C18 Chapter XVIII

The night was agreeably dreamless, their sleep deep and restful. Something was evidently watching over them that night. Even Ramsker, who had stayed up on the surface, slept peacefully. This peace lasted even when the small group left the next morning to fight their way back through the forest. Nill dreaded the long march through the forest to the Waterways, but it appeared as though the plants gave way to them this time. They parted and where they could not, because it was so dense, there was a rustling sound and Dakh found a quick way around the blockade. The days and nights passed quickly and uneventfully, until finally, on the morning of the eighth day, they saw the sky again, and with it smelled the unusually fresh breeze.

“We’re almost there,” the druid said as they left the canopy of the trees and crossed one last thicket of bushes to look upon a sloping, damp landscape. A small settlement lay before them. It was the strangest place Nill had ever seen.

“The Ropers,” Dakh said. “They live by and off the sea.”

Countless posts were stuck in the wet ground, and between them huts and houses swayed slightly in the wind. Some of the posts were in the water, others on land, but Nill got the impression that the border between land and sea had been disputed here for countless harvests without either side gaining an advantage.

The Ropers drew threads from plant fibers and brought them together to make threads and, as their name suggested, twisted the threads to make ropes. The ropes were tied so tightly into all kinds of shaped that they were semi-rigid. Ropes and knots, therefore, made up the housing. The buildings swayed slightly, but did not seem unstable.

“They live with their animals,” Dakh went on, but the two boys did not understand what he meant. Only when they drew closer did they see small crabs scuttling over the ropes, and greenish-black colonies of mussels growing on the posts and ropes.

“And they’re solid?” Brolok wondered as he imagined a black, stormy sky and waves taller than ten men thrashing against the coast.

“I’ve never heard of one of their ropes breaking. There have been a few incidents with the posts being pulled out, though.”

“But the ropes have got to get old and rotten, right?” Nill asked.

“Yes, but they can see it happening long before it’s critical, and so they just make a new house. Part of the fiber they use comes from the water. Long, band-shaped algae that wash up on shore; they’re the water’s daughters and last in the element that bore them for a very long time. Of course, there are silk threads used as well. They are wrapped tightly around the ropes – you see the gray sheen on it when the light hits it, right? That’s the seasilk. The cloth of the early kings. A forgotten art.” The druid shrugged. “So many things forgotten… so much lost.”

Alert eyes followed the three wanderers. They belonged to the boys and the elders hanging in the ropes and sitting on the knots. The ropes were drier than the ground.

Dakh walked directly towards the largest of the huts. Had it been built out of stone, Nill would not have hesitated to call it a true house. But…

The druid climbed up a short rope ladder, gave himself a small shake and entered the densely-woven rope hut. Brolok tried to imitate him, but got stuck and hung helplessly in the swaying ladder until Dakh pulled him up.

“Better for spiders than people,” Brolok grumbled, wishing he had made a more dignified entrance. Nill had an easier time of using the ladder, as he had seen where Brolok had failed.

“It’s good to see you. Come in, come in.”

As was so often the case, one of the old men asked them inside; the younger ones were all outdoors, where this old man had spent his best years as well. When Nill’s eyes got used to the darkness, he saw with a slight shock that the man was missing an arm and a leg. The leg was supported by a piece of carved wood ending in a sort of plate to stop it from slipping through the mesh of the ropework that made up the floor. He had replaced his missing forearm with a hook, presumably to hold tight to loops and knots.

“Foss got me,” the man said, and Nill went dark red when he realized how long he had been staring. Now all I need is for Brolok to start waffling about some wounded warrior who kept fighting despite having all his limbs hacked off and winning for the king. I’d never show my face here again.

The old man smiled as if he could read Nill’s mind.

“What’s a Foss?” Nill asked, grateful for the opportunity to say at least something.

Dakh laughed. “That’s a story for tonight. First, we should greet old friends.”

He embraced the old man. “You’ve got better, Fosshunter. Last time I was here you were crawling more than walking.”

“Aye. Been a long time since you were here. Had a lot of time to practice. We had to pump a whole lot of water out of you back then.”

“Don’t remind me. I’m telling you, it wasn’t just the mud pulling me under.”

“Sure,” the old man grinned. “That’s what they all say when they can’t handle the morass.”

“He’s a druid!” Brolok was outraged. Druids did not simply sink in the mud.

Dakh gave a sheepish smile. “Well, the spot where I got stuck was a bit resistant to the magic of the elements.”

“Borderlands?” asked Nill swiftly.

“Sort of. Not quite, but pretty far out there,” the old druid admitted. “I got a little lost. I don’t want that to happen again, which is why I came here.” He turned back to the man he called Fosshunter. “We need a guide.”

“Tell me all about it later, right now is time for supper. Mussel soup I think, and maybe some crab meat, algae paste and some waterdragon scales.”

“Scales?” Nill repeated.

“It’s a big green plant that keeps its thick leaves above the water’s surface. You can put a child on one of those leaves and it won’t get wet. Juicy, tasteless and tough to chew.” Dakh flashed a challenging grin at his friend.

“Juicy, with an exquisite flavor and only tough for someone who’s spent his life wasting his teeth on nuts and roots.”

The banter went back and forth for quite a while, reaching the sort of ribaldry only seen among people who were indeed oldest friends, who had shared more than just a sparse meal and a hard bed. Nill had never seen Dakh so happy. It was as though he had shaken off the weight of countless winters.

Supper was, as in most other places, a social affair; strangers were welcome and old friends all the more so.

Brolok, who missed the familiar smell of ore, had difficulty with his meal. Always the constant tug and push of the water. No excitement, but no calm either. Everything swayed and flowed and waved back and forth. It was so different to glinting ore, its veins anchored in the solid stone where everything stood still, calm, dependable and unchanging. He chewed unhappily on his mussels and tried to think of something to say that would not betray his queasiness.

“Seasilk,” he said. “What is it?”

“Our wives spin it,” one of the men explained. “We get it from the mussels, from the gray stuff they stick themselves to surfaces with. We scrape ‘em off, wash ‘em and spin it into threads we can weave into clothing. They used to be very valuable, because they mirror the light of the morning mists glowing in the early sunlight. These days, people prefer bright colors.”

“They still wear your clothes at court in the Waterways. It’s the traditional color of princesses until they marry,” Dakh added.

“Yes, some places in Pentamuria still value our skills. The water feeds us and gives us all the wonderful things we can trade against things we can’t get from the sea, even if that’s not much.”

Nill had to laugh. Something about the situation – sitting out here in the middle of nowhere, miles away from the nearest settlement, yet the people here thought of their home as the center of existence – just tickled him.

“I think Brolok prefers Metal,” he said to pass off his laugh.

Fosshunter joined in. “Your friend should be proud of his element, because Water came directly from Metal. The old world sweated it out. New Water is constantly being formed, but we don’t notice it anymore. These days we find the Metal’s Water all over the place – in the clouds, the mist, the rivers and in the ground, and mostly in animals and plants. But it came from the Metal. Water is so strong because it’s the wellspring of life.

“But Water is wary of the Earth, because Earth absorbs it and makes it disappear. Water is strongest where the opposite is true: where it covers the Earth completely. Like here. This is where Foss made its home, the head of the sea serpent family, guardian of the element.” He lowered his voice dramatically. “They say, Foss is a magical being, big as a dragon – others say it is a dragon, but in the water. But water dragons don’t exist. When Foss dies, the next oldest serpent takes its place as the new Foss. Foss has no gender. If you want to know what it used to be, you’d have to take a look at its younger siblings.”

“And what do you call the stuff you pick up in the water?” Dakh smirked.

The old man squinted. “Foss, too. All sea serpents are Foss to us, the big and the small. In its honor. But there is only one Foss.”

“Does the name mean anything?” Brolok asked brightly. He wondered whether Fosshunter was a real name or a title.

“Of course it does. Means ‘falling water.’ If you ever get a chance to see one of the truly great serpents rise up from the sea, the water crashing down from it, you’ll know the awesome power of the beasts.”

The evening passed quickly, full of tales of Foss and its children and the brave warriors of water who went out to sea to challenge them. Not all stories might be true, and not every Roper was born a hero, but who really cared about the truth in such legends? As long as the story was good, Nill did not mind.

The next morning they departed again, but this time they had a guide.

“We’re looking for a sorcerer and his wife. They’re supposed to live somewhere in the Waterways.”

“The realm of Water is vast. Tales and rumors reach us all the time, but we never bother to remember them. Firewards from here is the great forest you came from, metalwards is the Borderlands no one dares to enter. Behind us lies the Water. We must go toward Earth and cross the great marsh until we reach solid ground, then take a route somewhere between Metal and Water. That way we can avoid the Borderlands. If the sorcerer is hiding in the Waterways, he’ll be in the swamp.”

“That is why I asked for your help. Crossing the swamp isn’t easy.”

“There is only one path from our village back to solid ground. It’s simple to find.”

“If you know where to find it,” Dakh laughed.

“I’ll take you only as far as solid ground. Then I have to return. My only advice is this: avoid the mist. When the white father appears, take the opportunity to rest until he leaves. Don’t try and wander through the mist.”

“I don’t know if we have that kind of time.”

“You’ll have all the time in the world to consider the foolishness of your actions when you’re stuck in the moor. Come now.”

Nill felt deeply uneasy in this part of the Waterways. Almost as bad as Ramsker, whose hooves were adapted to rock and hard earth, but here he sank into the mud with every step. His usual foul temper was even more pronounced now that his eyes had a doleful look to them.

Nill’s head was in constant motion. He listened and checked the wind and tried to understand the strange, wet smells. The forest was hiding behind a wall of fog now and seemed to have become no more than a memory. To their right extended, far in the distance, the Borderlands which Nill felt more because of its strange magic than its shape.

They traveled all day and half the night until they finally reached a low hill of soggy earth that was barely hard enough to stand on properly and bore a cluster of bushes.

“We will rest here tonight. I’m sure you’d love to help, venerable druid,” their guide said.

Dakh nodded and began to tell the twigs of the bushes to cling to each other. Nill hurried over to the next hill and imitated Dakh. Only Brolok stood around listlessly; talking to plants was as pointless to him as talking to his supper. It was in rare moments like these that his being a half-arcanist made him feel like a useless idiot.

Dakh managed to weave a comfortable hammock for two people at once. Nill had no such confidence and decided to split his bed into two more solid pieces. His back would be aching in the morning, but at least he would stay elevated.

“Brolok, would you mind finding somewhere safe to keep our things? One of the stronger bushes that doesn’t bend when you hang something on it or something.”

Brolok nodded, glad to do something. Yet his ill mood did not lighten. Dakh, too, had lost some of the happiness he had shown back in the village. Only their guide seemed unfazed.

The morning sun woke the travelers. Or rather, what little of the sun made it through the mist woken them, a weak dawnlight that seemed to come from everywhere and was not even distinct enough to make out a direction.

“I return to my people,” their guide announced. “The mists will lift soon, so Foss wills it. If you take the road metalwards” – he pointed in a direction that looked utterly indiscernible from any other direction – “you’ll have true solid earth under your feet again soon. They even have fields there. Farewell!”

Before anyone could return the farewell, let alone thank him, he had already vanished in the light gray vapor.

“We should leave at once,” Dakh said. “I’ve a feeling we won’t be alone for long.”

“Are we being followed?” Brolok asked.

“I don’t know and I’d rather not find out. I feel something fireward from here, but this cursed mist is swallowing not just the light but any auras as well. We ought to go.”

They ate their breakfast as they walked. Their drink consisted of what little fog had landed on the moist bread and the drops that ran down their brows and noses.

“Water everywhere, but it’s too filthy to drink,” Nill grumbled. He, like the others, was saving the clean water.

Dakh was now leading. Again and again he stopped to listen.

“Someone is behind us. I don’t know who it is. And there’s something ahead of us. It’s probably best if we don’t take the direct route of Metal but take a detour instead. I don’t want to meet anyone.”

The mists grew thicker and thicker around them. Nill’s vision was limited to a few footsteps. It happens. Sight comes and goes , he tried to soothe himself. Like in the night.

It was nothing like the night at all. The night is still and silent, but the mists are always swirling. It floats past without offering help. The movement is everywhere, wherever you look, and yet you see nothing. But the worst, by far, was the sound. The mist swallows the sounds only to spit them out somewhere else. A sudden crack is eaten up and goes away too quickly, and distant noises appear without warning. Even your own voice is flat, toneless and lifeless.

Nill heard the grunting of basking moorhogs on all sides, and a dull, sad note reverberated through the air. Dakh stopped abruptly.

“Shell horns! Whoever is behind us has stopped caring whether they’re hidden or not.”

Brolok thought he heard fragments of speech, but the sounds were gone as soon as they’d come.

“Why would anyone be after us?” he asked. “We were in the forest for at least a fortnight. No one knew we were there. No one bothered us at the Ropers. Why would someone suspect us here in the Waterways?”

Nill gave a wry smile. “Brolok, have you forgotten the scene we made in Fugman’s Refuge?”

“Nill, use your head. If they were coming from Fugman’s Refuge, they would have had to come from Metal World, ride firewards past the Oas, wait until we left the forest – without knowing we were there at all – and then circle around to end up behind us.” Brolok drew tactical plans and movements in the air with his hands for Nill to see the foolishness of his assumption. “Dakh. Dakh, say something.”

“I don’t know what to say,” the old druid said. “All I know is that there are people behind us. More than a few. I don’t know their intent. Don’t even know if they know we exist. It might all be an odd coincidence. But I don’t believe in coincidences. They’re coming from Wood. Let us move further inland, to dry soil. Let us see if they change their course or stay on it. I do not want to meet anyone out here in the swamp.”

With solid ground under their feet the walking was far less arduous, even though they had to stop time and again to make sure they were not going in circles.

“The horns have stopped. But now, just behind us, firewards, there’s someone else. Can you hear it?”

Brolok and Nill strained their ears in the silence. “Nothing,” Brolok said – but suddenly, there was something. A regular splashing sound was heard, and then went away. “Wait – riders. Riders behind us. As long as the hooves sink into the mud, they don’t make a sound, but when there’s more water than earth they’re loud and clear.”

“If there’s some important place ahead of us,” Nill remarked, “then it might be fully possible for these groups to all have the same goal. After all, we’re moving metalwards, and waterwards only leads to the Borderlands, where no one wants to go.”

“You might be right, Nill, but I’m afraid the goal they have in common is us, and I don’t want to wait around and be proven right,” Brolok said.

“Silence!” the druid hissed.

The horns remained quiet, the riders kept their distance; and yet, the threat seemed to loom ever closer. Dakh looked worried.

“A small troop is coming from Earth and another from Metal. The second is slower. No riders, but they’re casting powerful magical shadows. Something bad is happening. We will try and lose them in the swamp.”

*

The sun was still considering whether it wanted to rise or not when a tall figure slowly got up from its crouching position to which, with each nightly breath, it had been driven by the search for safety and security. With quite some effort, the man blindly felt his way towards the door of his hut that was hidden by the grassy turf. He pushed the crooked door open and the cold dampness of the early morning air hit him like a mace to the face. It was always cold here where the Waterways approached Metal World. Sometimes, the veil of mist would not lift for days at a time. Then the only thing to aid a wanderer was the few gurgles of running water. It only got bright when the mists went back into the sky to form clouds, and even then the yellowish gray of twilight overpowered all other colors.

The man had his long arms slung around his torso as though he meant to hold tight to the last warmth of his sleep. But his shivering was not caused by the cold.

“It has begun. Pentamuria awakens.”

A second figure joined the first out of the darkness. Shorter than the man and without his tall frailty, she embraced him from behind and breathed on his back: “What do you see?”

The man turned around. He lovingly laid his arms around his wife and pulled her closer. An outsider could not have said who was protecting who.

“I see the five realms of Pentamuria. Metal World was roused first. It woke the Other World, and the Other World made Earthland and Woodhold tremble. The last to awaken was the Fire Kingdom.”

“And the Waterways?”

“Still silent. Here we live, the watchers, or whatever role fate has decided for us.”

The man’s pupils dilated, almost overtaking his irises. His wife held him tight. As he stood, his head held high, his eyes unseeing, her husband rode the stream of time.

*

Nill, Dakh, Brolok and Ramsker had cautiously retreated to the swamp and had almost stumbled straight into a pack of riders that had been camped there. They had not heard a sound. Dakh had only been able to sense them when they were almost too close to turn back. The small group now fled head over heels through the swampy terrain, deeper and deeper into the center of the Waterways. It was bitter cold. Only the constant mist kept the temperature from dropping even further. Countless droplets found their home in spider webs, where they froze; the webs criss-crossed everywhere, and by changing their shape they gave the air a tiny bit of warmth. Running into one of these icy webs was like a cold, wet kiss.

Even Nill had to concede that they were being hunted, and that the hunters were drawing the noose around them tighter.

“We have to hide, or break through! What do you think?” Brolok asked

“We’ll hide, of course,” the druid responded. “If we break through, we’ll have the whole mob on our backs. Some of them have horses. Our only choice is to hide… but where?”

“We must flee to the Borderlands. It’s the only place they won’t dare follow,” Nill suggested.

“You don’t know what you’re saying, boy. Many people claim to have crossed the Borderlands. The few who actually did either never returned or never spoke again. You lose your soul there. The elemental magic there is sick and twisted, and even a great mage cannot control it. No, Nill. The Borderlands would mean our deaths.”

Nill shook his head. “I’ve been to the Borderlands. Not this one, though. I don’t know the Waterways, I’ll admit that freely, and to be frank I’m scared of this place. But I was in the Fire Kingdom and Metal World. The magic there is very powerful. I encountered creatures of pure Fire magic in the Borderlands of Fire, and in Metal World I found magic itself. It felt different than in Ringwall, true, but it was not so dangerous that you couldn’t control it.” Well, very nearly , he added silently. The guardian of Eos had only been defeated with the Ancient magic’s aid, but he did not have to spell that out for Dakh.

“We can try,” Dakh agreed after thinking long and hard. “But at the first sign of strange magic we’re going back as fast as we can. That means you too, Nill. I’d rather give in to these hunters than lose my mind in the Borderlands.”

“I suppose my opinion doesn’t matter,” Brolok said resignedly. “But I’m just a half-arcanist who prefers punching to transforming anyway. So I will follow you without complaint.”

The Waterways began to change. To Nill’s amazement there were far more dry islands here than he had expected. In some spots the stone peeked out from the ground, broke out right next to deep sinkholes and wide carpets of trembling turf that would have given any child joy to run around on – if not for the certainty that beneath the grass the hollows filled with murky water would swallow everyone who took a wrong step, that is.

Pale strands with grinning white heads hung from the miserable trees or peeked out of the porous stokes. The air stood still and smelled sweet and moldy. The whole place felt like an oversized grave.

Old, rounded rocks had broken off the mountainsides of Metal World countless eons ago and had since wandered all the way to the swamp, where they had finally come to rest. Huge round boulders they were, with pockmarks and holes all over. Layer by layer they had been cracked open and peeled and stuck together further below again. Bizarre shapes in the stranglehold of fungus, and all around them water and mud.

“Where do we go now?” Nill asked. “We can’t stay on this island.”

“Onwards,” the druid said shortly. “We are in a transitional part of the land. The Borderlands are directly ahead.”

They had not yet taken a step when the mists blew apart to reveal a horde of bold figures. Their leader, a tall man with long hair, put a shell horn to his lips and blew a long, wailing note, followed by several shorter, duller ones. They made Nill’s ears ache.

“Welcome to the Borderlands gate!” the warrior with the horn said, indicating a mocking bow. “But you really should go no further. It’s dangerous enough here. We must protect you from your own ignorance.” A dismissive, arrogant sneer spread across his face.

“And who are you to protect us?” Nill asked sharply.

“Friends of Ringwall! What else?”

“You don’t look like servants of Fire,” Brolok snapped.

“Fire? What gave you that impression? We serve the magon and the High Council of Archmages.”

“Do you take us for fools? Do you think we have not heard that Ringwall has fallen?”

“Fallen, well… what does that matter? The walls fell, yes. We can rebuild them. But the spirit of Ringwall lives on and has lost none of its potency.”

“Big words for a small man,” Dakh-Ozz-Han said calmly. “How is it that one such as you presumes to speak for the archmages of Ringwall?”

“Because I told him to.” The woman was slender, and her green hair gave her the appearance of a wood-nymph. “My name is Malachiris. I am a mage of Wood from Ringwall and I have been trying to catch up to you for days, but your path was not the easiest to follow. Almost as if you were lost… we had hoped to find you sooner.”

“There was no reason to run,” a deep voice behind them spoke up. Three heads turned around. Only Ramsker kept his yellow eyes firmly on the green mage. “Master Galvan!” Brolok gasped. He recognized the legendary Black Dragon, a poleaxe made of steel and whytcrystals, strapped to his back.

Behind Galvan was a larger group of riders whose dark, heavy armor over blackened chainmail did not look friendly. Like bright inclusions in black basalt, the colorful robes of Ringwall’s mages and the gold and silver-trimmed robes of Talldal-Fug’s court sorcerers broke up the monotony of the blackness without adding any warmth at all.

Galvan, who immediately recognized Brolok, did not spare him a second glance. Instead, he fixated on Dakh-Ozz-Han.

“Greetings, druid. I am Galvan, master mage of Metal in Ringwall. I do not intend to harm you, but I must ask that you hand over the archmage.”

“Perhaps you should, Dakh. We are powerless against so many enemies, and the only way out is earthwards. But without horses…” Nill’s voice trailed off despondently.

“I certainly will not, Nill. Something is wrong here and before I’ve found out what it is I’ll move not an inch. We need a little more time. The truth will come crawling into daylight sooner or later,” Dakh whispered back.

“Master Galvan, Ringwall has fallen!” Dakh declared loudly. “So why should I hand over this young man? Also, I cannot help but wonder why you ride with servants of the very man who destroyed the Circle of Archmages and murdered the magon. Did you not swear fealty to Ringwall, now and always?”

“I don’t know what you mean. Ringwall’s stones were destroyed, but the circle is unchanged. It took residence in the halls of King Talldal-Fug for a short while. The king of Metal World has done no damage to Ringwall. He will grant the young archmage amnesty and safety. Talldal-Fug never laid a finger on Ringwall. So what is this nonsense you speak of?”

“Who are these people, then?” Dakh challenged, indicating two troops of light riders that had just brought their steeds to a halt and were pulling out their bows.

“Nowhere left to run,” Nill groaned while Dakh laughed contemptuously.

“If these people aren’t King Sergor-Don’s dustriders under the leadership of two sorcerers, you can strip me of my druid title and call me a shaman. Don’t tell me you didn’t know.”

Galvan looked around and seemed ruffled for a moment, but then his eyebrows narrowed and his voice had a note of warning in it. “It just shows how important the archmage is for Ringwall’s history. But Sergor-Don’s dustriders have come on their king’s command and do not answer to me. I cannot speak for them, but I can offer my protection from them.”

He had barely finished talking when two more groups joined the circle. From the setting sun came five more mages and from Earth came a woodland strider with two women.

“It is as Galvan says. The archmage belongs to Ringwall.” It was an Earthen mage leading that group.

“We’re surrounded,” Nill hissed. “Just let me go. They won’t harm me.”

“They’ll burn us alive the moment they’ve got you,” Dakh growled back. “Besides, words can work wonders if used properly. Everyone seems to be after you for themselves, and the many hunters have many masters, which means many reasons to start a fight when it comes to the prey. We have to make sure the fight begins before they start speaking with magic and weapons,” he whispered. Then he raised his voice again.

“If Ringwall is destroyed and the magon dead and the High Council murdered, who is the highest authority in Ringwall? I’d say it’s the last living archmage, Master Galvan. So what exactly is stopping you from obeying the archmage and following him rather than acting as though you are the master and he the servant?”

The strider leaned on his staff; the gleaming tip could as easily be an illumination as a spearhead, and the two women beside him were whispering excitedly as though the whole confrontation around them was unimportant.

“Morb-au-Morhg,” Nill breathed. “Dakh – that’s Morhg the Mighty.”

One of the court sorcerers had stepped out of Galvan’s shadow and spread his arms wide. “Like Master Galvan, I speak in the name of my king and promise that the archmage will be under our most powerful protection.” The golden borders of his robe indicated that this was a man of high standing. “We do not demand the second man; he is a murderer, thief, rabble-rouser and cheat, but in his mercy, Talldal-Fug has declared that he be left alone unless he crosses back into Metal World. Should he do so, he will die.”

Dakh-Ozz-Han got to his feet. His aura was bottled up and almost black – then it exploded in a cascade of colors.

“I do not intend to hand over even one of the two so long as you do not name the reason for wanting them. Never before have mages followed a deceased magon.”

Galvan heaved a great sigh as though he alone must shoulder all the burdens in the world.

“Never before has Pentamuria stood upon the brink of destruction. Do not pretend to be braver than is wise, druid. You are surrounded by twenty mages, and that is not all. We have the court sorcerers of two kingdoms with us, and should that still not convince you, we have more than enough warriors, archers, duellists and armored riders. My esteemed druid, how do you mean to stop us from simply taking the archmage? He would only take unnecessary damage if a fight was to break out.”

“He’s right, Dakh,” Nill whispered, tugging at the old druid’s sleeve. But Dakh had not yet given up the word war.

“Galvan, master mage of Metal. You have become the leader of a truly remarkable troop. You ride as vassals of Talldal-Fug, the Trade King, you speak of Ringwall’s old command, you join with King Sergor’s dustriders who helped to kill your master. And what about the strange Wood mage you called a representative of Ringwall?” Dakh turned slowly to face Malachiris. “How did you manage to become a mage in Ringwall? You are not of noble blood, you were never a sorceress and you never set foot in Ringwall before. Your aura has a strange shine and impure colors. You have managed to poison and besmirch the elements. Your stench wafts all over the place. Who are you? Are you an Oa, banished by your people and the wise women? Or are you a witch? Perhaps you are a little of everything. You are what you are, but what you are is not a mage of Ringwall.”

Malachiris laughed in his face. “Silence, fool. What do you know of me? Nothing. I serve the Wood lodge and was one of the victors of the last great tournament. That alone qualifies me as a mage. Who cares who I was before? Now, hand over the archmage. I am not as patient as Master Galvan. Hand him over, or I will take him myself.”

“No one will take him.” Across the water glid a small boat that docked on the island without making a sound. Although the sound of the voice did not carry far, the words reverberated through the skulls of everyone standing near Nill, Dakh and Brolok. Some of the warriors clapped their hands to their ears, not realizing that thoughtspeak was not so easily blocked out.

The lone boat , Nill thought suddenly. The Changer of the Water worlds . The image faded quickly as a young girl leapt out of the boat to stand behind Nill. A short, strong figure pulled the boat onto land and a tall man, taller than even Galvan by a whole head, took two long strides to reach the middle of the small group. His aura flickered in the wind, insubstantial, almost invisible – rather like the man himself, whose long arms looked so out of place on the thin body.

A wild scream made everyone look around. Malachiris seemed to have gone mad at the sight of the man.

“YOU? You cursed dog and your bitch? Oh, how long have I waited for this moment, to see you before me one last time! Did you ever forget where you belong? Did you really believe you could just disappear out of my life like you entered it? Did you really think you could escape my curses? This is your end, Sedramon-Per. Yours, and your whore’s, and your son’s end!”

“You?!” Sedramon yelped in disbelief.

Everything happened all at once. From Galvan’s hands shot a wall of burning Metal at the group that scorched the ground at their feet, so hot that even the rocks began to smolder. Dakh blocked it with a Firewall of his own. Metal and Fire collided. Some bits flew up into the air, shooting sparks and leaving trails of smoke. On the ground, the Fire and Metal had clawed into each other and were tearing off each other, meeting again in yellow and green flames, weaving a curtain of molten Metal that fell to the ground screeching and was knocked back into the air by the force of the Fire with all the dirt it had gathered.

At the same time, Malachiris began to speak lightning-fast and the ground began to boil. But it was not heat that made it move. Small, gray creatures rose from the earth, strong and armed with short spears. They were no taller than hip-height, bigger than Thorwags but smaller than demons.

The dustriders nocked their arrows. Their leaders surrounded them with wide barriers and the elemental mages sent their elements into frenzy.

Nill had whipped around at the sound of the voice. All he saw was the tall man’s outline, distinct and dark against the bright sky. His eyes stopped seeing, his ears stopped hearing and his brain was flooded with a tidal wave of visions that made him forget everything around him.

While a battle of elements raged around Nill and the screams of tortured air pierced his ears, he found himself in a place of silence. He saw Sedramon-Per, lying in a small hut, and a green figure with long, white hair bending over him, stroking his face. He saw a flash of an image of a red-haired Oa with two sticks in her hands and the familiar face of the spring-keeper.

“Did you learn the holy man’s teachings?” he heard the voice ask in thoughtspeak.

Nill nodded. “The Book of Wisdom and the path to Eos. I found both.”

“The Book of Wisdom is one hundred and twenty-eight stories in eight forms each. Did you learn them?” Nill shook his head. “Too soon. You left him too soon. What a pity.”

Pictures of Earthland, Metal World, the spiders, the Waterways, the Oas again – they rushed through his mind until Nill felt dizzy. Finally they crawled to a halt and he found himself standing atop the wall of Ringwall. All around him were exuberant people, gazing over the inner wall, watching sorcerers fighting each other with flames and dark clouds, bolts of lightning and crashing waves, grasping creepers and whirling rocks, light and illusions. In the middle of this commotion stood a tall, thin sorcerer with two differently-colored eyes. He pulled off his cloak and turned it inside-out. Rusty red-brown marks decorated the surface and began to dance. Nill saw the tall figure follow their lead as he slowly evaporated into thin air. When the fight was over he stood with the victors as if nothing had happened.

“You are Perdis, Sedramon-Per. I knew it. I knew it all along. You are a mage of Ringwall.”

The sorcerer accepted the honors that every new mage received. He was given the key to the library and a small room of his own. White mages took what they were given. Sedramon-Per did not complain.

Malachiris’ warriors charged. Their leader had dropped the shell horn and pulled out two long daggers. His long mane whipped around his head like a war banner. Brolok flung a swarm of Metal-soaked thunderbolts at them and charged as well.

The warrior twirled his daggers. He was fast and could attack from any side. Brolok had no weapons and his only protection was an old chainmail glove on his left hand he had taken after the battle at the campfire.

The giant seemed to be enjoying the confrontation. He chased the considerably smaller Brolok from one place to another, feinted into thin air, playing with him like a cat with its prey. But Brolok was not running away. He was looking for an opening, and he knew he would get one. Arrogance and playfulness had no place in a real fight.

When the warrior opened his arms wide, giving Brolok a challenging sneer as if inviting him to attack his chest, Brolok struck out. He held his left, armored arm raised high to block an attack from the right dagger and leapt forward, which drew a loud laugh from his opponent. His laugh died in his throat as Brolok’s right hand, previously held loosely by his side, shot up to his head with outstretched fingers. It was a fast attack from below that received its speed from the elbow and the twisting of the arm. Only the warrior’s fast reflexes saved his eyes from being gouged out; he turned his head to the side, but Brolok’s fingers were still moving. They shot past his neck and grabbed hold of the man’s hair.

What then happened was so fast barely anyone could see it. The warrior raised his daggers to bring down onto Brolok’s back. Brolok took a tiny step back, bending his right arm and at the same time hunching over until he was almost a ball. The giant’s head shot back and Brolok exploded, expanding in all directions at once. His right foot found the warrior’s toes and nailed them to the ground. The gloved hand flew to his throat and crushed the man’s larynx. The whistling windpipe drowned out the snapping of tendons in the foot as the blow knocked the man back. The giant dropped his weapons, his hands rising to his throat as if he could mend it by sheer willpower. One more strike from Brolok, and the fight was over.

“Long hair is a disadvantage for a warrior,” Brolok said calmly as if nothing had happened, and he threw mud and a hailstorm of lead at his next attackers.

On the other side were the mages of Ringwall who were being led by the Earth mage. They found themselves trapped between Galvan’s glowing metal and white glowing lights that Morb-au-Morhg the Mighty flung at them. They reduced the light’s heat with Water which caused the boiling vapor to rise into the sky, where it formed clouds that rained sulfur down on them. Morb-au-Morhg’s light was more than just Fire and turned into a black wall of Earth and Water.

No one could quite make out what Binja and Rinja were up to, but the dustriders were having difficulty keeping their horses under control and the first salvo of burning arrows bounced back off the very shields their own sorcerers had conjured. Sergor-Don’s court sorcerers began to argue and Binja and Rinja shared an amused giggle. In spite of their aid, it was only a matter of time until the small group on the quaking island ran out of strength.

AnaNakara stepped out of Sedramon-Per’s shadow and held a beam of light above Nill in one hand and sent out the pulse of life against her declared enemy with the other. Malachiris swayed on the spot, pushed back and forth by the enormous pressure, but she kept her footing. She laughed her loud, piercing laugh and kept the ground boiling where the army from the Other World was gathering. Sedramon-Per stood impassively in the middle of all the uproar. His eyes were closed and his arms hung lankly by his side, but his eyelids twitched and told of his wildly-moving eyes.

Nill’s body swayed in the tempest of thoughts, like the grass in a storm. The violent movement was at odds with the peaceful image he saw before him. Sedramon-Per was walking silently though the corridors of Ringwall, his white hood pulled up over his head so that only his nose peeked out. Even his aura was small and almost invisible. He hurried down a set of stairs with light steps that Nill knew all too well and was suddenly in front of the gate in the Hermit’s Caves. Now he pulled his hood back and laid his hands on the door, sinking into a deep trance – or so it seemed to Nill until he noticed that Sedramon’s lips were moving constantly in a calm rhythm as though he was singing a simple song or reciting magical rhymes. Nill tried to read his lips, but the movements were too sparse and to Nill’s surprise the spring-keeper’s face kept popping out at him.

Yes, you are Perdis , Nill thought. Finally I will know why you fled Ringwall.

Sedramon fell silent as the magical seal on the door opened. The falundron hopped onto Sedramon’s forearm with a clumsy leap.

“Careful of its poison!” Nill shouted as he watched Sedramon’s aura change to an off-white gray that let no light pass.

The door, robbed of its seal and its guardian, swung loosely on its hinges until the lock found its counterpart again. Sedramon and the falundron had disappeared.

Nill saw them again, in the Sanctuary between the five elements. Sedramon sat in the green grass and the falundron crawled slowly down his arm to the ground. The grass lost its green color and grew pale and translucent beneath a field of trembling air. The Nothing had arrived in Ringwall to take its place.

The falundron returned to Sedramon.