Читать книгу The Reign of Magic - Wolf Awert - Страница 6

In Metal World a foul-tempered sorcerer straightened his sumptuous but threadbare robe. The glory of days long past seemed a constant reminder in the small stone house where he resided with his son, his son’s wife and their son.

“You should be forging more weapons than tools,” he grumbled in the direction of the dimly glowing fire. “Magical weapons, armor and helmets.”

“Leave it, father. The war is over, and the people of the area need the tools more than they need weapons.”

“You fool!” The old man shook his fist. “The war never ends. And even if it subsides for a while, then it is just the precursor to another war. And if you were to use the gifts bestowed upon you, you would know what awaits us; alas, you care more to shut your senses to the outside world and entomb yourself away from the truth than to take your rightful place.”

The blacksmith was used to his father’s volatile temper and answered calmly: “Leave it be, father, I have enough tasks to see us through the winter. I will take care of our other worries once they actually exist.”

The old sorcerer snorted. “In spite of all his weaknesses, your son has more backbone than you. He is a true Chron-Lai. Fetch my grandson.”

But the grandson was more than a day’s march away from the stone house. He rushed through the dusk like a gray khanwolf, afraid of coming too late. His goal was somewhere between fire and wood. He avoided settlements and merchant roads and tried to regain some lost time with daring leaps down steep mountainsides. More than once he barely managed to escape the falling rubble he himself had set in motion with his foolhardy movements.

In the darkness he felt safe. The moon only illuminated the ridges and cliffs ever so slightly. He knew about this; but no hunter can catch running wild in the night. The boy welcomed the moonlight, and so he kept running towards the fire until the exhaustion forced him into a short, uneasy rest.

The Oas’ journey to Ringwall dragged on. Grimala lead the cavalcade and her many breaks decided their speed. Quiwill and Feirie, two of Tiriwi’s mothers, had joined their daughter on her journey and took the opportunity to refill their stocks of seeds, leaves and roots. A young Oa from the neighboring village was there to carry Grimala’s luggage, three more women were responsible for all the equipment that a traveling group needed in terms of food and shelter. Grimala had carefully planned everything, for the steppe that lay between Ringwall and their home forest gave little shelter and seemed dangerous to all Oas.

Tiriwi was the only one who did not need to bother with any of this. She had been chosen, and it was she who traveled by order of her people, and with their wishes. When had anything like this happened before? Her luggage, consisting of a small knapsack and a broad shoulder bag, was carried for her by others. She did not need to partake in setting up camp, nor did she have to help with the cooking. Her company sought to outdo each other with new ways to help Tiriwi, and in the end she had nothing to do herself.

But as comfortable as the journey was physically, the heavy burden of responsibility weighed down on her. Since their departure from the small hamlet Grimala had been constantly offering advice on how to behave in Ringwall, what she should ask for, what she must observe and especially how important her task was for the village and her entire people. And every day Grimala came up with more. As if that were not enough, Tiriwi’s mothers also bombarded her with well-meaning words – although the things they said had more to do with the daily routine of an unknown area than with the Mages of Ringwall and the fate of Pentamuria.

And so the small group crawled on tightly winding paths and later on wide roads, strewn with sand or rough stones, on to Ringwall. They learned that wanderers who did not dodge the fast carriages with lordly coats-of-arms quickly enough made painful acquaintance with the iron-bound wheels, dancing whips or bouncing rocks. The Oas learned to leave the road once they heard the distant calls of the coachmen and the snapping of their whips.

Grimala’s old age demanded frequent pauses and her impatience grew each time. “We must hurry. Ringwall is further than I had thought.”

Tiriwi inhaled deeply and summoned up all her courage. “I think I can make this last part of the journey by myself. It’ll look no different to that which we have already passed.”

Her words were met with objection, but even Grimala had to accept that time grew short and that it was not a good idea to attract so much attention as a traveling party. And so they let Tiriwi go in the end, but not without repeating all they had said numerous times on the way here.

Tiriwi’s fear of the unknown had been driven away by Grimala’s extensive worry on the long road to Ringwall, which had surrounded her like chains, pulled ever tighter. She took her small knapsack and her shoulder bag, embraced Grimala and her mothers and went on her way. Her step was bouncy, her breath deep and even and she would have quite liked to sing out loud. But she contented herself with a small melody that she hummed to herself. Ringwall could not be much worse than traveling with Grimala and her mothers.

*

For Nill and Dakh-Ozz-Han one day passed like the last. The dawn had barely made out the outlines of the trees and bushes against the gray sky, yet Dakh and Nill were already packing up their camp. The nightly cold that gnawed at their joints when they did not manage to find a small forest or a thicket to sleep in was countered by the first movements of the day. In the mornings they always made good progress. The noon-rest was long and took quite a part of the afternoon as well. They caught up with the sleep denied them by the short, cold nights. For Dakh, as Nill now amicably called him, would always keep walking until the last light of day had expired.

Very slowly, the world around them grew darker. The grass lost its yellow color, the small copses became forests, and before long the slender trees became thicker and mightier. Dakh stopped.

“The first proper trees. Not all that large yet, but at least their trunks are straight,” he muttered off-handedly. Nill gulped. Apart from the Mylantos he had never seen trees this tall. He thought of a thousand ways in which all that wood could be used.

“Trees are always something of a wonder for Earthlanders,” Dakh said with a smile. “But if a Woodhold person came here, they would be astonished at the wide open plains before them. We should rest here.”

Nill was surprised, for the sun was still close to its zenith and they could have easily managed a good stretch before their usual resting time. Dakh’s urgency seemed to have fallen off somewhat. They kindled a fire and the druid filled his cauldron with water, herbs and bits of dried meat, as he always did. Nill had taken his amulet out from under his shirt and was examining it pensively. The druid turned his head respectfully away, as though he did not want to disturb the communion between Nill and his amulet. Every now and then his gaze would flicker back to the pot in which the water bubbled merrily.

“This wooden disk is supposed to come from my parents. At least that’s what Esara told me. Apparently I was wearing it around my neck when the Ramsmen found me. Do you think that my parents knew of magic, like you do?”

Dakh grumbled uncomfortably. “Possibly.”

“Would you like to take a look at the amulet?” Nill asked, holding the disk out for the druid.

“If you ask it of me, Nill, I will take a look. Be warned: do not hand out an amulet without thought. Nobody can know what additional powers it grants you. These small advantages are often what determine whether you stay alive… or not.”

“Please,” Nill said simply and gave Dakh the amulet.

The druid held it up gingerly. “The main body of this amulet is made from a rokkanut’s shell.” His voice sounded flat, objective, and he took great care not to emphasize any single word. “This nut is not very common in Pentamuria, because the only place it grows is in the high mountains of Metal World. The nut’s shell is so hard and thick that it is very difficult to break.”

“But how is the seed supposed to bud if the shell is so hard?” In Nill’s inner eye a small bud appeared, trapped in an eternal jail. He felt pity for the poor seed.

“In nature, everything finds a way. The rokkanut’s blessings are the drill wasps. They use their stingers to drill tiny holes into the shell and then they lay their eggs in it. The eggs hatch into larva, and these speak to the shell and persuade it to open up. Nevertheless, it is a tough job to carve anything out of the shell. Whoever crafted your amulet must have quite some experience.”

The druid turned the disk so that the light shone on the surface at an angle. “The symbols on the amulet look like writing, but it is writing unlike any I have ever seen; I cannot read it. It is bursting with magical energy, I can feel it, but I cannot see any more than that. Whatever its uses are, you will have to find out for yourself.”

Lost in thought, the druid held the wooden disk in his hands. “But that is not all. The band that holds it is made up of eight threads, woven in a complex pattern. Every thread is made up of three strands. I see black and white strands. Each thread is either black or white. Three threads have two white strands and a black one. It is all very peculiar. Each thread is either black or white.”

The druid scratched his chin. “There is some sort of symbolism hidden away in this order, and I cannot see it, for the number eight is meaningless in magic. The magic world keeps the pentagram of five elements as its base: Metal, Water, Wood, Fire and Earth. Five is a magical number, for the mages in Ringwall as well. The mages also count three sphere-magics apart from the elements: the magics of the Other World, of Space and of Thought. That would be eight in all. But I have also heard that as of late they practice the magic of Nothing. But I know nothing of that. That would be nine in all. No, no, eight threads on a magical object – the reasoning eludes me.”

“And the band itself? Is it also from Metal World?” Nill’s entire body was tingling with excitement and he had difficulty sitting still. Although he was getting more questions than answers, he felt that the secret of his own origins was not as murky as he had up until now thought.

The druid nodded thoughtfully. “I can tell you more about the material used in the band than the band itself, yes. It is made from spider silk. In fact, it is from the webs of the nightstalker and the royal weaver. Both of them weave gigantic webs that are large enough to capture wild animals. Nightstalkers and royal weavers live somewhere between Water and Metal. They can be found in swamps and mountains. Their webs stick to everything they touch, and I cannot help but wonder how the secretion was removed from them. It takes a great deal of skill to craft usable strands out of those webs.” Dakh handed the amulet back to Nill. “Keep it well hidden. It is an extraordinary magical artifact. Until you find out how its magic works, do not show it to anyone.”

“But how am I to find that out if even you can’t?”

“You are the bearer of this amulet. It will speak to you someday.”

Nill asked the last question that burned inside him. “Do you think my parents were mages?”

The druid simply shrugged, and shortly afterwards his thoughts seemed somewhere else entirely.

After that night Nill’s sleep became so restless that even Dakh’s nightly rest was disturbed by it. Nill dreamed feverish dreams, the slivers of which he had already forgotten the next morning. Every morning it took longer for him to awaken properly. At first he thought it was the amulet or maybe the thoughts about his parents that robbed his sleep. But they were not thoughts that coursed through his mind; they were images and feelings, a chaos of soul and spirit.

Dakh began to worry about him, but he kept it concealed. “You are being tormented by either premonitions or memories,” the druid said. “But as long as you forget what you dreamed I cannot help you. Perhaps something in your past is causing these dreams, these memories.”

Nill told Dakh about the encounter with the demon. “That mess of dream and reality is the strongest memory I have. Esara told me something about a mid-realm, but I didn’t understand what she meant. It’s something between this world and the Other World.”

Dakh sighed. “We will take a small detour. I know someone who might be able to help you.”

They moved towards the morning sun. The loneliness of the landscape had passed. Again and again they came across single huts or small houses that Dakh evasively led them around. Before long the huts were replaced by large farm houses, and the very next day they saw their first village from afar. The villages now either stood visibly on the hilltops, from which one had a good vantage point to see the lands all around, or they hid near springs where the water flowed clear and fresh. Nill was looking forward to some human interaction and a soft, warm bed after days in the wilderness, but Dakh avoided the settlements, too.

“We need to go there,” Dakh-Ozz-Han said, pointing towards a dark spot in the middle of all the green. Nill squinted at it and could make out a few leather-bound poles offering some shelter from the weather in front of an earthen cave.

“Someone actually lives there?” Nill asked skeptically. He was used to Spartan conditions, but this was not even a tent, let alone a hut.

“He does not ask for much and lives alone. He has been there for many years.”

“Who?”

“His name is Urumir and he claims to be a shaman.”

“Is he?”

“You can be the judge of that.”

Nill’s curiosity was kindled. All he knew about shaman came from a few sentences Dakh had dropped on him during their journey. Nill had been satisfied with knowing that shaman knew magic and could travel from this world to the Other World. He quickened his pace instinctively and his heart beat noticeably faster in his chest.

Nill wondered what powers a shaman might have, and he felt strangely torn between his fear of an unknown might and the desire to bear witness to it.

They reached the strange home and Dakh sat down on a stone quite naturally. Nill looked around, somewhat helplessly, and sat down on the earth. After a few moments of silence he asked: “Will we wait long before the shaman comes? Is he here or are we waiting for him?”

“He is here. Can you not feel him? We are waiting for him, yes, but to welcome us.”

Nill let his senses wander around the place and his eyes came to rest on the leather straps holding the poles to the stone wall.

“Well, if it isn’t Dakh, the eternal estray.”

Dakh-Ozz-Han stood up, turned around and very carefully embraced the strange figure, whose clothing of fur and leather was barely visible under the mass of dancing feathers, bones, teeth and claws.

“You have a bothersome idea of eternity, little Urumir. But I am happy to see you. Alas, I cannot greet you properly for fear of breaking one of your sacred quills.”

“And I thought your care was for my old bones.” Urumir laughed. “Now you won’t believe me, but I don’t know to this day whether the trinkets I carry are actually magical, or if I’m still just covered in them because my master told me to all those years ago.”

“You’re right: I don’t believe you.” Now the druid was laughing too. “If you cannot see the value of an item, who can?”

Nill stood next to the two old friends and felt strangely excluded. “Little Urumir” was at least a head and a half taller than the druid and looked ancient compared to Dakh. Urumir’s face was a labyrinth of leathery wrinkles strapped carelessly over a skeletal skull. Despite his great height his body was bent almost double, and Urumir could not walk more than a few steps without the aid of his staff. He had to be incredibly old.

“But you are not alone, my old friend, how unusual.”

“We live in unusual times, little Urumir. The boy here next to me is named Nill and is going to Ringwall to learn the magics.”

The shaman gave Nill a searching look. “So, then, Nill. A strange name. Not a name to be forgotten quickly and not a name to be chosen easily. Perhaps the name chose the bearer for itself? You have a turbulent time coming your way.” The shaman gave a bleating laugh. “Well, whatever the circumstances of your name, be welcome in my home.” Urumir turned back to Dakh. “I saw you coming yesterday. The food is nearly done. Sit by the fire if you would.”

Nill did not understand and scratched his head. The sound of it disturbed the silent interludes between the men’s sentences. Nill felt slightly embarrassed, but the old men seemed to have a different sense of hearing to him.

Where had the shaman been if he had really seen them coming more than a day ago? Nill was certain that he had arrived after they had been here. He could not have been waiting in his cave. Nill sighed quietly. He doubted he would ever understand the ways of magic and its wielders.

Around the fire, which was situated on a flat piece of the hill, lay a few chopped-up tree trunks that served as benches quite well. The shaman gave each of them a wooden bowl full of thick, creamy soup. They ate in silence. Like all men of nature they were not of many words, and tasty food was always worth their full attention.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity to Nill, putting his patience to the test, Dakh laid down his bowl. “Warming and filling. We need the strength, because the near future will be rough.”

The shaman nodded in silent agreement. “The world is restless. Something is coming, and nobody knows what it is.”

“Which world do you mean, old friend?” Dakh asked the shaman.

He gave another short, bleating laugh. “Both, Great druid. Both.”

Nill felt a shiver run down his spine. That had not been a humorous laugh and the “Great druid” had not been a joke, either.

“Urumir, we have come to you because Nill has been dreaming unhealthy dreams. And also because something is happening around him that I cannot understand. Perhaps we will be lucky and you can see something in the past or the future.”

“Can shaman see the future?” Nill asked.

“Yes and no, my young friend. We belong to the riders of time. But we tend to get lost in it. We never know when and rarely where we are. It’s a pointless gift. Who could possibly want to know their future?”

“Me,” Nill burst out, and both men laughed. Nill frowned. He did not like being laughed at.

“Shaman visit the Other World, the world of shadows, of the dead, of spirits. They have access to a magic that has something to do with the very making of the world, something we druids know nothing of,” said Dakh. “I hope he can help us.”

Nill was only half listening. He was burning to know whether Urumir was really that much older than Dakh, or whether the magic of the shaman was so powerful that it took their vitality. He had just concluded that he never wanted to become a shaman when Urumir’s body suddenly became translucent. Nill could see inside him, where a strong heart was pushing the blood through the veins with a calm beat. The midriff, with all the organs and intestines Nill knew from freshly slaughtered rams, was surrounded by a golden aura and even the bony, leathery feet seemed somehow more dignified. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the vision passed.

“What was that?” Nill choked, appalled. Seeing inside other people’s bodies seemed even more shameful than witnessing someone relieving themselves. The vicious intimacy of the moment took Nill’s breath away, and he would have liked to cover his eyes.

“What did you see?” Urumir asked, and Dakh shot Nill a questioning glance.

Nill began to stutter under their powerful gaze, swallowed and steeled himself. “I saw inside of you,” Nill said, “but it was…”

“It would take the aid of a demon to look inside a shaman; magic alone won’t do the trick.”

Urumir sounded detached, rather as though he were pointing out that rocks were hard and feathers soft. But Nill flinched. The encounter with Bucyngaphos had shaken him too deeply for him not to shiver at the mere mention of a demon. He quietly said: “I fear demons more than anything,” and suddenly fell silent. The men looked at each other.

“So you’ve already met a demon,” Urumir stated. “Tell me what he looked like.”

“I even know his name,” Nill whispered. “Esara told me.”

But before Nill could speak the terrible name, the shaman leapt to his feet and stretched out his hand in a defensive gesture. His feathers wafted air in Nill’s face. “Is he with you?”

Nill stared blankly, not understanding. Then he looked up. At the perimeter of the fire’s light two large, slanted, bright yellow eyes blinked.

He laughed. “Yes, that is my ram. After a bit of a struggle at first we took care of the herd together. Now his herd is gone, the owner sold them. He must have followed us all this time.”

“What is his name?”

Nill shrugged. He had never bothered to give the animal a name.

“Send him away,” the shaman said, agitated. “I don’t trust the beast, and I don’t want him anywhere near me when we’re talking about demons, and especially when we enter the Other World.”

“Why not?” Nill asked in confusion.

“That is no ordinary animal that followed you, and I don’t want to risk disorder in the worlds.” The shaman had suddenly become very serious.

“The demons have helpers in this world, helpers we should avoid. And they are strong enough to control us humans. Arcanists can call upon them. Archmages can summon, but not control them. The strongest demons a mage can summon are the demons of pure emotion. There are six of them. Odioras is the Demon of Cold Hate, Irasemion is the name of the Demon of Wild Rage, and Avarangan is the Lord of Blind Greed. Despras is the Master of Desperate Fear, and Exmediant the Two-Faced stands over exuberant happiness and deepest sadness. I’m not completely sure whether he might really be a gemini-demon, though.”

“That’s only five, though. Unless you counted Exmediant for two?”

“The sixth and last demon is little-known. His name is Subturil and he is the Demon of Pride.”

Nill was not certain whether he had heard correctly. “Pride?” he asked.

“Yes, pride – or arrogance. The tales say that no mortal can escape these demons when confronted by them. They are described in our legends. Many of the old heroes fought against them, but all of them failed. Each in their way – some went out in great battle, some sad and pathetic.”

“And you can talk to them?”

“Yes, I can, although I never have. You must know that the six great demons are the demons of the ancient time, when emotions were still pure and powerful. These days people still battle their emotions, but their enemies are of a less threatening nature. No, the time of the great demons is over. And those six are not even the mightiest of all. Above them still stand the Archdemons. The Griffin-Legged, the Goat-Legged and Serp the Mighty, who takes the form of a snake. Whoever goes to the Other World should take great care that no birds of prey, no rams and no snakes are near. For demons are cunning, clever and capricious in the human world.”

“Do not worry. I will make sure that the ram does not approach the fire,” the druid said.

Urumir seemed to calm down at these words, for the ram had disappeared. “Now then. Name your demon, Nill,” he said.

“Esara called him Bucyngaphos.”

It looked as though all life had been drained from Urumir. He collapsed, held up by the bones and quills on his clothing, but then fell backwards off the trunk. Nill saw two filthy feet follow. Dakh’s face had lost all color. Nill could not tell what scared him more. How could simply giving a name make two such powerful men helpless, like a hedgehog flipped on its back? The thought of leaping up, running away and leaving behind everything that had to do with the Other World and its demons shot through his head. But it passed before he could act upon the impulse, and in spite of all his fear he could not tear himself away. He felt pulled towards the Other World like a moth to a light. Accessible, he thought.

Dakh regained composure first and helped the shaman back up.

“Is that possible?” he asked Urumir. “And if it is – what does it mean?”

“If what Nill says is true, the Other World is looking for him. And if Bucyngaphos is after him, he will be found. In this world or in his world. And because Nill can’t escape him, he must meet him head on. Are you ready, Nill?”

Nill was not, but he nodded all the same.

“Then we shall go through the flame.”

Nill did not understand what he meant, for the shaman was still sitting.

“Look into the fire, I will help you.”

Wild images flitted past. Nill saw the primal fire igniting, raging, shrinking to earthen fire and falling apart, the sparks growing ever smaller. Now there stood only a torch in the darkness. Nill saw things burned in the fire, he saw mages conjure flames from nothing, saw the calm, silent blaze of molten rock and bursting flames. He saw fire by the river and in the mountains, fire underneath ice and in his mother’s oven.

He felt dizzy. He was standing in the fire, felt its heat and heard its roar, saw the heat waves in the air and heard the cracking of wood and stone. In the middle of the inferno he saw a black spot that slowly grew, taking on a human form.

“Come,” the spot said, “follow me.”

Nill stepped hesitantly forwards and passed through the flames. In front of him was naught but an enormous darkness.

“It takes some time for the eyes to get used to the darkness when you enter the Other World through the fire.” The shaman’s calm voice was clearly audible. The blackness all around began to feel less absolute, the shadows started taking shape. At first they were washed-out and formless, but they slowly began to resemble bodies. Nill could make out faces and differentiate between armor and robes, rags and noble dress. The people in front of him moved at a steady pace or hovered above the ground. There was no rest anywhere, everything was moving.

“I wouldn’t have thought this place to be so busy,” he murmured in wonder.

“It isn’t. It just seems like it because we’re in the demons’ world now. Time and space as we know it have no greater part to play here, they are not constant. If you move towards one of these figures you’ll see that there are great spaces between them. There are not many humans in the Other World.”

“Is this not the place where all dead people go?”

“No, only the people we remember. Our grandparents and parents, our brothers, sisters, sons and daughters. And the people of old, of legend: powerful kings and mages whose stories have been told for generations. Why do you think rulers have their deeds chronicled, why do we build statues and memorials? As long as a person remembers you, you will stay in the Other World.”

“And if I’m forgotten?”

“Then you will go back to the void whence you came.”

“So as long as I’m here I can speak to my fellow people, even if I’m long dead.”

“If someone is there to call upon you, yes. That is why people come to us shaman. We possess the magic of communing with the spirits of the dead. We are the mediators.”

“Do spirits like being called upon?” Nill asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean maybe the spirits would rather go back into the void than waiting around here for someone to finally call them.”

The shaman shook his head. “The spirits do not feel any longer. The time they spend here does not exist for them.”

Nill went on through the shadows. It looked as though they were dodging out of his way, but maybe they were not there at all. Occasionally he saw someone in a regal gown or in mighty armor with bloodstained weapons, but most of them were like the villagers he had known: farmers, hunters, shepherds and craftsmen.

Between the dead, small things that Nill could not quite make out hopped around. When he came closer they retreated quickly. Nill followed them and the amount of spirits lessened. It was not easy to see anything. Some of the creatures had small, red dots for eyes. Nill looked over his shoulder and realized with a shock that he had lost Urumir.

“Urumir, where are you?” Nill cried out silently into the flowing nothingness all around him. His guide had left him in the Other World. He was gone. Everything seemed to fall apart. Nill’s eyes found the only solid point he could find in all the confusion: a pair of slanted, yellow eyes.

“You, here?” Nill breathed. He had never thought he would greet his old ram with such relief and happiness. “It seems you want to follow me everywhere. How did you get past Dakh-Ozz-Han?”

But the eyes stayed sill in the darkness and did not move. Nill stepped towards them. The eyes recoiled from him.

“We’re all alone here, so come to me,” Nill implored and began to doubt whether the eyes really were his ram’s. His happiness was suddenly gone and fear began to replace it. Nill took a step back and the eyes followed. Nill could not make out what creature belonged to those eyes. He walked to the side, backwards and forwards. The eyes mirrored his every move as in a silent dance. Nill squatted down and the eyes rose up. He leapt and the eyes dropped to the ground without losing a trace of their intense gaze. He spun around and the eyes were gone. Nill was afraid that this was all just a game, the rules to which he did not know, something which reality could burst out of at any second.

How do shaman find their way in the Other World if there’s nothing to hang on to? he wondered. At this point he had even begun to doubt whether the floor he was standing on was really there, for the shadows around him sank through it into the depths or rose up into the sky, as though there were no actual boundaries whatsoever. It seemed the ground was only where he chose to stand. Nill jumped up, expecting to sink with the other descending shadows, but he landed on his feet again. His jump was feeble too, not more than a small hop. “I’ll never get out of here. Urumir, was it you who lost me?”

Nill heard the feebleness in his voice and as always he hated himself for it. But the thing that had seen him through all the humiliation and hardship in his village, the small flame of resistance, was not so easily extinguished. A hero may be desperate, but even that must have an end, he thought.

He sat down on the ground, closed his eyes, forgot the shadows and blocked off the whirling commotion that surrounded him. In place of movement something else happened. Nill felt wide awake, equipped with magnified senses. He saw and heard everything, even if around him there was only darkness and silence. The slanted eyes had disappeared, Urumir was nowhere to be seen, but Nill no longer felt alone.

Out of the corner of his eye, the very perimeter of his vision, he saw murky blotches tumble about and dissolve when he turned his attention toward them. So he let them be. They combined and took shape. He looked upon a throne. Four feet of a high chair were anchored to the ground, held in place by an executioner’s blade. In front of the sharp steel there were two mighty talons digging into the ground. The talons grew before his eyes, grew endlessly until he could only see spots and cracks in the ancient leathery claws. He saw congealed blood and clumps of mud.

Nill had to tear away his gaze with force. He stared up, higher and higher, and did not so much see as sense the face up there, a face he recognized. Bucyngaphos, the Archdemon. A sudden gust of wind blew through the area as the demon lord stood up and shook out his small, thick wings. The wind dragged Nill up from the floor and pulled him through the air. Bucyngaphos extended one of his scythe-like claws, impaled Nill’s cassock and lifted him up to his face. Nill flailed a bit with his legs before becoming still.

“It was time for you to come to us.”

The voice reverberated deeply. It filled the space and Nill’s head completely; there was nothing left apart from it. Here, in the Other World, Nill could understand the demon.

“Why?” It was the only question that managed to break through the wall of terror that had enclosed his mind.

A deep, booming rumble sounded in the distance, came closer and crashed down on Nill. Was the demon actually laughing?

“Listen, little nothing. Go out in your world, become strong and powerful. And once you have become strong and powerful, you will learn that there is still one stronger and more powerful than you. And then you will go and defeat him, and you will learn that nothing has changed. Only now another is above you again. Your short life is not enough to fight everyone who wants to control your life. And even if you should succeed in the impossible, you would still be so far beneath me that I could barely see you.”

Nill shrank beneath the Archdemon’s speech and for the first time truly understood what it meant to be a Nill.

“Your short life is not enough to understand that the lords have lords, and even they must serve others. Like all others, I am commander and servant in one. And in the end even the mightiest must bow down before fate and time, and even then they do not know whether fate and time might not be two faces of the same being. And fate is not free either. ‘Why?’ you ask. We are both here because our fates are entwined. One tiny moment for me is your entire life.”

The demon looked at Nill for a long time, and Nill felt as though he were sinking into those circular black eyes. “The first time you were the one who called me,” the voice rang, “and I wanted to take you with me. But you were not ready yet. Now you come to me and you found me in my own world. The fewest mortals succeed at doing so. And you of all people want to know what I want of you?”

Yes, the demon was unmistakably laughing. He was shaking with mirth, and Nill’s ears were filled with the roaring, booming din. The laugh itself was flat and dull and did not reach Nill through his ears, which were vehemently, but in vain, protesting against the attack. It shook his entire body, bent his spine and knocked his teeth together. The claim that laughter is contagious came from someone who had never heard a demon laugh in his home world.

Nill could do nothing against the voice that filled his head. It was so monumental that it took up all space and made independent thought impossible. His feet were moving without his consent and were putting some distance between their owner and the throne. He managed to look back one last time. The further he went away from Bucyngaphos, the larger the Archdemon became, and Nill felt a power completely unlike anything he had experienced before.

“I fought that one with my dagger.” Nill had to laugh as he realized this folly. The shape of the Archdemon was now surrounded by a wreath of colorless light and dust. But even at this distance Nill could not bear the sight for long. The image broke before his eyes. Talons and claws, tusks and horns, eyes and jagged tail whirled around in chaos. The floor he stood on began to move and ascend. Nill stared at it as it came ever closer, finally smacking him in the forehead. “Dakh!” he yelled. Then the heightened senses left him again.

When he came to he felt a pair of strong hands beating his clothes.

“The next time you go to the Other World, sit a bit further from the fire. And if you want to sit so close, take care not to fall over. A few hairs might be singed, your clothing has a few burn marks, but you seem to be unharmed,” Dakh grumbled over him.

Nill rubbed his face, the skin of which burned a bit in a few places. “What happened?”

Urumir sat still by the fire and said nothing.

“What happened and where were you all this time?”

“I was standing next to you but you didn’t see me. Even I have no idea what happened. No shamanic wisdom would be enough to explain that. You encountered a powerful demon. I felt his presence, but you’ll know about that better than I. The two of you changed the Other World in order to meet. How that happened is also beyond of my knowledge. How am I supposed to know what happened? I don’t know anyone but you who has ever even seen an Archdemon, let alone talked to one. What happened today puts you on the same level as the old ones of legend. Nill, tell me: who, or rather what, are you?”

Nill rubbed his arms, which were cold despite the fire and had begun to turn blue. “I’m someone who wants to learn how that can never happen again. I was scared, so scared. I’ve never been so afraid in my entire life. I felt helpless. There must be something to protect me from that sort of thing. And the demon I met was sitting on a throne, he had great talons, short wings and a boar’s head.”

“Bucyngaphos.” The druid and the shaman whispered the name and listened to the sound of it until Urumir said: “Every mortal is helpless against an Archdemon. Even the strongest mages in Ringwall can do no more than give orders to their servants when summoned. So do not mention what happened here to them. They would fear you. And they destroy all that they fear. Now where is that accursed ram gone?”

“Disappeared,” Dakh said. “Vanished into the darkness. It was nowhere near the fire, though. You can be sure of that, Urumir.”

Nill heard what Dakh said and looked doubtfully into the flames.

Ringwall

The loneliness was at an end. Paths turned into lanes, lanes turned into streets. Lonesome farmhouses came closer to each other, merged to form hamlets, then villages, until finally houses stood in rows and towns were formed. Dakh and Nill had reached Rainhir, the capital of the five kingdoms. It spread like frayed cloth around a round mountain which stood out sharply against the dark blue sky. Nill was at first impressed by the hustle and bustle, the noise and the many houses and small streets, but then realized that it was really quite like his own village, just more hectic.

“So a city is basically just a big village,” Nill said, disillusioned.

“Rainhir is a big village, yes. It really only exists to supply Ringwall with all the things it needs. Mages need to eat and be clothed too. Mages need plants, metals and certain types of wood. This is a place of haggling, dealing and trading. This is not Ringwall.”

The sky had grown dark, almost black, but now flickered a few times and suddenly shone in blinding white light. It began to rain for a few heartbeats and stopped again. The sun burned down upon them in the short breaks from the rain and gave the air an uncomfortable humidity. The druid deemed that a great battle had been fought a few days ago. It always took some time for nature to get back to normal.

Dakh-Ozz-Han’s steps grew longer. Nill knew his companion well enough by now to know that restlessness had taken hold of him, invisible beneath the calm exterior. They crossed the city and stood before the sheer rock of the mountain. High up above, just below the peak a strong wall encircled the mountain. If Rainhir was the necklace, then this wall was the crown.

“What a city that must be if the walls enclose the entire mountain!” Nill exclaimed.

“The walls are, in fact, the city,” Dakh smiled. “They are two stories tall and the mountain is full of carved tunnels and vaults. Nobody knows how far down they go.”

This Ringwall had to be humongous. From a distance it looked like a thin braid on a giant’s head. That head just happened to be the legendary Knor-il-Ank, a mountain with a round peak, deep ravines in its roots and the large ruins of collapsed caves. Even though its peak could be reached in less than a quarter day, the mountain exuded power.

“The deepest roots of the mountain dig deep into the core of the world, and some say they even reach beyond this realm,” Dakh whispered.

The thin crown appeared to be dancing, though Nill knew that to be impossible. Here and there parts of the wall were swallowed by a mystical mist. Other parts of it broke through the fog and jutted out with hard angles against the mountain. Nill could not see where the entrance to the city was, but Dakh was already walking a winding path upwards. The wall’s height was not always even, and so the top of it looked ever more threatening the higher they went and the darker the sky became. Like fangs, Nill thought. The zigzag line was broken at one point. Where the wall would meet the rising sun the next morning a dome was built on the wall, like the nest of a swift cloud-arrow. Above it the view to the stars, below it the thin air of a free fall and all around it the free, endless far sight. Nill gaped, amazed.

But the wondrous construction that so gripped the boy was a source of discomfort to the druid, one he could not quite grasp. He gave himself a shake as if to shake off his foreboding thoughts and wondered whether his decision to bring Nill here had been the right one. Perhaps, though, it was just the concentrated magical energy below a small dome that caused his unease. For there, at this moment, the High Council held a meeting, led by the Magon.

Gwynmasidon, the Magon and spiritual leader of the archmages, sat at the top end of a long oval table made of smooth, gray onyx. Rust-red scars dug into the rock, looking more like dried blood than aged iron, yellow sulfurous lines criss-crossed over it. Above all, green shades billowed over the surface and gave the stone an irregular life.

Across from the Magon sat the five archmages of the elements: Ilfhorn, the young one who watched over Wood, Nosterlohe and Gnarlhand, keepers of Fire and Earth, Bar Helis, commander of Metal and finally Queshalla. Queshalla was the only woman at the oval and after the Magon the oldest member of the High Council. She presided over Water.

On the Magon’s left and right sides, respectively, sat Keij-Joss, the star-reader, and Mah Bu, who was reputed to always be in the Other World with a part of his being. Keij-Joss and Mah Bu were war-names, honorific titles, in recognition of extraordinary deeds. Some believed war-names were purely coincidental, chosen on a whim – a sentiment shared throughout the halls and corridors of Ringwall and by the common folk in the five kingdoms of Pentamuria. But in the world of magic things do not often happen purely by coincidence. A mage whose real name had become too trivial for anyone to use it any longer had reached the highest rank of recognition. The only thing left for such a person was the title of Magon.

In the middle of the table, between Keij-Joss and Queshalla, Ambrosimas resided – Archmage of Thought and third master of the spheres. Whispers behind his back called him simply “the word.” If addressed directly, however, it was always respectfully, with his proper name. Ambrosimas was one of the perpetual mysteries of Ringwall. Of stately corpulence and with a constant smile playing around his mouth, he was as suited to playing the fool as he was to being part of the council. His wit was scathing and his advice was profound. But as so often with high mages, appearance concealed truth; his smile seldom reached his eyes.

Across the table from Ambrosimas there was a stool wedged between Mah Bu and Bar Helis. The stool belonged to the Archmage of Nothing, the incomprehensible and mysterious magic that had not had a place in Ringwall for long. Nobody knew where the magic came from or who had welcomed it here. The space between Bar Helis and Mah Bu had always been slightly larger than between the other mages, and it had grown larger the stronger the Nothingness became. One day the Circle of the Council had broken at this precise place and the Magon had ordered that the magic of Nothing be accepted into the council to fill the gap. The plain shape of the stool – a round surface and three thin legs – was a general sign of disapproval. But what had originally been designed as a sign of disregard now contrasted with the ornamental chairs of the others and served as a constant reminder to keep focused on the origin of magic.

As the Magon’s gaze wandered along the oval, the Onyx awakened. Pale lights erupted from the center, ricocheting off the edges and burning out in sizzling sparks, or else simply extinguishing before the throne of Nothingness. The stone slab had begun to absorb the magical fumes in the room and release them again.

Gwynmasidon looked around at the Circle, and the longer he stayed silent the more his presence filled the room. When he finally spoke, his whisper reached every crevice.

“We have Keij-Joss’ sharp senses to thank that we know of the changes coming to Pentamuria this early. But the glimpse into the future is denied us – a glimpse we know from legends we once had.”

Nobody who laid eyes upon Gwynmasidon would have guessed that he was the spiritual leader of the Mages of Ringwall. He was of medium height, and his muscular build, not entirely covered by his luxurious robe, and stocky neck told of more than just strength of mind. His hands, which he kept motionless and slightly curled on the table, were callused like those of a fisherman or a farmer. They seemed not to fit with the golden robe which he wore with the same serenity as the pressing burden of his title.

His face was angular, as though it had been hewn from rock. The nose stuck out from under a broad brow, casting a shadow on his mouth that nobody had ever seen crack into a laugh. He seemed like a wild beast in a king’s clothes but for his eyes. They stared with a strangely broken, empty gaze, like a dying person before they pass through the great gate. Some of the archmages considered the Magon too old. But who knows of the images only the Magon sees, who knows the burden he must bear; of what importance are eyes to someone directly bound to the magical world? Only those brave enough and close enough to him to look into his face took with them a gaze into nowhere, where magical forces collided, fused and dissolved again in a silent storm.

“We know that a Magon can find a way into the future, and we know that you can do the same. But the cost,” Nosterlohe interjected, sending dark red clouds across the onyx surface that died down in the middle.

“It is not the price of knowledge that has stopped me from taking that step thus far, Nosterlohe. But what use is a glimpse into the future if we do not know what we are looking for? The future contains not only what will be, but all that can be.

“Change has always happened, none can escape it. But never has change meant the downfall of a familiar world. On the other hand, the Circle of mages is the first example in Ringwall’s history of a force that can make its own destiny. Fate itself chose for this to happen, made our Circle ever stronger and gave us the Onyx around which we hold council. And so we may well ask whether the foretold change is unavoidable, and if it is, which role Ringwall will play in it.

“I see a war with many battles. But I do not see an enemy. For five winters our sorcerers wandered Pentamuria, they spoke with the sages of this world, with the arcanists of the five kingdoms, the shaman who look for answers in the Other World, with the eldest druids and the wise women of the Oas. We have collected the tales of the founding of Ringwall and we have found ancient prophecies. We heard the legends of the encounters of men with gods and demons, myths of old Earthen powers and Air spirits. Not all of those we sent have returned, and we still know too little. The knowledge of the future lies in the knowledge of the past. But the past, too, is uncertain and vague.”

The Magon frowned, causing black clouds to appear above his brow, and the Onyx became even darker.

“Stories for children and old women seem to be all we have left of the old wisdom. As though the wisdom of our forebears had wilted away to become part of common gossip, lullabies for children and songs of praise for unnamed heroes. And so one single legend remains, for which we have to thank our brother Ambrosimas, who picked it up from the anglers in Waterworld. It is the song of the man from the mists. If this legend still holds even a shred of truth, then a time of change is coming, led and executed by a single man. A single man, alone, with no ancestry and no history, is to make Pentamuria and all those who live in this world reel as the mightiest storm could not. I call this man the Changer, the bringer of alteration. We must know what the other peoples of Pentamuria know about this person. This, and only this, is what caused us to open the gates of Ringwall last winter.”

“A choice that has doomed us all,” a cold voice rang out. Bar Helis had risen up. If the element of Metal had not existed, nature would have created it anyway just for this mage. He combined Ilfhorn’s resilient strength with the Magon’s inflexible toughness. His face was smooth and had a matte sheen to it. The long nose was curved downwards, the eyes almost hidden under heavy lids, and the corners of his mouth accompanied the points of his thin beard downwards. If there was something Bar Helis despised, it was weakness, and he saw weakness in everything. His magic, the magic of Metal, was very simple. It was of great, piercing power, and he never had to perform a second summon.

A pale blue wave was emitted from his seat. His resentment was so strong that for a moment all lights and sparks on the Onyx were overrun by it.

“There will be a battle, but I do not fear it. The successful general chooses the time and place of his victories. The place is Ringwall, the center of the world and the spring of our power. And as for time, it will have to leave its hiding place before long. We will recognize it with ease as long as the enemy is outside of our walls. With our powers combined we can resist all change and even deny fate. We must only be prepared. But if we break all rules and traditions that have protected us thus far, blind and deaf to the consequences of our actions, we will set change in motion ourselves. We will become our own enemy. In the end we will fight amongst ourselves. Mark my words; remember them when the time has come.”

Silence spread through the room. Nosterlohe and Gnarlhand sat still as two rocks at the table and even Ilfhorn had lost his ease. The Onyx was almost black now, only in front of the stool of Nothing was it still unchanged and gray.

“Well,” a quiet voice emerged. “The enemy must enter Ringwall by the gate to defeat us. If it does so in the shape of a student of nobility, not all of our traditions will save us, and it will be in our midst, unseen. If Ringwall’s gates are opened, it may dare enter as a stranger, as a guest or as a magical presence. We would see it for what it is in that case.”

Mah Bu, the Archmage of the Other World, was an unimposing man with a dry, passionless voice who lay rather than sat on his chair. His long, outstretched right leg scuffed along the floor with its ankle, as though he wanted to make sure he was actually in this world. His voice was always quiet and he never raised it, nor did the pitch ever change when he spoke – if he even spoke, that is. He looked at Bar Helis as though he intended to add something, opened his mouth but decided against it. He shook his head begrudgingly.

The Onyx remained unchanged, dark. Mah Bu’s thoughts had not reached it.

Dakh gave Nill a light push and said in a bright voice quite at odds with his serious expression: “Come, we do not want to spend the night out here.”

Nill did not notice Dakh’s wariness. He stood, enthralled, before the unfamiliar building, the sheer size of which outclassed anything he had ever imagined back home in Earthland. It was less the height of the wall that kept his attention so raptly than the blocks it was made of. From Earthland Nill only knew the flat bricks made of mud and straw, baked in the fire, and the strange light stones from the quarry that the villagers had brought to build the well. The stones of Ringwall were dark and smooth, as wide as he was tall and as tall as a ram. No man except a sorcerer could have moved these blocks.

The gate itself was decorated with magnificent carvings of defensive spells and strange symbols, and had neither guards nor bolts. To Nill it seemed like a special display of strength, confidence or recklessness on Ringwall’s behalf that the gate was half open. It opened to the outside, which made it look as though the left part of it was beckoning visitors inside. If locked it would probably be difficult to break open, even with a heavy battering ram. In the right part a small door was built into it that opened to the inside, easy to defend and as a preventative measure to make sure the residents of Ringwall could not be trapped inside the city by attackers. Nill admired the construction, although he knew that the war times had long since passed Ringwall. These days, apparently, no threat was felt, and the right part of the gate stood comfortably in the evening sun.

The gate separated the bleak path leading up the Knor-il-Ank from the equally dismal footpath connecting the walls of the inner and outer circles. It’ll be completely muddied up here in winter, Nill thought.

The look Dakh-Ozz-Han was giving the half-opened gate was anything but sympathetic. “A gate that welcomes its newcomers should show it, too,” he muttered to himself, frowning. “And not just stand open a tiny, treacherous bit. I see no guards and nobody to report our arrival. I have seen worse traps than this half-opened wooden beast’s jaw.”

The druid closed his eyes and allowed his other senses to take over. Ringwall’s walls breathed magic, the gate was enchanted with numerous protective spells, and the footpath smelled of countless bearers of magic who had trodden it. It was all as the druid had expected. Apart from that he found nothing to give weight to his mistrust, but nothing, either, to make him let down his guard.

“Wait,” he said, as Nill attempted to wriggle through the open crack in the gate. He struck the wood with his staff and it opened wide with a deafening sound, allowing a better inspection of the space between the outer and the inner wall.

“Now we may enter, and you can be certain that everyone knows now that we have arrived. It is good manners to knock when entering a room or building that is not one’s own.”

Ambrosimas hummed contentedly and gave an apologetic smile as he lifted his mass. Nothing about his movements was reminiscent of the elegance that surrounded Bar Helis. Ambrosimas required the aid of his mighty arms as he stemmed his weight against the table. His chair slid backwards noisily and the Onyx sent sparks in all directions in protest. Ambrosimas’ dulcet voice was quite at odds with his cloddish shape: he was not only an Archmage, but also a singer of ability unparalleled in Pentamuria.

“One or two of you may have wondered why, in the time between the last two winters, I barricaded myself in my quarters and barely appeared at the meetings of our council. Well, I had left Ringwall and was wandering in the guise of a traveling sorcerer around Pentamuria. I can tell you that I have rarely undertaken such a momentous effort and that I was nearly starved to the bone.” Ambrosimas patted his enormous belly, but the airiness in his words went to waste. The Onyx exploded in cascades of light, flying in all directions. Time itself stood still in light of the pause Ambrosias had thrown into his speech. Breath froze in the air, hearts forgot to beat and the magical power of the archmages sitting at the table retreated, for a moment, into the deepest depths. The Magon alone seemed untroubled. Suddenly, the spell was broken and muttering broke out, as if to regain the moments lost. Bar Helis, Gnarlhand and Nosterlohe gave each other disparaging glances. Queshalla and Ilfhorn seemed not to know what to do, and even Mah Bu shifted in his seat. It was more than unusual for an Archmage to leave Ringwall. There were plenty of magical ways and possibilities to travel, and it was not necessary to endanger one’s body doing so. If a person was accepted into Ringwall, they did not leave at their own decision. In rare cases the Magon sent out one of the mages as a sort of trial, and every mage hoped never to be picked for one of these tasks in their entire life.

But Ambrosimas was beaming. He enjoyed the moment and absorbed the attention like sunlight, like a butterfly in the sunshine after the rain. Bar Helis and Gnarlhand, who deeply disapproved of Ambrosias’ peculiar ideas and general fooling about, looked expectantly towards the Magon, hoping for him to be reprimanded. Nosterlohe’s gaze was fixed on Ambrosias. His fists opened and closed again, the only actors in the play of his inner struggle. Nosterlohe was angry, for in Ambrosias’ folly he saw only irresponsibility. Ringwall needed its archmages and could not afford weakness. The Magon, however, remained silent.

Ambrosias waited for the commotion in the room to settle down. Then he continued: “As I was saying, I wandered around in the guise of a sorcerer, and I visited the tablets of Sonx, listened to the songs of Kryll along the water roads and I found the broken pillars near Asrax. It was an uncomfortable amount of climbing up there in the mountains of Metal World, I can say. I looked for magical traces of truth in all the songs and myths I collected on my journey, and…” Ambrosimas paused for effect before continuing, “I found them. These truths are in… how did our Magon put it? Gossip and lullabies, that’s where. The old truths still exist. They are hidden deep down, and I cannot tell whether it is possible to bring them all back from down there. Too many worthless elaborations have been laid upon them by generation upon generation, and too much that does not belong together has been mixed up. What I can report is this.

“In the magical traces left by the thoughts of this world we can see that all thoughts evolved from a single word. From that word came a sentence, and from the sentence came a story. This story is older than humanity, and parts of it are recognizable in plants and animals. It is hidden so deeply that I can neither read nor understand it. But much points to the conclusion that this story was the content of the first book in our world. The Book of Wisdom, or as it is also known, the Book of Creation.”

“The Book of Wisdom is a crazy idea that many fools have tried to follow, my dear brother,” Gnarlhand growled. “I doubt it was ever written, and even if it was, I doubt a story from before our time can offer advice on how to avoid the future held in store for us.”

“Oh, that is of course possible, brother Gnarlhand.” Ambrosias’ eyes glinted mischievously. “Whether it was words in the early time or pictures, nobody knows for sure these days. Maybe there were only thoughts, and because these thoughts had a beginning, middle and an end, the first humans called it a book.

“The story of creation is probably lost to us forever, but I suppose it wouldn’t help us either way – unless we found the Book of Wisdom in its earliest form, with all the magic contained in creation.”

“I believe, brother of many words and debaucherous thoughts, that you have entertained us for long enough now, although I always find new appreciation for your abilities with the spoken word.” Bar Helis’ mouth was even more earthbound than usual. As a man of actions he detested words, especially if he could not see where they were leading him.

Ambrosimas chuckled. “The first of the magical men denounced idleness as much as you do today, Master of Metal. They retreated into the wilds and their tracks were lost. But of one thing I’m certain.”

He paused again, looking over the people around the table. Once he knew he had their attention, he spoke on.

“It was their hands that took the Book of Creation and crafted from it the five Books of Prophecy, or as they are known in some places, the Books of Speech and Auguries. Five books there were. They were Eos, Arun, Cheon, Mun and Kypt. And one of these books contains our future.”

“So it is true, then? The Books of Prophecy, mentioned in only a few leftover hermits’ scriptures, are real?” Queshalla sounded hesitant, as though she were still considering whether this was good or bad news.

“All of Pentamuria’s legends are based in the Books of Prophecy. And it looks quite like the legends concern the books Eos, Arun and Cheon. The legends are, in fact, history. So our future is written in Mun or Kypt. Those are the books we must decipher. Unfortunately the Books of Prophecy are lost too, although some arcanists are sure that parts or copies of them may be found near the Borderworlds.” Ambrosimas sat back down without interrupting his monologue. “Some of the old knowledge from the Books of Prophecy was known to the hermits, our forebears. Something must have happened in the past that enabled them to leave their caves and hideouts and return to the surface of the world. Something that gave them the strength to found Ringwall. What was this ‘something’ and why did they break from their past so completely that our history only begins with the founding of Ringwall? Let me tell you.”

Ambrosias’ voice sunk to a whisper.

“They took their strength from the magic of the five elements that reigns over Pentamuria now, and of which we are now the masters. Before that, however, there was a different magic, an older magic, as when the world began there was yet a different magic. Our future lies in a new magic, and in the coming kingdoms our magical powers will mean not much at all.”

He fell silent. The Onyx had exhausted its liveliness and was once again a simple, spotted gray stone slab. The archmages sat in shock of the announcement of a future in which Ringwall’s power was taken away, in which the innermost order of the world was changed and even the will to live was not spared.

This future was too alien, too unimaginable for an Archmage to accept it as fate’s will. Nosterlohe arose first and disappeared behind a column of fire spewed out by the Onyx. One Archmage after the other protested against Ambrosias’ words until the Onyx was spitting flashes and sparks too high for them to see each other, and the crackling and sizzling drowned out the sound of angry voices.

It took a long time for calm to return to the small room in the tower so that clear thought was possible again and words and sentences could be formed. In this very moment Nill and Dakh-Ozz-Han stepped through the gate.

The path from the outer gate into Ringwall led them across a bright, plain stone terrace to a wide, flat flight of stairs made of white marble that connected the path with the dark inner wall and an even darker corridor. The stair, sprinkled with yellow flecks of sunshine, was the last bright spot before the dark gloom of the city.

“There it is again.” Nill stopped abruptly.

“What is there again?” the druid asked, becoming rapidly less patient.

“The feeling I got in the Valley of Unhappy Trees. A kind of pulling and pushing at the same time as if it’s trying to tell me something, the smell of dust and mold, the strength of an ancient wisdom, barely covered by false and thin surfaces.” Nill stopped. “Oh, I don’t know.”

“Whatever you felt in the forest, boy, you will not find it in Ringwall. You can be sure of that,” the druid said. “Let us keep going.”

It took a while for Nill’s eyes to grow accustomed to the semi-darkness of Ringwall, but Dakh denied any respite. With long strides he hurried down the corridor, at the end of which they had to choose whether to go left or right.

Compared with the lonesomeness on the narrow path in the hills there was quite some commotion in this corridor. People of all shapes and sizes, clothed in long cloaks with loose hoods walked every way, entered and exited rooms, disappeared behind doors. Dakh placed a hand on Nill’s shoulder and turned around. From their elevated position they could see through the gate in the outer wall onto the path that had led them here. Dakh said nothing, but Nill could not hold back: “That is the world we came from.”

The druid nodded and added: “And the world I will be returning to shortly.”

In these plain words lay everything the two of them felt. For Nill one life was over now, and another about to begin. Mysterious and dangerous, perhaps, but maybe also full of strength and achievement.

Dakh stood there for a moment and then walked a few steps to the left, guiding Nill down a flight of stairs. “So then,” he said, “this is where I leave you. Someone else will take care of you now.”

Nill was slightly startled. In secret he had hoped for Dakh to stay with him, but he knew that this was but the wish of a frightened heart. Why can’t you stay with me? he thought sadly.

As though Dakh had read Nill’s mind he said: “I do not belong here, and quite apart from that… if I happen to be in the area, which happens rarely enough, I might as well visit Rainhir and a few of the citizens I knew of old.” Dakh gave him another encouraging smile, hugged Nill tightly and went before the boy could say anything.

Nill had not quite left the entrance hall when he heard a scratching noise, the clacking of quick footsteps and a subdued scolding. Nill turned around and saw a shod foot kick a ram, who had somehow found his way here, in the backside. Nill laughed. Even in Ringwall they had problems with those stubborn animals. It could have been his own ram – he would not have put it past him. But to reach the hall before Nill he would have had to be able to fly. The ram looked over his shoulder in disgust, gave an angry stare with his slanted eyes and toddled off.

Gnarlhand, stocky and steady as the Earth he was connected to, was never easily convinced. “With all this talk about ancient, old, new and future magics you forget one thing, brother Ambrosias: according to the tale, the man from the mist will herald in the change, or even cause it. It is vital that we find out who this faceless man is and where he comes from, rather than wondering about the magic he uses or this nonsense about lost books. Is the legend concerning the man from the mist not a story that contains the magic of truth, Ambrosias?”