon could not keep the White mages under control. So he nodded, raised his hands and rumbled to the hall at large:

“The High Council is glad that Ringwall’s long hunt for the Olvejin is finally nearing its end, and we understand the impatience in our brothers’ hearts. Yet we must not act rashly and ruin everything in the hot-headed haste of discovery. We shall review the founders’ scriptures and attempt to find out whether they say anything about access to the Olvejin, its magic and its meaning. Meanwhile, every mage who wishes to see the relic may do so under the guidance of Archmage Murmon-Som. You are to share any observations you make. We hope this will help us understand the ancient texts better. The council cannot risk your lives by allowing you to touch the Olvejin; but, my dear Brothers, the Olvejin is a stone. I should not worry about it running away while you are not there.”

Little clouds of disappointment converged above many heads, but dispersed again quickly at the prospect of seeing the thing the very existence of which had only yesterday been the subject of debate.

When the murmuring had died down again, Murmon-Som raised his voice. “I would ask Ilfhorn for his aid in this matter. As Archmage of Wood, he will be less preoccupied than I, having to keep watch over everyone; he will be able to report to the council in far more detail. I must concentrate on our safety.”

“I agree, but I must insist that Ilfhorn stay here by my side. Perhaps Bar Helis would like to accompany you?” the magon suggested.

“As you wish, magon, but Bar Helis is the Archmage of Metal, and Metal energy is very strong in the Other World. It could complicate the trip.”

The magon’s eyebrows rose. “I do not see the problem you seem to, but you are the Archmage of the Other World. If you say Metal magic might endanger you, then perhaps the Archmage of Water would go with you. Her element is scarce in the Other World. Queschella, are you prepared to seek the Olvejin with Murmon-Som and the White mages?”

“I would be flattered and honored,” Queschella said with an indication of a bow as she took her place beside Murmon-Som, who turned to address Sergor-Don.

“Your Majesty, how would you like my assistance?” he asked.

“We will have to take the journey to the Other World with spirit, soul and body. Else we will not be able to leave the Plains of the Dead.”

Sergor-Don secretly wondered why Murmon-Som had insisted on this little scene. He personally would have preferred the White mages to follow them with spirit only, leaving their bodies behind. After the fight, the vacant bodies would have been easy to burn to cinders with a normal fire-wave. Why did Murmon-Som want them to take their bodies? Did he really believe that the White mages would follow him, turn their cloaks like the elementalists?

The White mages had leapt up from their benches and chairs, and their shuffling feet blended with the chatter to form a sort of dull buzz, leaving no voice distinct. The only sound that broke through was the scraping of chairs on stone. Ecstasy was visible on more than one face; on others, vacant expressions instead, as their owners prepared inwardly for what they were about to do.

“Follow me,” Sergor-Don called ceremoniously, and in the blink of an eye he, the White mages, Murmon-Som and Queschella were gone.

Most of the White mages had experience with the Other World. In their quest for the truth they had entered the Plains of the Dead often enough to find that the secret of magic, the world’s order, the mysteries of the past were to be found in their own world. They stood around, a little disoriented, waiting for Sergor-Don to lead the way.

“We must form a chain. Clasp each other’s hands or shoulders.”

Murmon-Som laid his right arm around Queschella’s hip and pulled her closer. With his left he reached for the closest hand.

“Stay close, Sister,” he whispered.

“Now, think of the Olvejin,” the young king’s voice rang out. “The Olvejin is a stone. Imagine a pillar, a column, a memorial. Search your memories until you find such an image, or you will never reach your goal.”

Sergor-Don stood on the plains, his arms open wide as if he meant to embrace the entire group. Suddenly the air shook and the king was gone.

Murmon-Som let out a shout. “Treason!”

Five or six White mages broke away from the chain and fell to the ground. The rest disappeared. Murmon-Som pulled Queschella close and pierced her heart with the blade he had just pulled out of his sleeve.

She opened her mouth for one last spell, but nothing came out except blood.

“Six left,” Murmon-Som laughed. “And to you, White Brothers, a good journey do I wish. Should you ever find the way back to Ringwall and accept me as your new lord, you will be most welcome in my new kingdom.”

He turned to the few White mages that had not fled.

“You, my loyal subjects, will guard this place and kill every mage who returns. I have business to attend to. We have not won yet. The hardest battle lies yet before us.”

Sergor-Don had returned to the Hall of Ceremony from the Other World. He pulled a stack of parchments out of a sack and put it in front of the magon.

“The books, your Excellency.”

His hasty grip betrayed the greed he concealed in his face as the magon grabbed for the parchments. He cut the band that held them together and spread them apart.

Empty.

“There is nothing here,” he gasped as his aura inflated to a frightening size. “What is this? What sort of game are you playing?”

Sergor-Don stepped forward and seemed to tower over the magon. His eyes flashed as he looked around, then back to Gwynmasidon. His voice rang through the hall as he said loudly and firmly:

“The books of the founders I hereby pass on to the High Council for intensive study. But not to you, Gwynmasidon. Your time is over. Ringwall needs a new leader. I challenge you. Taste my Metal!”

With the last word, Sergor-Don’s voice rose to a scream. The magon and the council were frozen for a heartbeat. It was not the first time a magon had been challenged, but never before had a former neophyte, barely a sorcerer now, done so. It had always been archmages. The challenge was almost as endearingly pathetic as the small, agitated aura of the young man compared to the mighty magical barrier that surrounded the magon.

Sergor-Don threw his hands forwards and sent out a barrage of arrows, black iron all, with blinding bolts of lightning. Despite his surprise, the magon needed only a small wave of his hand to make them all burn out before they reached him. All but one. A sharpened branch of the springnut bush, with a tip of hardened steel, buried itself deep in the magon’s heart. The only magic in this arrow was a glamour that hid it from the mages’ eyes, and even this magic only worked as long as it was close to the bow that had fired it. The magon threw a last, colorless spell at Sergor-Don, but his five court sorcerers had already barricaded him behind their powerful shields. The old body collapsed.

“The magon is dead! Are you prepared to acknowledge me as your new magon, and to follow me?” King Sergor-Don shouted.

“NEVER!” Bar Helis roared. He had opposed the magon on the council because Gwynmasidon had appeared weak in the last few winters. His wounded pride and arrogant nobility had driven him to have Nill killed. He despised most of the archmages for their fickle opinions and allegiances; but he would never be known as a traitor. Bar Helis stood firm for a Ringwall of the past, for its traditions, and he would never bow.

“That was no duel,” he snarled. “Treason and falsehood won for you. Your magic did not kill the magon. One of your archers did.”

Bar Helis sent out a wave of Metal energy. Uul, one of the Kingsguard, had slightly angled his shield. That way, any direct blow would be redirected without shattering him, especially if it took the shape of a spear or bolt. But this was a wall, and it pushed Uul to his knees. Bar Helis raised his hands again. He would need no third spell against the boy king and his jesters. Sergor-Don felt fear rise like bile in his throat and his eyes darted around for Catsilver.

“Where are you, you dog?” he coughed as he flung meaningless fireballs at Bar Helis. The Archmage of Metal took his time. He was enjoying the moment before the kill, like any predator does. Beside him stood Ambrosimas, his hands open, mouth wide, singing a tuneless song. Nosterlohe set the part of the hall where Sergor-Don and his follower stood on fire; Skorn-Vis had his hands full keeping them from being burned. And at Gnarlhand’s command, Ringwall shook and the floor cracked open as his magic pushed the stones apart. Only Ilfhorn did not fling himself into the fight – his magic was contrary to Bar Helis’ Metal and Nosterlohe’s flames would burn his plants to ash.

In that moment, Murmon-Som returned, in the middle of the uproar of magic, the howling tempest and the screeching stones. A quick step and he was behind Bar Helis, and he plunged his dagger into the Archmage of Metal’s back over and over and over again.

Bar Helis stiffened. His hand still raised for the final stroke, he stood petrified, attempting to muster one final spell. Then the archmage fell to the ground. The blood streaming from his abdomen was soaked up by his robe. Murmon-Som took his place and aimed his hands at Sergor-Don, who was putting up a decent fight.

“When one of the archmages falls, another takes their place, traitor!” he yelled out loud. “See the demons, and despair!”

But his attacks were not meant for Sergor-Don. A legion of small demons, Thorwags and other spirits streamed into the hall from nowhere and caused such chaos that no one could tell friend from foe anymore.

Nosterlohe had cloaked himself in flames. Fire burst from the walls. The ground Sergor and his sorcerers stood on was aglow, but Skorn-Vis held the heat back and even initiated a counterattack. His chosen shield was not as obvious as ice or cold water. That would merely have melted in the face of Nosterlohe’s considerable prowess. Instead, he used hot water; a mere lick of the flames and it turned to vapor, boiling the air and making it impossible to breathe. Nosterlohe ceased his offensive. In his stead, Ilfhorn’s Wood broke through the stones and left a ruin of rock and dust in its wake. Ambrosimas still stood and sang, but Sergor-Don and his followers could not hear him. What sort of magic was the Archmage of Thoughts working?

King Sergor-Don stood leaning on the wall with one hand; with the other, he flung one Metal scythe after the other at Ilfhorn. The attacks looked playful, even lazy, and they were indeed not particularly strong, but Ilfhorn’s bundled power could not get through the combined shields his sorcerers had woven. The effort he put in was costing him energy, whereas Sergor-Don showed no sign of weariness. Murmon-Som had empowered him, and his right hand was absorbing Knor-il-Ank’s energy straight through the stone wall. Sergor accepted the gift silently and gratefully.

Gnarlhand was not well suited for indoor fighting. On an open field, he commanded the Earth like no other; in here, he had difficulty finding and controlling enough Earth energy to do meaningful damage. The walls shook and the ceiling began to cave in. The floor split and the air shook with his blows, but the Fire Kingdom’s shields lasted. For how long? He could not risk destroying Ringwall.

Sergor-Don paused in his unrelenting scythe attack. He gathered the strength that Knor-il-Ank streamed into him, imbued it with Earth and waited for Gnarlhand’s next move. When the stones began to scream again, bursting apart with an ear-splitting crack, Sergor-Don sent out a shockwave of bundled energy. The walls crumbled, the ceiling fell with the rest of the upper floor. The remaining archmages attempted to avoid falling down with the collapsing floor. Sergor-Don watched Murmon-Som finish off Ambrosimas. The hall was a ruin, from its battlements to the foundation nothing but rubble.

“It is easy enough when you know how,” he coughed. “Go check if any of the archmages are still alive.” The fight had taken its toll on him as well. The last spell had been monstrous; from this day forth, no one would ever think of Sergor-Don as ‘the young king’ again. His hair had gained several strands of gray, and deep lines had disfigured his face, only recently so youthful. His sorcerers, too, were exhausted. They went through the ruins, clearing away rubble with their hands rather than magic now. They found the shrunken body of the magon, and the corpses of Bar Helis, Nosterlohe, Gnarlhand and Ilfhorn.

Murmon-Som knew that Sergor-Don had been waiting for the perfect moment to crush the hall. He had been hit by a stray arrow and a stone had smashed his spine as it flew through the air.

“My friend,” Sergor-Don said. “We will heal you.” But at the same time he bound Murmon-Som with a spell of the Other World.

“Liar. The arrow and the stone were your work. I never trusted you, Sergor-Don. I always knew your ambition and your crazed mind, but I underestimated your underhandedness. And now I cannot even counter your pitiful magic in my own area of expertise. An archmage, too weak for a village sorcerer… But you were too fast. This last triumph is mine. Your most powerful enemy is still alive, and you have no one left to match him.”

“You can neither frighten nor insult me, archmage. You helped me, as you promised. As a reward I will tell you the secret of the books that were none. The scriptures do not only describe the way to the Olvejin. They also contain old paths to the magic of the Other World. Do you feel my hold on you? You fight against the power of your ancestors. You understood no more of the Other World’s magic than a grain of sand knows about the desert, and I am the same. Unlike you, I have my life still ahead of me. Yours is over.”

“Ha,” the archmage croaked in his dying voice. “You just wait, little king. Did you not notice? Your victory came too easy. Far too easy. Only Bar Helis fought like a true archmage. I was not the one to give you your victory. As long as you do not know who else desires lordship over Pentamuria, you have not won and you will find no peace. I would have been glad to take Ringwall and leave you the rest. But now, you stand alone against an unknown, powerful foe. And alone, you are nothing.”

“The demented words of a dying mind. You claim someone else helped me, then you talk of an invisible enemy. Do you truly think you can frighten me? Who is this unknown opponent supposed to be?”

“Your most powerful adversary is the Archmage of Nothing. Even I could not beat him. He still slumbers, but when he awakens and recognizes his true strength, he will roll over you like a storm. Hide well, little king. Take my last words to heart.”

“You speak in riddles, Murmon-Som. But the world no longer needs you.”

Sergor-Don tightened his hold and the last life force of the archmage left him.

“Sire, Keij-Joss and Ambrosimas are nowhere to be found.”

Sergor thought hard for a few moments.

“Keij-Joss will have fled. I cannot remember him taking part in the battle. We will hunt him down, find him and destroy him. Him and all the other mages of Ringwall. But I saw Ambrosimas fall. Murmon-Som himself killed him. Keep looking.”

To his sorcerers and bodyguards he said, almost off-handedly: “We should get some rest. Our next objective will be no less taxing, and not the last either.” A wolfish smile spread across his face.

King Sergor finished his round of Ringwall’s walls. Shockwaves could be felt all the way down in Raiinhir as they rushed through the corridors. Stones cracked. Hidden portals released their energy and broke their boundaries. The walls that had given the portals a hold for so long crumbled to dust. Vaulted ceilings rose and broke and collapsed, burying everything beneath them.

The elemental mages, who had at first retreated to their quarters, cautiously waiting for the outcome of the battle to become clear so they could offer their servitude to whoever was left standing, fled in panic from their chambers. Not all of them made it out of Ringwall, and not all who made it out of Ringwall alive made it much further. Although carried by magic, leaping through the air with giant bounds, they had to pass through the loose belt of camps around Raiinhir. The same camps in which Sergor-Don’s archers prepared their meals and tended to their equipment. As soon as a mage came close, they reached for their bows and shot the fleeing mage down. Every kill was greeted by loud laughter and clapping hands.

A group of roughly a dozen mages, clad in the blue cloaks of Water, was followed by several riders and shot down. Their last spells, desperate measures of defense, concentrated so much energy that their deaths caused a huge swampy sinkhole. It would later be known as Queschella’s Tomb, although the Archmage of Water had met her demise in the Other World. If the common folk want to remember, they invent their own stories, which in turn transform into new and unique truths.

Sergor-Don had the books of power removed from the library and taken to Worldbrand. The remaining scrolls and tablets he incinerated. The fire feasted away until nothing but ash remained.

The only thing the king could not destroy was the Sanctuary. It resisted every kind of magic. In a fit of wild anger, Sergor-Don instead buried the magical symbols beneath a mountain of rubble, higher than any other; without realizing it, he built a bizarre memorial to the five elements.

The court sorcerers bowed before their king. Phloe stepped forward and said: “You are the Changer, King Sergor. There can be no doubt. You have conquered Ringwall.”

Brown Sijem cackled and nodded, Aulo howled and bowed so low his nose scraped the ground.

The king smiled his tight smile. “Now I know how the figure from the mists feels. It came unexpectedly and behind it left nothing but fire and the sounds of battle.

“Yes, it was foretold. But how, my king, does an enforcer of destiny feel?” Skorn-Vis asked.

It was the last time King Sergor-Don ever shared his inner feelings with anyone. His lips were still tight, but the smile on them was honest as he spoke.

“Simple, my friends. I feel victorious.”