C5 Chapter V

With his defeat of Auran-San, King Sergor-Don had repelled every claimant to the crown and laid the sheen of victory over his throne. Yet he was still enough of a realist to know that his power was far from consolidated. Quite the opposite, in fact. He had shattered traditions in public, traditions that had given the common folk stability and direction; he had sown insecurity and doubts in all camps and thoroughly angered the powerful and mighty in the kingdom. His actions had made him more enemies than was healthy for a ruler. And his new friends were more interested in the benefits of being on the king’s good side than in being of any use to him. He doubted their trustworthiness. Only Astergrise was beyond suspicion. His bowmen, too, were devoted to the king. He knew he could rely on his handpicked kingsguard, even though they radiated fear and terror rather than awe. But what did that matter in the face of all his adversaries?

The king’s saving grace was their lack of unity. The tribes, as ever, strove for more freedom and greater privileges; the court was disgruntled at the coming move to Rockvice, or Worldbrand as it was to be called; and Grand General Sarch was busy raising those loyal to him to prevent further loss of influence. The erstwhile court sorcerers had lost their leader, but it was only a matter of time until they cast away the memory of Auran-San and decided upon a new speaker for themselves. Acting fast was the key if Sergor-Don wanted to prevent any alliances between these disaffected factions.

The king held his first audience the very next day. The emissaries from the tribes who had been camping outside Gulffir’s gates for weeks were explicitly invited.

It was a rather volatile mixture of people who gathered there today. Apart from the emissaries there was the entire court, every captain and general, and of course the court sorcerers; it was popular opinion that the king could not make a decision without their counsel. Every one of them must believe that the king’s eye was always upon him, that the king’s ear was always open to him.

“Waiting merely gives the opponent more time to prepare,” the Book of Sunn instructed, and King Sergor-Don did not need well-prepared enemies.

There was quite a commotion when King Sergor-Don had the doors to the throne room opened at the appointed time, which was unusually early in the morning. Haltern-kin-Eben and Grand General Sarch hurried forward with confident strides and an air of self-importance, and after taking their deep bows went to their usual places around the throne, from where they would observe, discuss and judge the various supplicants. However, halfway there they stopped in shock, for there was someone there. Aulo, the sorcerer with the lame face, was leaning against the queen’s chair, which had stood empty since her death. It was as though he meant to show the world that the chair was no longer vacant, that it was claimed. What nonsense was this? And why had the king allowed it?

And worse still, Phloe and Sijem the Brown, the other two sorcerers of the kingsguard, had taken their spots on either side of the double throne. Skorn-Vis and Uul were nowhere to be seen. Only the king knew where they were.

Haltern-kin-Eben stared appalled at the border of the magical barrier that separated the small group from the rest of the world. A fiery red rose in Grand General Sarch’s face, and the court sorcerers that had followed them whispered agitatedly.

“Please give the king a little more space,” Phloe said in his usual delicate tones. “How are we to receive supplicants with such a crowd around him?” And with a lazy flick of his wrist he rained petals from the ceiling.

“Supplicants!” Haltern and Sarch were deeply offended. They heard the hissing whispers behind them and turned on their fine leather heels, and were almost overrun by the throng that now streamed into the throne room. There was much pushing and shoving as everyone fought for a spot where they had a good view of the proceedings and the ability to catch the king’s eye. Many were unsuccessful, but glad enough to even have found space in the hall. The scene was more akin to a colony of cliffsailors, where the males fought for the best nesting spots on the rock, than a royal court. All the perfume and pomp could not disguise the fact that the people behaved like rabid buyers at a market sale. The king’s approval or disapproval was not clear; his face was expressionless and difficult to see through the magical barrier.

The unrest abated slowly. The voices and footsteps fell silent, and finally even the rustling of clothes ceased. In the silence a wave of expectation spread through those present, as anticipation made way to nervousness. The people waited anxiously for any indication of how things would proceed. An audience had been announced, not a dispensation of justice, which was by tradition public.

King Sergor-Don said nothing and let the silence swell like a bubble. His eyes wandered across the many decorated heads in the hall, all of them fixed on the young ruler in expectation. Or was it Haltern-kin-Eben’s duty, as keeper of tradition, to begin the audience? The king sat and said nothing, the silence grew heavier and more oppressive, the anticipation climbed higher and higher until it was unbearable. Some wiped sweat from their brows. One raised a foot as though he meant to step forward, but thought better of it. King Sergor-Don sat, waited and observed the crowd.

Who will break first? The sorcerers? No, no, not them. They have lost their leader and are not yet ready to raise their voices. The courtiers? More likely. Haltern-kin-Eben is torn, though. He knows that time is his ally. It will be Sarch, the young king speculated. Sarch, the old fearnaught; he owes his position as grand general more to unhealthy courage and obsessive determination than to his brains. Sarch, my dear friend, you always did underestimate the strength of patience.

The thing King Sergor had been waiting for began with a quiver of the crowd near the door. It came towards the throne, pushing aside generals and courtiers and whatever happened to be in its way. From the mass emerged a plainsman with long black hair, narrow eyes and a challenging smirk on his lips.

“Your father,” he said loudly and without a trace of humility, “was always a friend to the tribes. You decided to forgo the crown and instead wear the red band of the desert. And so I ask, if you please, Majesty,” he gave a bow lacking any semblance of respect, “as his successor, what will you do for the tribes?”

“I will do nothing,” Sergor-Don replied serenely. He worked hard to hide his surprise. He had expected Sarch to press on like the old bull he was. This incident disrupted his plans.

I will do nothing , the words hung heavy upon the hall, desperate for an explanation.

“The king serves the realm. The realm gives back to its folk, the tribes, the people. And the people serve the king.”

“I belong to the Ember Tribe and I have not ridden this far to return with ‘nothing’!” the plainsman shouted, his smirk lost.

“If you want more than nothing, tell me what makes the fighters of your Ember Tribe special, and what you are willing to give. Then I will tell you what you will receive.” Sergor-Don’s voice was cool as he sat upright on his throne, staring down at the young warrior.

“Have you forgotten the tribes so soon? Do you no longer know that courage and fortitude, the wish for freedom, the speed of our horses and the sharpness of our blades makes us the terror of our enemies? That we are the true strength of the Fire Kingdom?”

The young man ended his speech with a scream. He turned around and raised his arms as if to invite support for his cause. And indeed, wherever gray and brown cloaks stood, there was an appreciative murmur, and in one case even a cheer.

King Sergor-Don began to laugh loudly, and his laugh cut deep into the hearts of the plainsmen with the sharpness of its derision.

“Truly? Courage and fortitude? I do not believe in the songs of heroes of ages past. I believe in deeds. As long as your riders ride in circles around your campfires, as long as battle cries and folk songs are one and the same to you, your words are nothing but empty claptrap. Only deeds turn words into things worth saying. I speak not of the deeds of the past, of your famed fathers and grandfathers. I speak of yours, of your family’s. In the Fire Kingdom, behind the protection of Gulffir’s walls and on the wide plains of the desert where you can run from battle, it is easy to speak – but can you fight?”

“Were you not our king I would prove it to you here and now,” the warrior hissed as his hand closed around the hilt of his dagger; its ornate decoration showed that he was the son of his tribe’s leader.

“And I would have a dead plainsman on my floor,” Sergor-Don quipped calmly. “I would gain nothing but work for my cleaners. But I accept your challenge.”

Silence fell upon the throne room. The king continued in a low voice. “As I am the one challenged, I have the choice of weapon. I choose war.”

A total eclipse at noon could not have produced a more complete silence. No foot scratched across the floor, no cloth rustled; even the wind outside seemed to have stopped blowing. What was the young king suggesting?

“If you truly possess such courage and fortitude as you have boasted, Ember rider, then go and amass as many of your brothers as will join you. I will choose your enemy. If you should succeed in defeating them, I will grant you and all other survivors a just reward.”

“If you want civil war, your Majesty, you can have it. Hide behind your warriors and your malformed mages. All of the realm will see your cowardice.”

The young warrior had gone too far, everyone in the hall knew it. Accusing the king of cowardice meant a death sentence, certainly; one of the three court sorcerers raised an arm, ready to strike at his king’s command. But Sergor-Don smiled placidly.

“You would have to prove your own courage before calling me craven. Does anyone present truly believe I would begin my reign by inciting civil war, just because some desert son has lost his way in the sandstorm of his dreams? No, Ember rider, my soldiers will not be your enemy. You will fight the warriors of Earthland. Hearken! These are my conditions for our duel. You may decide for yourself whether you are up to the task.”

Sergor-Don looked around and saw nothing but confusion and curiosity.

“Choose your brethren well. The larger your force, the smaller your personal glory. But do not deny anyone who wishes to fight for the honor of himself or his family. We shall see who will ride with you.

“Your task is nothing more than to keep vigil over our border to Earthland. Go beyond the border but avoid any confrontation with enemy troops. From there delve deep into Earthland. Find the smaller villages and avoid fortified towns. The Earthlanders are well-versed in defending their cities; taking them is no mean feat.”

“You would give me an old woman’s job?” the plainsman complained.

“I trust you will find a way to prove your mettle. For my part in the duel, I will need to be represented by a champion. The kingdom needs me for more than petty squabbles. I name Grand General Sarch as my champion.”

Sarch’s head flicked around as all eyes turned to him. What did the king have in store for the grand general? Whispers already abounded that he had lost favor at court.

“Grand General Sarch, I grant you one hundred riders and two hundred horses; may you fly like the wind across the plains. Several of my best sorcerers will accompany you. We shall see who achieves more glory.”

“Your Majesty!” Sarch had stepped forward, his clenched fist laid on his chest as a sign of reverence. He was visibly struggling to keep his composure.

“If you grant me supreme command of your troops, the tribes will be pacified, the Earthland army shattered and Woodhold pushed back in less time than a mare takes to foal. And then Metal World may come.”

The white-knuckled fist slowly slid from his chest, and all could see that the grand general was boiling inside. After a moment he continued.

“But this is a task for a captain, not a general.”

“I will grant your wish,” King Sergor-Don replied without batting an eyelid. “I hereby strip you of all ranks and titles. I also name you captain of the family. You will answer only to me, not the other generals. You will ride for me and only for me.

“Should you solve the task I have given you satisfactorily, which I do not doubt for a heartbeat, I will grant you greater command immediately. But what I need at this moment is not a general; I need someone who fears neither magic nor malady, who will ride against the Earthlanders and show the tribes where they may find courage and fortitude when they falter.”

“We’ll see who falters, your Majesty.” No Ember rider worth his salt could have left a doubt like that unanswered, but no one listened to the young warrior anymore. All the soldiers in the hall stood shaken before the crumbled remains of their world. Leaders that misstepped were beheaded, burnt or, as a last mercy for past deeds, granted the right to suicide. But demoting the grand general to a simple captain was beyond comprehension. No king had ever dared such a thing; and the degradation did not rob Sarch of any of his power. He had also been promoted to the highest member of the family apart from Sergor-Don himself. Was it meant as a sign of ultimate trust? In such close proximity to the king the opportunities for assassination were endless. Many of the generals wondered whether Sarch had fallen from grace or been rewarded. Perhaps both.

Haltern-kin-Eben smiled blandly. It seemed obvious to him that whoever might pose a danger to the king was being removed from court. Did the boy not know that Sarch had friends who would stay by his side? That the border to Earthland was not distant enough for Sarch to miss any goings-on in Gulffir? But Haltern-kin-Eben could not shake the feeling that he was missing something, and he did not like it at all.

“Captain Sarch!”

The former grand general flinched as his new title whipped around his ears.

“A great task requires great men. You have access to all of my riders, even the dustriders. Should you wish for it I will beg Astergrise to pick your warriors personally.”

“You are too generous, my liege.” Chagrin almost constricted the captain’s throat. “But I would ride with my usual soldiers, and so prove to the tribes the proficiency, discipline and obedience in our army.”

“As you wish. You are to sow fear into the hearts of the Earthlanders. Take all the gold and women you can; you will exercise your right as conquerors and take them before the eyes of their defeated husbands, and plant the seeds of hatred that will either paralyze them or drive them to foolishness. Your heroic deeds will be the stuff of legends for generations to come. Now ride.”

With Astergrise in Rockvice and Sarch in Earthland, the military was as devoid of a leader as the court sorcerers, and Haltern-kin-Eben wondered when the king’s attention would turn to him. Although he had to admit to himself that Sergor-Don had been unexpectedly gentle with Sarch, he remained vigilant. He was thus all the more surprised when King Sergor-Don told him that he would be retreating to the desert with his kingsguard for a few days, to trace the secrets of the Fire magic in the solitude beneath the burning sun.

“You will have regency of the kingdom for a little while. In particular I wish for you to take care of the needs of the men Skorn-Vis and Uul have brought. They are parched and their skin is chapped and blistered, and some have difficulty in eating solid food. Take care of them and nourish them, but do not pamper them with luxuries; that would be their deaths. You are personally responsible for them.”

Haltern-kin-Eben gave a deep bow and thanked the king for his trust.

“How will I receive your orders and hear your counsel if something unexpected demands fast action?” he asked his king.

“The men I have placed in your care will know. They all have knowledge of the arcane; half-arcanists, black warlocks, outcast druids. All of them have special abilities. In Ringwall they were called lost ones. They worked in the salt flats where no one else could. They will be missed for their work, but they are more important here.” Sergor-Don gazed into the distance, deep in thought. “I will have to replace them, perhaps with people who are unneeded here. But that can wait a while yet.”

Haltern-kin-Eben flinched. Telling a warning from a threat was not difficult to him.

“Oh, yes,” the king continued quietly. “Your sons will depart for Rockvice to aid Astergrise in fortifying it. I can imagine that the old warrior could use people who can oversee the supplies and other things that have nothing to do with the actual building. And your sons will help you keep your thoughts in the right tracks.”

Once everything in Gulffir was done to the king’s satisfaction, he set out with his five sorcerers, guided by the stars, the desert wind and an old map that had spent far too long hidden behind a stone in Skyseeker, the Tower of Worry and Hope.

They rode towards fire, then changed direction to reach an old caravan route and spent the last stretch of their journey on one of the most important trade roads in the realm. The path snaked through the rising hills and touched the dragon’s tail, then dodged away to the right and attempted a second approach near the stone monster’s front claw, only to flee back to the desert. The reason for this was the great dragon’s hunch: as long as the traveler knew it was there, he could not lose his way, but there was also something fearsome about it, an uneasy feeling that only disappeared along with the mountain behind the horizon. It was no surprise that the dragon was a famed landmark for those who traveled the desert or journeyed between Gulffir and Encid. The whispers that a primordial dragon’s soul was still trapped within never stopped.

Only the adventurers brave enough to leave the beaten path found the terrifying head of the beast. The dragon held it snug to the side of its back. Finding it was not hard, but surviving in the area was another story. There was no water, the earth moved beneath your feet; rockslides were common and had buried many who had not been quick enough; venomous animals skittered out from every cover, vipers, black scorpiworms with raised stingers, yellow jerboas, that all carried within them poison potent enough to kill creatures several times their size. Resting near or on the dragon was only possible with magical protection.

The king and his five sorcerers discovered this for themselves. They had climbed up the dragon’s flank and worked their way to the highest point, from where they could see the entire rock formation. The similarity to the beast of legend was uncanny. The gigantic stone skull still seemed alive as it followed their every step. A pale red tongue poked out from the huge cave that formed the mouth. Even though it was little more than a seam of rock, colored by some twist of nature, the flickering light of the evening and the haze of the air were enough to make it seem very much alive. The eyes, on the other hand, were black and dead.

“What we seek will be in the skull,” Sergor-Don explained. “I can feel it. But I do not trust the maw, nor the teeth that guard it. They look too loose. It would not be the first time a falling rock changes history.”

Skorn-Vis was busy preparing their camp for the night and pretended not to have heard the king’s words.

“We will enter the skull through the eye,” the king continued. “But not today. We will stay here for the night and Aulo will keep guard over us. Aulo, should weariness threaten to overcome you, wake one of the others. Preferably one whose sleep seems lightest to you.”

The desert nights were even stiller than the days; when the sun stood high, the wind was a constant rushing. But not on the dragon’s back. The stones creaked in the dark. They worked all through the night; they had stretched out beneath the sun to absorb as much warmth as possible, and now they contracted again. Now and then small paws pattered in the night; once Aulo heard the sound of scales being dragged across the rock. What seemed burnt and dead during the day came to life in the dark.

“Go to bed, Aulo.”

Sijem the Brown had got up.

“Nobody can sleep here, when earth and stone are going on and on and on. Unless you mean forever. To sleep here you’d have to be deaf or blind, or so lame you can barely move.”

The dwarf shot Aulo a venomous look. Aulo gave a small yowl and made a two-fingered gesture that was likely supposed to show how little he thought of Sijem, but still he trotted off to the others and fell into a restless sleep.

The next morning, Sergor found his dwarf glued to the rock, and Aulo had to use his Metal magic to cut through the sticky foam of the sandrunner to free him.

“Looks like our little friend missed the scent of life,” Phloe jibed as his stroked the dwarf’s sparse hair. Sijem the Brown hissed menacingly, but did not dare act on his anger. His Earth magic was no match for Phloe’s Wood.

They packed up their camp and the king entered through the round, black eye. The entire skull was a single huge cave through which lava must have flowed in ancient times. The rock had a sheen of dark violet upon it. The cave felt as dead as a long-buried corpse and had lost any passion its earthen and fiery origins had once given it. But it was big. What had looked like a mouth from outside was a maze of halls that led deep into the mountain.

The floor was smooth, yet not too smooth to deny their feet a good grip, and the walls were decorated with bizarre figures and twisted pillars. Every niche in the hardened lava could be the hiding spot the king was looking for. The ceilings in the rock chambers were yet more dangerous. Trails of cold stone hung down like candlewax, and where they had shattered they left foot-long daggers, sharp enough to cut a man’s arm off. It was hopeless to try and find something here without at least a vague idea of what it looked like.

King Sergor-Don and his kingsguard spent the night in the cave beneath a magical barrier, Sijem having refused point-blank to take the guard that night. Days and nights passed. The group rested when they grew weary and forced their way through the maze when they were awake. The rhythm of night and day was long lost, for they were so deep in the tunnel system that no light betrayed whether the sun or moon shone.

On the fourth night Aulo discovered another cavern above them. There was a hole in the ceiling, and Uul clambered up the wall with astounding agility and pushed himself away from it, landing with a great leap in the cave above.

“It’s another floor,” his voice came from there, slightly muffled and distorted. “It looks like it goes on forever.”

Aulo followed him. He lacked young Uul’s dexterity, but he was several times stronger. Phloe seemed to almost dance up the wall. Everything he did had an air of grace about it, like the opening of a flower’s blossoms, even climbing up walls. Sergor-Don looked at Skorn-Vis and Sijem the Brown. The dwarf looked dejectedly at the ceiling, to which Skorn-Vis responded by grabbing him by the waist; he shouted out and then flung Sijem high up through the hole, where a strong hand caught hold of him. Sijem hung like a puppy in its parent’s jaws and did not even dare kick with his legs. There was a short howl from above. Sijem cursed. The howl came again, and in the following silence everyone heard the pained “please” from Sijem. Aulo pulled him up and the dwarf felt solid floor beneath his feet once more. Skorn-Vis and the king followed.

Their steps came to a pause when a cry sounded, more surprised than pained, and they broke into a run when the cry turned into a groan where each breath only served the next groan until it grew into wild, mad screaming. A cascade of blue sparks flashed in the distance.

“What happened?” King Sergor-Don demanded as they arrived. Uul lay on the ground, his back bent so far backwards it looked as though he was trying to break his spine. Sijem was jabbering agitatedly, Phloe’s voice was so quiet even he could barely hear himself, and Aulo pointed at Uul’s neck as he dribbled and spewed incomprehensible sounds.

Sergor ordered Aulo to be silent, but the idiot was too hysterical to notice anything except for the screaming boy. Phloe sank to the ground with a twirl that would have made any court dancer jealous and took Uul’s screaming head in his hands, bent over and kissed him gently on the lips. As if struck by an ax, the last scream suddenly fell silent. Its echo wandered through the halls for a few more moments before finally coming to rest. Aulo immediately stopped whining and wiped his wet face. Phloe stroked Uul’s cheeks and Uul’s back slowly returned to a more human shape. But his eyes remained shut and his breath came and went with a gag, as though the air was a sackful of slime.

“What happened?” Sergor asked again.

Skorn-Vis indicated Uul’s neck, where several small black splinters were stuck in the sweat.

“It looks like the remains of a scorpiworm. Probably dropped from the ceiling the moment it felt Uul’s steps. A nice big treat like that doesn’t come past you every day in here. It had already paralyzed Uul by the time Aulo sliced it in half. Let us hope it did not manage to use its second venom to prepare the hatching.”

Skorn-Vis attempted to keep his voice factual and aloof, but he was shaken. It was not just that he had learned to enjoy Uul and his odd mixture of sacred seriousness and innocent happiness. It was also Aulo’s magic that terrified him. The man might have been unable to use most of his brain, but his command of Metal was brutal and exact at the same time, as precise as it was expansive. Skorn-Vis had never seen anything like it.

“Who can heal him?” The young king’s eyes wandered from one guard to the next. Sijem merely gave a hollow and doubtful chuckle as he shook his head, Aulo stared at a point only he could see and did not move. Phloe looked up and ceased his stroking to raise his hands in helplessness.

“They are only half-arcanists, my liege,” Skorn-Vis said hesitantly. “Only a true arcanist could hope to succeed.”

“So you heal him.”

Skorn-Vis sighed and knelt beside the boy, laid his palms on Uul’s face. The venom had, as expected, already spread through his body. It would be difficult to extract it. Skorn-Vis pulled the Metal from Uul’s head and neck and guided it to his own mouth, where he made his tongue circle around between his cheeks and the roof of his mouth. When he had accumulated enough saliva he spat it out. The white foam bubbled on the ground for a short while and green vapor rose from it.

“You’re still missing Fire, little brother. You can do it better than I. Wake up and help me instead of lying around, you lazy boy.”

There was no Fire in the scorpiworm’s venom. In a land as hot as the desert of the Fire Kingdom it would not have made sense, where everyone had learned many different ways to ward off the heat. Metal and Water were in it, and something else. Something that made liquid rock shrink as it cooled down, that slowed its pace enough to make it form bulges and cords and made it taste sour. Skorn-Vis was certain that the sour taste was Earth, or more precisely solid rock. He could not make out any more besides the taste. He extracted Water and Metal from the unconscious Uul, left Wood well alone, and the Earth…

“Hey, Sijem, take the sour rock out of the boy’s blood.”

The dwarf opened his mouth that was far too big for his small head.

“Just do it!”

“There isn’t any sour rock in his blood.”

“Shut up and do as I tell you.”

Sijem the Brown leaned forwards, clapped his tiny hands on Uul’s forehead and began to laugh.

“Sour rock and sour stone, bends a bone, breaks a bone.”

The dwarf grew more and more enthusiastic and began to dance as he sang louder and louder; Skorn-Vis’ ears began to ring but he felt the false Earth magic leaving Uul’s body, and so he did not complain. The boy opened his eyes.

“Uul, call Fire to yourself, give your body some warmth.”

Uul nodded and closed his eyes once more, but this time his face remained lively.

“Let me lie here for a while,” he said after a long pause. “I feel fine, but I’m tired and my back aches.”

Sergor-Don stepped next to Uul.

“I am proud of you, Uul. I am proud of every one of you. You are the best, as you are gathered here around me, each a master in his own field. Only you, Skorn-Vis, you are not a master, you are a true artist with many talents.”

“You could have healed Uul as well, if not better, your Majesty. You were a student of Ringwall.”

That was not what the young king wanted to hear. He gazed at the sorcerer whose experience and maturity seemed to stream from every pore of his skin, blending into his aura for an overwhelming sight.

“What other abilities do you have, court sorcerer Skorn-Vis?”

“Much and nothing. I am a sorcerer like any other, but my speciality lies in Water.”

“Did you go to Ringwall?”

Skorn-Vis burst into laughter and with it every little crinkle around his eyes seemed to glow with merriment.

“Me, Ringwall? Far too much, your Majesty. My parents were sorcerers for the village, and not even that for a long time before. They must have traveled a lot, the elders said. The Vis always offered their services where they were needed. We did the small things that the great mages consider beneath them, but I do not complain. There was always enough to live off. I never knew real hunger, unlike the villages that suffered from frozen, burnt or otherwise destroyed harvests. I lived a good life.”

“Give me a taste of your arts, Skorn-Vis.”

“What, here in this cave, where even Fire has left?” Skorn-Vis winced as he realized he had objected to the king, and composed himself. “If it is your wish, my liege, I will do my best to obey. How could I deny you. But what do you wish to see?”

“I will be happy with anything.”

Skorn-Vis hesitated. He could feel that he was the only member of the kingsguard not to have Sergor-Don’s full trust. He had been a court sorcerer under Auran-San when the king had still been a child prince. He had to be careful.

“I’m waiting.”

“Give me a moment, please, your Majesty. Picking from any number of choices, and choosing wisely, is not an easy task. But if you dislike my first demonstration I would beg for a second try. Now then…”

Skorn-Vis stretched and muttered something under his breath. The fiery rock groaned and moaned and cried bitter tears. Its crying gave way to a whimper and the walls grew moist. Tears flowed down them and dripped from the ceiling, causing Sijem to lift his cowl over his head. The dwarf would have liked to simply banish the water, but in light of the king’s wish to see a demonstration of Skorn-Vis’ arts he thought better of it.

Uul grumbled as the water drenched his clothing. He put his hands on the ground and pushed himself into a sitting position with some effort and leaned with his back against the wall. He continued grumbling and cursing as only a horse-thief could. Wherever he looked there was Water.

It gathered on the walls and on the floor, flowed downwards and grew more and more. Before long they all stood ankle-deep in water. And still Skorn-Vis muttered, and the only visible sign of effort was the deeper creases around his mouth.

Uul, Phloe, Aulo and Sijem the Brown retreated to slightly higher ground. Only the king stood immovable, even though the water had already reached his calves. And Skorn-Vis muttered – or was it singing?

The rock had come to life and the rushing water was its voice that had drowned out the pained groans early on. Skorn-Vis’ spell was inaudible and the others’ curses were silenced by the omnipresent sound of water as it echoed from every nook in every wall. A splash made Sergor-Don whirl around, his face more like a khanwolf that has picked up a scent than a human. He waited and listened as he probed the area around him, taking in even the minutest disturbances. How was Skorn-Vis getting all this water out of the rock, and was it really just water?

A jolt interrupted his thoughts. Something was nibbling at the king’s right leg. Like a diving falcon his hand shot down into the water to grasp whatever it was and crush it.

There was a splash and a hollow thud.

“Very good, Skorn-Vis, you can stop. Uul, give us light.”

Uul raised a hand and flames illuminated the cave that had just been cloaked in shadows. King Sergor-Don stared down at his leg where a container of some sort had been pushed against it by the flood.

The water disappeared as quickly as it had come. The container, as long as a forearm, round and as wide as a fist, sank slowly to the ground. Whatever it was, either its walls were thick or its contents heavy. Nothing showed what was inside it, and if it had had magical traces on its surface the water had washed them away.

“Let us return,” the king said. “We are wet and cold, and if it is daytime outside then I would welcome the warmth of the sun.”

It was indeed day as they left the cave. The sun dried their clothes and their evening meal tasted better than anything they had eaten while they were inside, even though it was still the same food. Bread, thickened milk and yellow pepper were their rations; their mood was more likely due to the fresh air that blew around their noses and the feeling of limitless freedom beneath a ceiling that was not solid rock.

And yet there was a strange tension that came from the clay container as it lay in the corner of the tent.

“I feel danger. Tonight I would like you to take up position in a circle around the tent. Weave a protective shield against everything and everyone, above, below and around us.”

The sorcerers obeyed, but the dwarf grumbled. “He could have just said he doesn’t want us to be with him when he opens that thing. I would have known what he meant.” Aulo gave him a slap on the head and the dwarf fell silent.

King Sergor took his time as he examined the container. If it had been smaller he would have assumed its purpose was to keep secret messages safe. Now, in the dry desert air, some of the smell came from the clay that the water had pressed into it. The dusty scent of age surrounded it and something else, something that gave Sergor a familiar feeling, something he knew but could not name.

Sergor-Don waited for a long time before he finally smashed through the clay. He broke off the end that looked like it had been the last part to have been sealed, which he held upright in anticipation that something would fall out. But nothing came. With several more magical blows the entire pipe broke into shards. They fell chiming to the floor and King Sergor now held in his hand several sheaves of spotted, but well-preserved parchments that had been tightly furled inside the clay container.

It was not easy spreading them on the floor. They must have been rolled up for a long time and were now brittle. Sergor-Don had to use some magic before grabbing the top-most stack of parchments. It consisted of a map, similar to the one that had led them here, but this one showed a land he did not recognize. The other two pages were covered in tightly-written ancient symbols, the same ones he had found in his youth. Sergor-Don had difficulty in deciphering them in the half-light of the tent, but one word jutted out at him. Olvejin.

That was what he had hoped to find here: the Olvejin, the mystical item of Ringwall’s founding fathers. With its help he would force Ringwall to its knees. He did not know whether to be happy or angry. The Olvejin existed, but it was not here. He did not even know exactly what it was, but there was still hope in finding a means to power.

Beneath the three parchments that mentioned the Olvejin there were two others, completely covered with incomprehensible text. It had something to do with the waking of magic, but it made no mention of the kind of magic. It spoke of great magical changes and made reference to other scripts that the writer seemed to know all too well, but said nothing to the king.

The bottom-most pile was the thickest and was made up of more than just a few parchments. It appeared to be the remains of a book; after all this time some of the pages were still held together by the sticky substance that had once bound them all. The first page read, in large and artfully decorated letters:

The Other World and its Magics

Section by section the different spells were listed, each with a short description and explanation. It was too little to truly understand the spells, but of a nature to make the young king realize that there was much more in the Other World than Ringwall’s mages guessed. Ringwall’s knowledge and this book: a king needed nothing else to rise above all other kings. Ringwall’s knowledge. Wherever he turned, Ringwall was always there in his way. And he had no Olvejin to open his path into the innermost core of the mages.

Ringwall must fall!

Now that King Sergor-Don knew that he no longer needed to hope for a miracle, for some supernatural power, a magic nobody could counter, his determination grew further still. He believed, as he always had, that destiny had chosen him. Why else would the legacy of the past have so willingly presented itself to him in the tower? Why did only he know of the Olvejin? And why had the thing he had so fruitlessly searched for in the dragon’s skull simply floated up against his leg? It had been his own doing. He had commanded Skorn-Vis to summon the waters. It could be no different. He, King Sergor-Don, had been chosen to crush Ringwall. It needed preparation. And for the first time ever, the young king decided to confide his plan to others.

“Listen closely,” he said to his kingsguard and raised a hand to point at a spot somewhere far in the cosmos. The sorcerers stared enraptured at the stained leather of the tent’s ceiling as though they could see the future in it.

“Our goal lies up there,” Sergor-Don continued. “High up in the stars, as high as high can go. And the reward for our efforts will be greater than anything you can imagine. An overpowering foe stands in the Fire Kingdom’s way. Once it has fallen, nothing and no one will be able to stop us. I speak of Ringwall; I speak of the city of mages that decides Pentamuria’s fortunes under the guidance of its magon. I speak of the archmages whom nobody seems able to match and the colored cloaks that follow them, and the White mages whose loyalties swing like a twig in the wind.

“Look at me, you who have followed me into the depths of the desert to find the secrets of the dragon’s skull. We will defeat Ringwall when three things come together. Surprise, the right time, and our strength. You are my strength, and I am yours. The surprise that will catch Ringwall off guard comes from the past, and the right time will be clear to me. Until then gather your strengths and enhance your craft, cultivate your courage and confidence, for every one of you will have to resist an archmage.”