Ringwall`s Doom Read online

  Wolf Awert

  Ringwall’s Doom

  Pentamuria Series

  Volume 2

  Copyright © 2018 Wolf Awert

  All rights reserved.

  Table of contents

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  XVII

  XVIII

  XIX

  XX

  Dear Reader

  I

  His back ached. His neck was stiff and his wrist screamed in protest at being leaned on for so long. Nill, the youngest archmage in the long history of Ringwall, had been crouching in the great hall for hours. The hall had been carved into the very core of Knor-il-Ank countless generations ago.

  Knor-il-Ank! The pathetic, wind-worn remains of the first mountain in the world. It had boldly forced its way out of the deepest depths of the world to reach the stars, connecting earth and cosmos for but a heartbeat. Or so the legends claimed; their habit of toying with truth and imagination had puzzled not only the archmages of Ringwall, but also the wise women of the Oas and the eldest druids since time immemorial. But even if the legends were, for once, true this time, it was all far in the distant past. Today Knor-il-Ank was no more than the rounded skull of an old man, the mysterious city of Ringwall perched atop it like a crown. Ringwall, city of the mages, was like no other city in the Five Kingdoms; no sprawling web of houses and streets surrounding a regent’s palace in hopes of gaining meaning by closeness. No, Ringwall itself was a gigantic double wall. Behind the wall there was nothing but the old mountain’s soft peak. The wall was the city.

  Nill’s neck gave a cracking noise as he raised his head to cast his gaze across the breadth of the hall. What lay here would never cease to amaze him.

  One half of the hall was bathed in a light so glaring that the countless dark markings seemed to dance a wild dance. The other half swallowed the light entirely, covering itself in darkness. Only the shimmering glyphs, whose gold sank deep into the rock like a vein of ore, gave life to the shadowy half. Nill could not stop marveling at the light: white like the center of the sun, from which people usually turned away for fear of blinding. But even more than the light, the darkness captivated him. It was more than just the absence of light. It was a force of its own, and Nill wondered whether that was not the thing that decided where the light may shine and where not. Light was light, but darkness did not mean shadows.

  Pillars around the room held the ceiling aloft with unshakable strength. There they stood in austere grandeur; leading away from the hall, eight further chambers had been hewn from the walls. And each of those chambers had two of its own, and each of those two had two more. The outermost circle counted one hundred and twenty-eight chambers, gathered around the great hall.

  All of this, the chambers, halls, floors and ceilings, even the pillars themselves, was covered in writing, as if their only purpose was to give these markings a home to run rampant in. Or so Nill thought, at least; the symbols were grouped together like words, but they formed circles, spirals and bizarre zig-zagging patterns, never content with a single direction. Straight lines, the way academics knew them, were as rare down here as an archmage’s good-natured smile.

  “What use is it,” Nill wondered, “to have learned to read the symbols if I cannot understand the rules they are ordered by? It feels like opening a random page in a book of spells, putting my finger on a random word and trying to make sense of it! It would take the rest of my life to read all the things the generations of arcanists wrote here, and two more lives to understand.”

  The markings themselves were the least of Nill’s problems. What shook him far more was the magic of light and darkness, that it even existed. The powers that Knor-il-Ank provided to Ringwall and which filled all of Pentamuria was the magic of Fire and Earth, of Metal, Water and Wood. How could two magical worlds coexist, if magic was the nature of all things and there was only one world to house them?

  Dakh-Ozz-Han had taught him that the opposite of truth is another truth, not a lie. But could two truths like this live in harmony?

  The magic here, deep within Knor-il-Ank, was old. It smelled of the past, of oblivion, of abandonment, and it put Nill in mind of dark, dank forest pools.

  Magic and silence were Nill’s enemies down here. The force of the magic was too strong, and no noise reached the depths of Knor-il-Ank. Even the rustling of his clothes was silenced quickly, as if it feared to stay. The silence remained unnoticed for the longest time, like a thief in the night, covering all like an unending snowfall. A white, tranquil cover for the surface, and a death shroud for all that lay beneath. Nill’s back was bent, his neck craned, his bones aching from the pressure. He had to fight it, or this oppressive weight would crush him.

  Like so often before, his youthful audacity helped. He took a deep breath and broke the silence by uttering the shrill, challenging screech of a rockjester. Most people heard in the call a crazed laughter; tales were told of wanderers who had lost their way in the ravines of Metal World, only to lose their minds at the derisive screeching.

  “He-he-he-haaa!”

  The hall swallowed the cry effortlessly, and the second one sounded rather less spirited. “He-he-ha!” But as always, just as Nill began to despair, a small, stubborn part of him started to take over. “He-he-he-he-haaa!” And again. “He-he-he-haa!” Nill’s cries grew louder and louder, and soon he was throwing all his doubt and despair into them. The sound broke upon the pillars, bouncing back and back again; echo met echo, and together they raced across the rock, chasing out the emptiness, the loneliness and the sleeping age of a brooding time.

  Nill had to laugh. Of course, nothing had really been changed by his screams. The hall was as monumental as ever, huge and unfathomable. But at least he felt better now. He stretched his weary joints, stood up and searched the wall for the exit.

  “Enough for today,” he told himself. “Enough, just like yesterday, and the day before, and all days before that.”

  No door led into the hall, and if one did not know the secret of the stone, there was neither entrance nor exit. Nill waved a hand along the rock, and with his first two fingers drew two signs on the wall. He waited. A gentle quaver told him that Knor-il-Ank had understood. The quaver became a quake, the rock cracked and a piece of the wall crumbled. The echo of tumbling rocks strayed around the pillars and the eight chambers. A black, jagged line tore its way from the ground to the ceiling, and with a sound somewhere between a moan and a sigh, the tear opened to a gap. Nill squeezed through sideways, taking care not to snag his clothing.

  With another quake and a sigh of relief the rock mended itself. “When the mountain moves, all of Ringwall ought to move with it,” Nill pondered. He had never heard anyone mention it. “I wonder if anyone has any idea where I am.”

  He conjured a pale orb of light to illuminate the path before him and moved quickly along the Walk of Weakness to the great gate. It was protected by a magical seal and by a small, ancient dragon, called the falundron. Twice the seal had been broken, and both times it had claimed a mage’s life, for the Walk of Weakness took first the magic, then the life force from their bodies. Only Nill could walk it unhindered.

  Five steps before the gate Nill dismissed his light and used his hands to guide him instead.

  The catacombs were the only safe place for him. Everywhere else in Ringwall, he feared for his life. It was little consolation that the mages were afraid too. It had been only a few winters past that the wisest of the world had recovered the fr
agments of a prophecy from legend and song, from myths and tales. When they had put it together again, they looked into the mirror of their fates, and saw in it their doom.

  The tool of fate was the Changer, but the mages knew not who this was supposed to be; so far, the magon had only seen him in visions. Yet there was a core of mages in Ringwall who were certain that Nill was the so-called Changer.

  “Nothing will be as once it was,” the prophecy said.

  Was someone on the other side of the door?

  Nill asked himself that question every time he left the Hall of Symbols. An elemental blast, too quick for a counterspell, and Ringwall’s problems would evaporate. Or so some mages thought.

  Nill stroked the great gate and listened to the wood’s breathing. At the smallest touch of another presence it would recoil. His rank of archmage was no protection. He was not yet a fully-fledged mage. Even a common sorcerer would crush him in a fight.

  And so Nill took all the time in the world to track traces of magic, and only when he was absolutely certain that he was alone down there did he push the gate’s doors open. He stepped through, minding the raised threshold that served to keep out creatures from the Other World, and allowed the door to fall shut behind him.

  “Done. Another day survived.”

  Nill tried to keep his spirits up, but surviving in Ringwall was only the beginning. He had to crack the secret of the prophecy.

  He bolted the huge lock and jumped a little when a guttural hiss pulled him out of his thoughts. On the lock sat the falundron, as if crafted from rusted iron. Nill waited patiently for the lizard to restore the magical seal with the five layers of elements. Whoever wanted to pass through the gate had to remove the seal and fight against its keeper. Even the greatest mages could not do so alone.

  But this time the falundron was singularly uninterested in doing its duty. The little dragon, whose rigid motionlessness made it seem like part of the door, kept its mouth wide open. The hiss had turned into a growl, a growl which made Nill’s skin tighten so much that his ears were pressed flat against his skull.

  The lizard’s head swayed left and right to the rhythm of its feet, which seemed to walk on the spot. The pointed ends of the spikes on its back dripped with shining poison, its tail curved threateningly over its body, twitching as though prepared to strike at any moment. The door, too, had come to life beneath its tromping feet. It groaned and moaned and bent this way and that, so strongly that it barely stayed in its hinges. Nill saw the magic tear the old fibers apart and mend them again. He felt the air above the door becoming denser and denser; even his breathing was shallow now. All the powers from this side and the other side of the door seemed to stream together, melting and becoming one in the lock beneath the falundron.

  “If only you could talk,” Nill sighed. But humans and dragons are too different. Only the basest, most primitive part of their brains, where emotions were born, where fear cowered, hatred exploded, but also where trust grew; that was the only connection he had managed to forge with this strange creature. Hissing, growling and spitting was a language Nill did not understand. So he closed his eyes and felt his way towards the falundron with his spirit. He sent feelings of warmth, friendship and even love into the dull mind. The falundron felt his touch, pushed and shoved, and when Nill still did not understand, it responded with magic. Nill flew back and was ripped forwards again by the force of the magical band.

  The falundron’s magic was not that of the mages.

  “It’s as if there is a magic within the magic,” Nill sighed. “How am I to understand that if I can’t get a proper grasp on even the five elements?”

  The little lizard’s body was now rocking wildly on its stomping legs. Reflected light danced across the cracked leathery armor, a landscape of ravines and gaps, as though hewn by an ax. Scars and furrowed growths, defiantly holding themselves aloft against an invisible sword, and broken lines that attempted to keep the ruins of barely recognizable shapes. But it was not like that at all. The leathery skin bore the glyphs of an ancient power like a living book. Nill could read them, but not make sense of them. But now they became softer, unfocused, as a magical aura rose from the dragon’s hide.

  “How did I never notice before?”

  Nill could only shake his head at his own stupidity. Any magical creature ought to be surrounded by an aura, but the falundron had always been bare.

  “How do you hide your aura, old friend? If only I knew the secret, no mage could ever find me.”

  The aura grew and grew; it was a milky gray, densely woven and seemed to merge with the air in a manner that hid its size. What had Tiriwi said? “Dense auras with no real color are strong, melded and unreadable.” This was the aura of a powerful mage, not the pale shell of an animal.

  As Nill stared at the falundron’s aura, an idea began to form in him, so mad and dangerous that he immediately dismissed and tried to forget it. But some ideas are unwilling to be forgotten. With the same stubbornness that was so much a part of him, the idea penetrated his skull, becoming stronger and clearer all the while.

  The most powerful sorcerers defeated their enemies by destroying their aura. Anyone who succeeded in shredding or even completely removing their enemy’s aura was left facing a helpless idiot. Nobody knew whether someone who had lost their aura could ever regain magical powers. But such an attack was dangerous and foolhardy, for the stake was one’s own aura.

  Nill’s true gift was not his power; instead, he could see auras much more sharply, read them better than other arcanists. He wanted to open up his aura to the falundron. Madness. An attempt born of desperation.

  Nill re-established his connection to the swaying dragon. At the same time he inflated his aura until it reached the outer limits of the falundron’s. Gently, searchingly. No more than a shy first kiss. Nill hesitated. He did not want to be misunderstood. But the response came, and it forced him to his knees. The blow made him grab the pulsating wood of the door for support, and he felt with horror how the reality drifted away from him. All that remained was the urgent impatience of the falundron, and a feeling that was somehow connected to time. Everything was bathed in blazing flames. The falundron invaded his aura, a stab of pain shot through his head, followed by a flood of feelings and images. Nill understood the falundron.

  There were neither words nor clear thoughts. Instead, he saw scraps of pictures, fleeting impressions and, most of all, emotions. A rush, haste, an almost palpable urgency that seemed to pound to a monotonous rhythm. “Da da dam, da da dam, it is time, it is time, da da dam, not much time, da da dam, not much time, not far now, da da dam.”

  The stream of rhythm and fragmented words was endless. Or were they even words? The pounding hooves of a galloping horse? War drums? Da da dam, da da dam! No, they were words! Or not?

  And between the hammering blows, the breadth of the world. Glimpses from mountain peaks, all the way to the horizon. Gray water, broken up by clusters of reeds, angry mountains under a coat of ash, throwing rocks and fire into the sky, choking on their own breath. Nill saw earth, burnt by the sun, its crust hard as iron, where no sapling would ever grow. He saw green woods, fertile and good, with branches and twigs woven so densely as to shield them from the world outside. And, again and again, the feeling of haste and fire. The falundron pushed Nill away with a last, painful shove, and became as rigid as ever before. The door shook one last time. The chamber grew silent, and the magical seal wove itself anew. All was as it had always been.

  Nill’s legs gave out from under him. He fell to the floor, asleep.

  Much later, he awoke again and dragged himself to his own cave. It was unchanged: all it contained was a chest, a pile of quilts and furs that made up his bed, a table, a chair and a jug of water.

  “Fitting for a neophyte,” Nill thought, “and just as fitting for an Archmage of Nothing.”

  He had not chosen this place on a whim. His cave was one of many small ones that the legendary founders of Ringwall had carved int
o the mountain, where they had hidden from persecution during the black times. These days, they were far enough away from the lodgings of the other archmages, and deep beneath the surface.

  “I ought to rest and do something entirely different for a few days, but I’m running out of time.”

  Nill felt the urgency that drove him in a very real sense, and his unrest troubled him. He slowed his breathing, making it deeper and calmer, and attempted to block out the thoughts that danced around in his head like a group of angry apes in order to get some sleep. Unfortunately, in vain.

  The apes stayed and chased each other in circles. The falundron, the symbols, Perdis, the amulet, ancient magic, magic of nothing, magic of five elements, Other World, cosmos and thoughts, prophecy, truth (which truth?), fate and time, past, creation, magic of Nothing, ancient magic, magic of elements, Nothing, Nothing, Nill the Nothing, Nill, Nill, me, me, me. Nill punched himself in the head and the shock of pain interrupted the spider’s web of thoughts that sprawled through his mind. He coughed and gasped for air.

  “I’ve been down here too long. I have to leave the catacombs. The magic down here will kill me.” He leapt up and hurried to the entrance that separated the Hermits’ Caves from the rest of Ringwall. He knew where and how to tame the chaos in his mind, where he could refresh his energy. The Sanctuary. But in order to get there he would have to leave his quarters and cross Ringwall.

  “All the caution in the world won’t matter if I die down here anyway,” he muttered. He left the Hermit’s Caves and climbed the stairs that led to the entrance area of Ringwall. Down the corridor to his left lived Gnarlhand, Archmage of Earth. On the right side, behind the dining chambers and the kitchens, was the Metal lodge, where his old enemy Bar Helis had lived. Before him lay the path to the world outside Ringwall, to sunlight, to the sounds of wind and life. But that was not his goal.

  Nill’s path to the Sanctuary led him to the other side of the city, close to the Wood lodge. He stepped through a series of portals and soon found himself standing before the circle of the five magical symbols – the basalt column for Earth, the shimmering, composite crystal of Metal, the gurgling fountain for Water, the tree for Wood and the everlasting torch, representing Fire. His own element, Nothing, was in the center of these five, and all that hinted at its existence were pale colors, fuzzy outlines and a profound feeling of emptiness.