Читать книгу Ringwall's Doom - Wolf Awert - Страница 6

The moment he had mounted his steed, Prince Sergor-Don had banished Ringwall from his mind. What lay before him could not be accomplished by stooping over barely legible scrolls. The very air in Gulffir seemed to vibrate as the town anticipated his arrival. Fear and worry pushed the people out of their houses and into the streets. The courtiers had left their quarters and formed fleeting groups in the halls, coming together and breaking apart whenever they were joined by someone they did not trust. And such were many. The king’s old councilors whispered and hissed like old fishwives cooking up rumors. The sorcerers of the court kept to themselves and made sure with their own means that no one could eavesdrop on them; the generals had called their captains to hold a council of war, even though not a single weapon had been raised in the kingdom.

Those who held office and respect in Gulffir were poised to lose all; those who had lived off scraps hoped to gain everything. The stewards responsible for clothing and armaments, for building material and tools had worry in their faces, for in the past they had never been accountable to a higher position than themselves. For too long they had neglected their duties, and the fear of retribution was like the crack of a whip on their backs. The cooks did not know whether to prepare a banquet or provisions for a marching army. Tyr, heold of the kingdom and the master of horses and stables, worried about which animals he could keep for breeding, which yearlings must be broken in, which horse he could promise to which rider. His stock had shrunk as the sick king’s hand had lost its power. Many of them cursed themselves for fools, knew they should have thought what they were now thinking many moons ago; but the king’s steady infirmity had never given them pause.

Prince Sergor-Don had left his companions far behind and arrived at the outer perimeter of Gulffir before night fell. He could see from afar that the traditional red banners of the Fire Kingdom had been exchanged for black as a sign of mourning.

The young man’s chiseled features betrayed no hint of emotion; no sorrow, but also none of the satisfaction he secretly felt.

The old fool’s finally at peace now.

Sergor-Don galloped through the gate and leapt down from his horse. Immediately a servant came to guide it to the stables. The prince stormed up the stairs to the castle’s entrance and sprinted through the long corridor where even his soft-soled boots caused an echoing din. He reached the antechamber before the throne room. The guards straightened up when they caught sight of him and hastily opened the double doors to let him through.

Through the creaking crack between the doors shone the golden light of many candles. It felt as though the entire room was rushing towards the prince. Familiar smells from his childhood days, the rustle of clothes, wildly dancing spots of light and shadow flew at him before finally coalescing to something recognizable.

Sergor-Don knew this scene. He had witnessed it many times in his youth; every time his father the king held an audience, he had been surrounded by the powerful and the strong. The only difference was that today the two thrones were empty. The right one had been so for as long as he could remember, for his mother had died early in his childhood. But now the left one was vacant too. As if to make up for the lack of a person on the throne, a painfully dense throng surrounded the platform upon which the thrones stood. The effect was odd; the center seemed almost unreal to him in comparison.

Next to his father’s throne stood, keeping a respectful distance as always, Auran-San, his old teacher and first councilor at the king’s court. His appearance was gaunt, yet he radiated such power that the group of generals beside the queen’s throne seemed diminished. The prince felt as though he was standing in front of a set of scales, their pans quivering up and down due to the tiny, involuntary movements the people in the room made. Of course, Auran-San was not wholly alone on the left side. Behind him stood the courtiers and the most important sorcerers of the court.

Indeed, today judgment must be swift and wise, the prince thought as he scanned the room for the central force present. Who presided over Gulffir when Father let go of the reins? Auran-San? Astergrise, the old marshal, commander of the palace guard? One of the generals perhaps, or even Haltern-kin-Eben? Who could know with such a man – one moment he acts solely as keeper of tradition, the next he might as well be king for all his flouncing. He realized that he was looking in the wrong places.

The central power in Gulffir was a small object in front of the two thrones. Upon a red velvet stool lay the crown of the kingdom, glittering ominously. Sergor was able not only to see it clearly, but also to see life in it, even if that was no more than a reflection of the flickering torches and candles. Only the crown was important.

The king’s favorite dog and the stunted dwarf fool sat together on the stairs before the throne; their shadows were small and posed no threat. In the second line behind the throne stood the servants. Prince Sergor-Don recognized a few, but even the man who had once held his pony and the one who had carved his first wooden sword did not dare betray a flicker of emotion.

And now the vultures circle together, the prince thought. He remained in the entrance for another moment to engrave the image in his memory forever; he had to remember who stood where. His pupils dilated for the merest heartbeat when he realized how close together Auran-San and Haltern-kin-Eben were.

Idiot, he cursed silently. Must you show them all that you support the first councilor? All that remains is to see who the captains are loyal to. Not to you, Astergrise, I can see that. I suppose you didn’t howl loudly enough with the dogs.

After what seemed an eternity, Prince Sergor-Don began to walk at a leisurely pace towards the throne. Just before reaching it, he turned slightly to the left and addressed Auran-San.

“Where is my father?” he asked.

The first councilor essayed a bow and replied quietly: “My prince, you came too late. A tragedy. Your father has already left us. If you would follow me…”

Auran-San made an inviting gesture, but it was slow with mourning. He turned around and led the prince to a small chamber behind the throne room. He gave a short sign and from the shadows on the wall emerged two guards to unlock the small door.

The prince hurried over to the deathbed, where he fell to his knees. “Leave. All of you, leave me alone,” he called as he grabbed hold of his father’s cold hand.

His words were not to be a respectful farewell.

You were a useless fool. How can a King achieve greatness and power if he does nothing but rest easy on what he has? Didn’t Astergrise always cite the Book of Sunn, saying that a great marshal can win a war without leading a single battle? Is it not greatness and power, exactly like fear and powerlessness on the enemy’s side, which stops attacks before they even begin? Ringwall has never fought a war, yet all of Pentamuria bows before it. I was there, father, and I have studied their ways. So believe what I tell you now. That was what I wanted to learn, not the simple summons they teach. And I learned. The High Council of the Archmages and the Magon is not Ringwall’s true strength. It is its weakness. All it takes is someone who understands Ringwall, and it will fall. Do you understand? Ringwall will fall. But before I take care of the Mage City, I must save the Fire Kingdom. Our kingdom, that you so recklessly left to rot!

The prince stayed in the chamber for a long time, talking to his dead father. He knew he would never be heard, would never receive a response, but that would not save him from the reckoning. Sergor-Don was alone behind closed doors for so long that he began to hear voices; they worried about him – might not the young prince need aid in his sorrow? But everyone who tried to enter was repelled by the guards. Many hours passed before the prince opened the door and stepped out to meet those who had waited.

“A great king has left us. We shall honor him for a full moon’s cycle.”

Haltern-kin-Eben leaned towards Grand General Sarch and whispered mockingly: “The less we mourn, the longer the festivities.”

“And take down the pathetic rags from Gulffir’s towers. I wish to see great black banners, whipping in the wind, to capture the truth of our sorrow. And…”

The prince paused for a moment as he waited for the muttering in the hall to stop.

“And I wish for the black banners to be accompanied with the red flags of our kingdom. We will show the world our sadness, but we will not let them forget, even for a heartbeat, that the Fire Kingdom stands as it always has and always will. Mighty, proud and strong.

“Now go and mourn your king. Return to your homes, to your families, or ride out into the lonely plains of our lands. Mourn for him. Tomorrow, I expect all of you to return. I beg the company of Auran-San, Haltern-kin-Eben and General Astergrise.”

Once the double doors had again filled the hall with their echoing bang as they shut, the prince turned to his advisors.

“We ought to find a more private area.”

“This way, your Highness,” Auran-San said as he led them into another chamber. He signaled to a servant to bring refreshments.

“You have ridden long and hard, Prince Sergor. A little fireless wine will do you well.”

“You have my thanks. It has indeed been a long day, full of impatience and the pain of saying farewell. I do not wish to keep anyone longer than necessary. What I need is an estimate of the position we are in. We have much work to do.”

“Your Majesty,” Auran-San began, noticing as he did that the prince straightened at the address. “Your Majesty, all the troops, with the exception of the border guard, have returned to Gulffir to protect the king. Our supplies are spent, our gold scarce.”

“I noticed upon my arrival that many representatives of the tribes are camped outside the city. What is the reason for this?”

Auran-San had difficulty concealing his amusement.

“The tribes wish to negotiate. Could there be a better time for it than a change in regency? They want more independence, more money, more rights, a voice in matters of the kingdom. I would advise heeding them in certain things; we do not have the strength to quench a rebellion. The long years of experience your advisors have will see us through. There will be a long fight, and in the end common sense will triumph. We mustn’t act too hastily. The tribes need their king as the king needs his tribes.”

Haltern-kin-Eben nodded.

“And the troops?” Sergor-Don asked almost indifferently.

Astergrise bowed his head and gave the answer. “We do not have enough horses, our weapons are of low quality, and the soldiers have not had their pay. They are discontent. However, I must add that I believe all our generals to be reliable and capable of overcoming these problems. Auran-San’s mistrust towards the court does not extend to our troops. The soldiers are loyal to their leaders.”

“And the leaders themselves?”

Auran-San glanced towards Astergrise.

“Apart from the palace guard, they are united to the last man under Grand General Sarch. He is an excellent man. The palace guard obeys, as ever, Marshal Astergrise.

“Yes, yes, all in order. The soldiers are the least of my worries. One last question: what about the royal treasury?”

Auran-San’s eyes glided towards Haltern-kin-Eben, whose gaze flitted to Astergrise, whose eyes were fixed on Auran-San.

“Your Majesty, the treasury’s walls are hard and dry and will withstand any storm. The doors are open, and fresh air might help displace the old haze,” Haltern-kin-Eben answered reluctantly.

“I see. It’s empty.”

Auran-San nodded.

“Very well. I know what I needed to know. War is coming from the borders because our neighbors think us weak. We have unrest within the kingdom, because my father was too ill to keep a firm grasp, a regime that has not done as it should have, and no more money. On top of that our military is badly equipped.”

“Only briefly, your Majesty, only briefly,” Auran-San attempted to soothe the prince. “But I must suggest you arrange your coronation as soon as possible. The people need a keen eye to read the future for them, a clear voice to tell them what to do, and a strong hand to guide them. Without these things some might believe they would stand a better chance riding another road.”

“Your counsel is well-reasoned as always, Auran-San,” the prince smiled, but silently he thought something else. Act quickly and take your enemies’ chances of learning the foreign territory, and victory is yours. Oh, Auran-San, you have read the Book of Sunn well. But have you forgotten that you were the one who schooled me in the art of war?

“I will follow your advice. The preparations for my coronation will begin immediately. Keeper of Tradition, I know that you will do better than I could imagine.” For a moment, the small group showed only satisfaction. Only Astergrise’s hard face was immovable as ever.

“As there is no hope of solving all our problems in one evening,” the prince continued, “we should take the time to sort out two smaller issues. We must keep the people entertained until I am crowned. There shall be tourneys in my father’s name, tourneys the like Pentamuria has never seen. Every soldier will have the chance to prove his worth and carve his name into history. Even the border guard will participate. The King of Woodhold is a coward; he will never strike against us. The King of Earthland will be too surprised to make a move – if he considers it, he will suspect a trap. We will send him a delegation with many gifts and honeyed words to bargain an alliance. It would bring both our lands harmony and other benefits. Have I made myself clear?”

“But, your Majesty,” Haltern-kin-Eben protested, “where are we to come up with the gold for such gifts? Our treasury is as empty as a peasant’s head.”

Sergor-Don remained impassive. “We will borrow it from the nobility. Do not forget that I need a generous champion’s purse for the winners of the tourneys.”

The satisfied smile utterly evaporated from the keeper of tradition’s face. He opened his mouth to protest again, only to feel a magical grip on his jaw.

Teeth might freeze without the protection of their lips. The wise keep them shut for that reason, he heard a voice say in his head. He felt Auran-San’s penetrating stare and obediently closed his mouth.

Prince Sergor pricked up his ears. He thought he had heard some magical breath pass him, but no more interruptions came, so he addressed the old marshal.

“Astergrise, Shield of the King and Strength of Gulffir. I want one of the tourneys to be for archers only. The fifty best of them will be rewarded, and no matter their current position, will have command over five other archers who have proven themselves in the tourney. These three hundred will be under your command. Forge them into archers the like Pentamuria has never seen. Arrows will be supplied.”

The old marshal bowed his head obediently, but secretly wondered what he could accomplish with only three hundred archers.

“And secondly?” Auran-San inquired gently.

“Secondly what?”

“You spoke of two issues, your Majesty.”

“Oh. Yes, the second one… I would invite every arcanist in the kingdom to my court. Send the messengers today. They are to ride through the night. I believe that is all we can do today. I will retire for the night. Haltern-kin-Eben, I do hope you have prepared an appropriate chamber for me.”

“In the Western Wing. I will lead you there personally.”

“That won’t be necessary. I grew up here. I know this castle.”

“One last word, your Majesty,” Astergrise called after him as he followed with lengthy steps.

“He is still a child,” Haltern-kin-Eben commented smugly once the prince and the marshal had left the room. “The first thing he thinks of is a competition to honor his father. And that rubbish about leaving the borders unmanned… I do hope Astergrise can talk him around on that. Of course it would surprise Earthland, but for how long? Grand General Sarch will be furious if he hears of it.”

“Sarch is furious whether he has a reason to be or not,” Auran-San quipped. “But I must disagree – the prince has never been a child. Even when he was yet small and my charge. I had a long time to study him, get to know him. He always knew exactly what he wanted, and I wonder what his plans are at the moment. Why would he summon all the other arcanists if we have the best and most experienced sorcerers here at court already?”

“Do we need to care? He has no experience in handling matters of state, the troops – apart from the palace guard – are behind Sarch and Sarch is behind us. And if the prince wants money, he’ll have to either ask the gentry or raise taxes. Both could get him killed.”

“You are right, Haltern, but he won’t be a prince forever. He’ll be our king soon. And you forget that kings are never completely powerless, for one always listens to a king. No, no, I would rather we knew what he plans to do.”

“So overthrow him and be done with it.”

The small room froze. Just those few words had filled the chamber and pressed against the walls, ceiling and floor with such force that Auran-San could not breathe for a few heartbeats.

“Sometimes I wonder whether you still have your mind, Haltern. Overthrowing the crown means murder. Would you truly take his place and rule as a kingslayer?” Auran-San’s voice thundered through the room before suddenly going quiet and soft again. “No, my old friend, we must approach these things differently. Listen now…”

All of Gulffir waited in the sweltering heat for the troops’ arrival, led by their quietly cursing commanders. The people stood expectant for their future king, and the court readied itself for the crowning. The prince, on the other hand, made himself scarce.

The nervous anticipation grew more and more intense the more ease was enforced, and it began to tip. The dignitaries of the realm kept their eyes on the minutest of mood swings, picked up on every quiver in the air, and hearkened even to the sound of steps as they hurried through the halls. Everything was discussed and analyzed for what changes it might bring for the future; everyone suspected everyone. Nothing was worse than inactivity and uncertainty.

As the unease grew on the surface, the wide lands around the capital sprouted camps for the soldiers and riders of the wild tribes. Haltern-kin-Eben obtained the gold the prince had demanded from the officials and the gentry, noting carefully as he did so how much each willingly gave.

The opening of the tourney did less for the situation than had been hoped. The games distracted the common spirit only momentarily, and some used the chance to go about their business inconspicuously.

The jousts with the sons of the desert were succeeded by the melee, where lances and swords and maces clashed. Each day closed with the archer’s competition.

Prince Sergor-Don sat motionless in his raised chair with his generals and cavaliers gathered around him, listening intently to their comments and to the words of the older masters-at-arms. The younger ones had all decided to take part in the fights.

He watched soldiers and sellswords compete for victory, applauded and rewarded the winners, handed out gifts and had the names of those he wished to see promoted inscribed. And those were many. Haltern-kin-Eben wondered where they could possibly get the gold to pay for all these new captains, and the generals and cavaliers grew more and more unenthusiastic.

“Loyalty cannot be bought with gold,” they muttered. “Gold means greed, greed means envy, and envy is the death of obedience.”

As much as they all tried to keep their thoughts and feelings hidden, by the end of the fifth day Grand General Sarch felt compelled to hint that, while a few promotions were good for the troops’ morale, many caused little more than unrest. Astergrise secretly agreed, but kept his silence and instead busied himself observing the young prince.

Sarch knew no such reticence. He not only disapproved of these promotions, he considered them an interference in military matters best kept to experienced warriors. His displeasure mounted until he finally asked Prince Sergor-Don to his face about the reason for this extraordinary amount of recognition he was giving out. The prince’s face remained calm, yet a short sigh before his answer told of his annoyance at this lack of respect.

“A soldier rarely has the chance to meet a new king. Being touched by a king – this is something he will never forget. Dear Sarch, my father’s illness quenched their fires; it is our duty to reignite them.”

‘Dear Sarch’ flinched.

Auran-San too noticed that the mood of the soldiers had changed. There was indeed disquiet among them. The promotions had changed the long-practiced rules of orders and obeisance. There were too many captains and not enough to follow them.

“If this carries on, a captain will have but ten men to his company! It’d be more honorable being an outrider!” one of the generals boomed. The older captains were also upset at their dwindling influence. And the confusion was yet to grow: the prince had begun to honor specific warriors with the title of family.

“You are the first of my family,” he would say. “And you will help me grow this family until there is no difference between the king and his men.”

The soldiers did not understand what he meant, but they knew that the young prince saw promise in them. The generals grew yet more agitated as it became clear that members of this new family came from all units, further muddying the chain of command.

“We must do something, Auran-San,” Sarch warned the first councilor. “The prince is muddling everything up. The strength of our troops is falling apart, and our power with it. An attempt on the palace guard and Astergrise is unlikely to succeed.”

Auran-San merely raised an eyebrow. “We need not make an attempt on anything. Pitching the soldiers against their own king serves no one. You are right – the prince has made quite a mess of his own forces. But that hasn’t weakened just his generals, but also himself. Sergor-Don is clever, but he lacks experience. We will let him be. At the end of all this nobody will expect him to bear the weight of his own crown. We shall watch him dig his own grave.”

As the last fanfares heralded the end of the tourney and all eyes were on the hornblowers, a slender, gray-brown bird landed on the prince’s shoulder.

“Your old friend Nill has found acceptance in Ringwall. He is now a mage under the magon’s custody,” the message read. It had been written on a small piece of reed, hidden in a tiny capsule attached to the bird’s right leg.

“If someone who can barely even use magic can become a mage in Ringwall, then the center of power in Pentamuria is in a truly sorry state,” the prince mused. “Yet all things will make sense over time. I could hardly say whether or not I dislike this new development. Time will tell.” Sergor-Don rubbed the dry leaf between his hands until it had dissolved. Then he got to his feet and had all those who had proven themselves in the tourney step forward: archers, cavaliers, captains and lancers alike. More than a thousand soldiers stood on the square before the castle and gazed with pride and adoration at their future king as he smiled down at them benevolently.

The generals were dumbfounded when they saw the full extent of the havoc the promotions had wrought, and Haltern-kin-Eben groaned as he calculated the costs the crown would soon have to carry. Grand General Sarch leaned over to Marshal Astergrise and hissed in his ear: “If you wish to sow discord and mutiny in an army, all you need do is make standing and ranks not matter and promote useless footmen to officers. As if the ability to hold a bow or swing a sword made them good commanders, pah!”

The chains of command had always been strong enough for those obeying and flexible enough to allow for quick changes in tactics. The Fire Kingdom had built it over many years, and it had never had much to do with martial ability. A warrior’s rank was based not on merit, but on his birth, his family and his closeness to the commanders.

Prince Sergor-Don had destroyed it in less than a week.

It would take some time for the new order to take hold as the dust settled.

Astergrise nodded almost unnoticeably at Sarch. He showed no further sign of having even heard the general’s complaint.

“A good general must understand before he judges, and must judge before he acts. For this he must be quick.” That was written in the Book of Sunn. Astergrise had read the scripture over and over again until its essence was not only firmly in his head, but in his very guts, so much that it had become a part of who he was.

How much does Prince Sergor understand? What does he want? the old marshal wondered.

As restless thoughts still shot through the minds of the higher-ups in the realm, Prince Sergor stepped forward and began his speech for the soldiers. He spoke long and clear, and he fused magic and words into sentences. He finished with all eyes on the future, summoning up images, and laid a solemn silence on the square before raising his voice once more.

“In the time Gulffir has had to rule itself many foals have grown to stallions and borne more foals still. What else could this noble city have done but rule itself, when the king, unparalleled in his wisdom, has his strength taken from him by the cruel breath of old age? Sitting and resting, moving but slowly, may grant unrivaled power. The wandering dunes of the desert already show us how to do it: they can strangle life that has taken generations to blossom, and yet we never see them in haste.

“But that is not how we live in the Fire Kingdom. Our riders are fast as the wind on the plains, veiled like the sun in a sandstorm. None can see them, and if they do, they die. The riders’ arrows are faster than their targets’ reactions. They can fetch the lord of the skies, the gray Master Falcon, to the ground with a single shot. Our tribes are always on the move; they have petty disagreements and then forge new alliances; they match each other’s strength and use it against the forces of nature. I returned from Ringwall to bring freedom back to Gulffir and the Fire Kingdom, to break it free of the shackles it has grown accustomed to, to tear open the doors of every stable and let the horses run free again. I will have Gulffir’s pride and standing flying high above our towers with the black and red banners, and the Fire Kingdom will take its rightful place once more.

“Riders of the plains and the desert, it is to you I now speak. My councilors have told me there is unrest at our borders. This is nothing new. It has always been so. But in the past it was our horses that caused it, our riders upon their backs, not the Earthlanders or the Woodwers. Should it stay as it is, I ask you? Should it really stay that way?”

For just a moment the question hung in the air like a bubble, and the tension was palpable. When it became clear that the prince would not answer himself, a voice shouted: “No!” and many others joined in, some clattering their swords and shields to add to the racket. “Hail to our king!”

Once the noise had subsided Sergor-Don opened his mouth to continue, but another shout came from the crowd.

“What about our pay?”

All heads snapped around to find the one man who had been so taken by the moment that he dared to ask for money. Before they could find him, another voice shouted: “He’s right, what about it?”

More and more unhappy soldiers joined in. The spell of the moment was broken. Astergrise frowned. Grand General Sarch smiled triumphantly, and Auran-San looked cold, yet pleased.

“My father’s debt to you will be paid,” the prince called out. “Haltern-kin-Eben has given me his word.” The keeper of tradition suffered from a sudden coughing fit as he choked on his wine. He could not recall having given any such promise. Auran-San clapped him on the back and whispered: “Stay still, we’ll have him soon.”

“But your future pay,” the prince continued, “you will first have to earn.”

He made another pause and waited for the outcry to subside.

“The only gifts a warrior gets are sword and board, arrows and armor. A soldier’s duty is to gain fame and fortune, for himself, for his king, for his homeland. And now, those among you who were so avaricious to ask for their pay ought to know the king’s duty. Would you not like to know? Well? Where has your inquisitive nature gone?

“I will tell you what the king’s duty is. His most sacred task is to provide his soldiers with the chance to prove themselves to the world. Prove their courage, prove their prowess, prove their pride. A warrior’s pay is his prey, and your king will show you where to hunt for it best.

“For too long have our neighbors made a mockery of us. Even in our own lands. You will return glory to the Fire Kingdom, and I promise you, your reward will be great.”

The prince raised his hands once more for his warriors and returned to the palace, the crowd’s cheers at his back. Generals and cavalry leaders, councilors, court sorcerers and high-ranking officials followed him.

“A rousing speech, your Majesty,” Grand General Sarch congratulated the prince. “I see so much of your father’s spirit in you, especially when he was young and strong.”

“You have my thanks, Grand General. I hope you will be as supportive tomorrow at my crowning.”

At these words the prince turned to the rest of his followers.

“Tomorrow, precisely between sunrise and noon, you will find me in the throne room. In the same place where my father once resided. Those of you who wish to aid me in guiding the reins of our kingdom would do well to be there, but consider this: to rule means to assume responsibility, and responsibility means duties. Both of these, responsibility and duty, have the power to grant a long and fulfilled life. They can also cut it short.”

The prince’s gaze swept across his followers as his mouth curved to a fleeting smile and left nought but confused faces behind. The mutterings in the halls would not die down before sunset.

You speak true, young prince, Auran-San thought.

“I have been silent all this time, Auran-San. I put all my trust in you, even though collecting the money has made me no friends, to put it mildly. But to keep trusting you I must know what you plan to do,” Haltern-kin-Eben whispered to the first councilor, his hand held in front of his mouth.

Auran-San lifted his chin and looked down his long nose. His voice lost all inflection and sounded oddly flat as he spoke. “The prince will not have long to relish his crowning and his soldiers’ oaths.”

“What are you going to do?” Haltern-kin-Eben asked in shock. “Do you really mean to topple the prince? I thought kingslayers had no easy reign.”

“None of that. I will let fate play its hand for us,” Auran-San responded calmly.

Sarch and the keeper of tradition exchanged glances before quickly fixing their eyes back on the first councilor as they waited for an explanation, but Auran-San took his time. He slowly turned to face the wide plains beyond the city walls, and when he finally opened his mouth to speak, neither knew whether he was answering Haltern’s question or simply thinking out loud.

“There is a tale that has been told at countless evening fires in our kingdom for untold generations. It is the tale of the weight of the crown. You must know that the crown of the Fire Kingdom brims with magic and grants the wearer absolute power. But only if…”

“If what?”

“But only if the head it sits upon is strong enough to bear it. A normal person, without royal blood, or a weak youngling who dares take it before his time, will be crushed by its weight. So goes the tale.”

“Superstitious rubbish,” Sarch snorted.

“Certainly, Grand General, certainly. I agree with you; such stories are seldom entirely true. But what does that matter? The important thing is that the common folk believe in them. All that remains is to amplify the crown’s magic and give it a little extra weight. Then a – how did you say? – superstitious rubbish story can become a staggering truth in the most real sense of the word. The moment Sergor-Don is crowned, he will have to take it off quickly if he does not wish to crumble beneath its weight, and all will see it. And should he be so foolish as to put it on himself, the effect would be even more impressive. And if he denies the impulse to take it off, his head will be crushed. Just like this here, look.”

At these words Auran-San gripped a sweetfruit and squished it in his hand. All eyes followed the juice that ran down his fingers.

Earlier than had been agreed upon a crowd of splendidly clothed nobles gathered before the throne room. To everyone’s surprise the doors were still locked, and no guards were posted by the entrance. Traditionally the throne room remained open until the new king had been crowned and taken his place. Prince Sergor-Don seemed to have forgotten this tradition.

At the precise mid-point between sunrise and noon the bars were lifted from the doors. Two young lads clad in the yellow-brown garb of the dustriders opened the doors and quickly stepped aside to disappear into the shadows behind the throne.

The councilors, sorcerers and generals entered the throne room first and saw that the young prince had already taken his place on his father’s throne. Their steps faltered for a heartbeat, but the crowd from behind forced them onward. The hall grew fuller and fuller; later tales of this day would claim that not a single further squire could have fit inside.

Sergor-Don looked down at the jostling crowd before him and waited for all to face their new king.

Auran-San was satisfied with what he saw. The prince was already as tall as his father had been, but was still a slender youth. Two more young warriors could have fit comfortably beside him on the throne, but perhaps that was only an illusion, a trick caused by the dark wood and the equally dark robe the prince wore, and the jet-black hair that covered his head. It fell unrestrained to his shoulders. Only a simple red band kept his hair out of his eyes.

“He could not have shown more obviously that the throne is still too big for him,” Haltern-kin-Eben muttered. “If he’d asked me I would have advised for bright colors and wide robes.”

“You would have turned him into a songbird. We ought to be happy that your counsel was not needed,” Auran-San chuckled quietly.

The prince did indeed seem strangely lost beneath the carved black-headed eagle that decorated the throne’s back. Or perhaps it was the powerful embrace of the armrests, shaped in the form of a leonpedon’s paws, that made his slim figure seem almost absent. The huge throne of pitted queba-wood called for a true king; it showed Sergor-Don the same indifference as it had a mouse that had clambered up on it that morning at dawn.

As the dark throne imposed itself upon its surroundings, so too did the shining crown atop the steps. It glowed red and gold with countless white and yellow stones as it sat on a small table, the weight of countless dynasties pressing it deep into the soft satin cushion. It was a heavy crown for a great king, and now it sat there, expectant and imperious, waiting for its new bearer. None present in the room could overlook how young their future king was.

Auran-San and Haltern-kin-Eben had stepped forward to begin with the crowning ceremony. But the prince had risen. His robe was split down the front and revealed the fiery red of his battle-harness. Red and black, power and mourning. The prince had chosen his entrance well.

“I have decided to postpone the crowning until noon. The sun has not yet reached its highest point, at which it looks down on kings and peasants alike, but it has already begun its work. It shines. It shines for all of us. And so I will follow its example and begin making changes before I am crowned.”

The first councilor and the keeper of tradition nodded at each other. “As you wish, Prince Sergor-Don.”

You are making this easy for us, young prince, Haltern-kin-Eben thought. The court, generally disliking changes from tradition, showed only stony faces. The generals stood with their legs slightly apart, their arms crossed before their chests or with their hands resting on their hips, like a warrior readying himself for battle. The courtiers sought more stability in small groups than in their king, and the sorcerers had their cowls drawn low over their faces so no one could read their expressions.

“A king is only as strong at the people who hold him aloft, as the councilors that help him decide, as the soldiers who swing their weapons for him, and as the magic that fills all realms of his kingdom.

“The King’s Guard that protected my father so well is now dissolved. I will not hide behind the shields and swords of my soldiers. I have more worthy tasks for them. My protectors will be five sorcerers. One for each element. Each one so powerful that even an archmage could not pierce their shields. Is there any arcanist among you who believes their power to be such?”

The sudden change from military to magic caught many off guard. Only Auran-San smiled contently at this chance to increase his influence on the king further still. The court sorcerers, however, seemed less determined, their eyes flitting back and forth between themselves as though they meant to spin a web with looks alone.

They were all experienced and knowledgeable, skilled and revered for their cunning. But what Sergor-Don demanded was pure, brutal power, not the elegance in the magical arts they prided themselves on. They were sorcerers of the court, not magic-wielding shieldbearers. As such they were also diplomats and intriguers, and they knew exactly where power came from. Only their proximity to the king gave their whispers the strength and influence they needed. And so after several moments of agitated silence a pushing and shoving began as the first lesser sorcerers saw the potential that the position of a king’s guard could grant them. Only five would be near the king at all times, but who would those five be?

Zsorven-Sar was the first to step forward. He was the first among his equals. Even though he had not openly demonstrated his skills for a long time, he still held the most power and influence of all sorcerers at court.

“Can you craft a powerful defense for me?”

“I should think so, my prince.”

“Which element?”

The sorcerer allowed a small flame to dance around his hand.

“Fire.”

“A Water shield against Fire, or a Fire shield against Metal?”

“Whichever you wish, my king.”

“Very well. Make space. I wish to test Zsorven-Sar. My attack will utilize the strength and sharpness of Metal – it should be easy for anyone devoted to Fire.”

The crowed shuffled back, but the room was too full to clear a space big enough to remove any danger from a duel.

“Open the doors.”

To the great surprise of Gulffir’s citizens that had been waiting outside the palace, the doors suddenly burst open and the crowd of nobles flooded outside onto the great square. They quickly made space. The prince and the sorcerer stood opposite one another, surrounded by the gentry, behind whom a dense wall of soldiers, merchants and gawping children made any breaking through impossible. Sergor-Don’s black cloak swayed around him, the sorcerer’s magnificent gown weighed heavy and ornamental upon his shoulders.

“Are you prepared?”

In the same instant he spoke the words, Sergor-Don flung a spear of Metal at his opponent, but it had already begun to melt as it flew through the air, and what hit the ground near the sorcerer was only droplets. The triumphant smile on Zsorven-Sar’s face vanished as he saw the waves of bolts that now rained down on him. Some came at an angle, some straight. The shield flickered, threw sparks, expanded to catch the prince’s magic sooner – and broke. Flames billowed from the remains of his shield and returned to their creator. Zsorven-Sar fell to the ground, his front utterly blackened. The stench of burnt flesh was rank upon the air. The Fire Kingdom had one less sorcerer.

“Never promise something you cannot keep. Take him away. How would you protect me against a real mage, if you can’t even defend yourself against me?”

“I wouldn’t have guessed the prince was so strong,” Haltern-kin-Eben whispered, impressed.

“Zsorven-Sar was a fool,” Auran-San growled back. “He let his magic wither, he should have known an early end was coming for him. But power alone wins no fights. The prince will learn that in due course.”

The old councilor was upset. Zsorven-Sar had been a loyal servant of his, and Auran-San suddenly realized that the number of possible guards had quickly shrunk. None of the other sorcerers dared so brazenly prove their might. After many tense moments a young man stepped forward. His robe was plain.

“My name is Skorn-Vis and I have not served you long, your Majesty. But I am prepared to protect you from Fire.”

“You have an unusual name, Skorn-Vis.”

“My family tells of how we descended from the Snowy Mountains, but how we arrived in the Fire Kingdom I do not know.”

Sergor-Don rained fire down upon him, raised flames from the ground and attempted to burn the young man from within, but Skorn-Vis’ Water shield stood fast. The hot steam pushed the crowd back and hid the sorcerer from their view; fountains of water and fire shot skywards as the cobblestones seemed to bubble and melt. Skorn-Vis stood unfazed in the middle of the inferno, and the water that ran down his face might have been sweat or just as likely remains of his shield.

“Skorn-Vis, you have proven worthy. You shall be one of my kingsguard.”

The sorcerer gave a low bow and retreated.

The next one to approach was still half a child. His eyes were wide, his clothing too large for his small frame and badly patched, and the dust of the plains still clung to his hair and skin. He did not speak as he stood opposite the prince. With one hand he pulled a few straws from his hair, allowing everyone to see where his last resting place had been. With the other hand he described a small circle and the air around him glowed with silent fire.

Sergor-Don clicked his fingers and flung a swarm of tiny metal bolts outward. Before they could reach the boy, he encased himself in a fiery globe and the attack melted away. Sergor-Don followed up by throwing heavy iron balls at him – their weight alone would have sufficed to break the delicate figure in front of him, and they were loaded with more than just Metal energy, in spite of what he had announced. The fiery ball changed its shape and the attack slid off it. The final test, a spear of incredible mass and with a point sharper than any ordinary weapon, got stuck halfway through and broke in two pieces.

“There is space enough for you under my shield, my liege,” the boy called out.

“What is your name?”

“Uul.”

“Just Uul?”

“Yes, my liege.”

“You stink.”

“Yes, sire.”

“You will be given new clothes.”

Sergor-Don turned to face the crowd.

“Two of five have been found. Fire and Water protect me. I am yet in need of Earth, Metal and Wood.”

They were a motley bunch gathered around the prince in the end. Apart from Skorn-Vis and Uul he had found a half-arcanist who could not feel the earth he walked on, but whose Wood magic was strong enough even to withstand most Metal attacks. He had a beautiful name, one that, when whispered, felt as though the flowers were reaching for the sky. He was called Phloe, for the goddess of the grasslands, who blessed the plains after the first rain and transformed them into a garden of blossoms. The courtiers were rather concerned that a man was named for a goddess. Even worse was Aulo, a simpleton with a face half lame, as rigid as a blade before it breaks. His Metal was strong enough to split Wood before it could even be summoned. Nobody was sure that Aulo was his real name – his mouth produced groans and howls more than words. King Sergor’s defense against Water lay in the hands of a small man who would in other courts not have looked out of place as a dwarf jester. He declined the use of a shield, instead choosing to simply channel the Water into the ground. Sergor only stopped attacking when the entire crowd was soaked and standing ankle-high in mud.

“You seem terrible to friend and foe alike; the Water cannot touch you, but you might choke us all on the mud. What is your name?” Sergor-Don asked the dwarf.

“They call me Sijem the Brown,” the short man’s answer came quickly.

“Are there other Sijems apart from you? Black, gray or even red ones?” the king asked, for Sijem was an ancient word for ‘ground.’

“My older brother was called Sijem the Pale. But he was rather small and did not live long. Then I came. When my mother saw me she cursed my father and denied him any more children. Now I am the only Sijem. But brown is a strong color, the best of them all.” The little man was bursting with confidence.

Auran-San realized to his horror that soon none of his lickspittles would be in the direct company of the king, and began to worry in earnest.

“The Fire Kingdom will unite iron and magic to an alliance the likes we have not seen since the days of the First Kings. Sorcerers and warriors will ride side-by-side and ensure that our home achieves its old glory. I enter the throne room as Prince Sergor-Don. I shall leave it as king.”

For the second time that day, Auran-San and Haltern-kin-Eben stepped forward to crown the prince, and for the second time Sergor-Don stopped them.

“Marshal Astergrise,” the prince called into the hall. Several nobles held their breath. None in the Fire Kingdom enjoyed regard equal to that of the old rider. Even Auran-San, with all his power as an advisor and the force behind the court sorcerers, never dared speak an open word against the white-haired old man, quite apart from fear of his still impressive use of a saber. What folly awaited the man who had served the old king with such unwavering devotion?

“Tell me, do you know the old Rockvice?” The relief in the crowd’s collective sigh was immediately undermined by tension at this new turn.

Astergrise gave a short nod before breaking the silence that usually surrounded him. “Yes, your Majesty. An old fortification at the borders of our kingdom. It was abandoned when your grandfather pushed our borders further towards Woodhold. Two days’ ride from Rockvice will find you at our current border. On the other side, closer to the capital, lies the land of the tribes, until the mountains cut it off. Follow the water to Ringwall; it can be reached in less than a day at a hard gallop. There are no troops in Rockvice, but some have settled in the old buildings.”

Astergrise knew the land well. Sergor-Don seemed satisfied.

“I would have Rockvice rebuilt. Three strong walls will surround it. The innermost will have a gate small enough to allow a single warrior through – no riders will pass. Within this ring there will be chambers for me and my councilors. The second wall will have gates large enough to allow riders, but no wagons. Within this wall the townsfolk will live. The gate in the outer wall will be wide enough to allow two troops to ride through without touching each other. This part will house our new garrisons. On the fire side of Rockvice there is a plateau of black glass, too smooth for sand and plant life. There you will build a tower with a winding stair and five rooms at the top. The highest platform will be open to all sides. You will have the time it takes for a foal to be born from the moment the stallion meets the mare. Can you have it done?”

Another short nod. “The fortifications can be made. Without haste, brick by brick. Give me the people to do it and it will be done exactly as you wish. The cisterns must be expanded and the water reservoirs improved. This too will happen, even if the rock does not give in willingly. Your chambers will be small and simple, and we may have to renew them in time. If the sorcerers help, there should be no problems in rebuilding Rockvice in the time you have given. But there will be no luxuries, no pomp. No decorations around the gates and windows. Not even a sorcerer’s magic could spur an artist’s mind to work in such time. Rockvice will be the town of a warrior. Traders will avoid it, unless they bring water.

“The tower is a different matter. It can not be built so readily. The black glass is not only too smooth for sand, but also stone. No builder could immediately build there, least of all a tower that could withstand the wind and storms.”

Astergrise returned his gaze to the prince questioningly, and found a smiling face.

“Very well, for the tower I will have to be my own builder. I can live without comforts. The more important thing is that the citizens are well protected, because there, near Ringwall, is where our new capital will lie. It shall be called Worldbrand.”

The uproar was immense. Gulffir had been the center of the kingdom for uncounted generations. Through steady trade with the other kingdoms the city had grown from a small hamlet to what it was today. The wooden huts had given way to mighty stone buildings. Many of the traveling nomads had found their home here and put up their tents around the town, later to be replaced by real houses. Streets had been laid and widened. The councilors, court sorcerers and magistrates had built themselves and their families small palaces, filled with luxuries and costly artwork.

Rockvice, on the other hand, was little more than a fortified village. The only stone structure there was the central command house, where each commander had lived and done his duty until the last soldier had left the place. These days it was commonly used by female donkeys as a refuge in which to give birth.

The roads were barely more than paths, trodden by men and horses over many years. The planned fortifications would be easy to overcome by any reasonably armed army. But nobody dared ask why. It took a long time for the uproar to settle and Sergor-Don to resume his speech.

“Send a messenger to the Magon of Ringwall. Inform him of our new location and of our wish to strengthen the bond between Ringwall and the Fire Kingdom.”

“What is the fool doing?” Haltern-kin-Eben hissed at Auran-San. “Does he honestly believe anyone will happily leave Gulffir to live in the middle of nowhere? I think it’s time we took action.”

“Let us wait until he’s done with his nonsensical commands. His fate lies waiting for him in the crowning ceremony. Have a little more patience.”

“Astergrise,” Sergor-Don again addressed the old marshal. “You will be accompanied by the palace guard and the warriors I have taken into my family. The defense of Worldbrand and the people who will raise it to glory is my first priority.

“Grand General Sarch will take a small troop to the foot of the Mistmountain range and set up camp where nobody is quite sure of the exact nature of the border between the Fire Kingdom and Woodhold. You have my leave to be a little generous when redrawing it.

“The other generals will take small contingents to the border towns and forts. I request particular care that peace is upheld on the border to Earthland.”

“Your Majesty,” Auran-San’s smooth voice rang out like a bell. “Perhaps some of these arrangements might wait until you are crowned king.”

The genially smiling face did not hint in the slightest at how the councilor felt inside. He had banished all thoughts from his mind and focused entirely on the magical band between himself and the crown, ready to unleash the magic of Earth to crush anything beneath it. Haltern-kin-Eben had stepped forward as well and bent over to pick up the crown.

“Very well!” the prince called out. “Let us dally no longer; but Haltern-kin-Eben, Auran-San, you have made a mistake. The thing you hold in your hands is a false crown. The future king’s true crown lies right here next to my throne.”

Auran-San stopped dead. With some effort he freed his mind from the Metal that had protected it. He stared in disbelief at the prince, as though he had not quite heard the words he had spoken. Haltern-kin-Eben straightened up and looked rather lost between the two thrones, the treasure of gold and gems useless in his hands.

“Here beside me, in the shadow of the throne.”

The councilor and the Keeper of Traditions stood between the prince and the household. Nobody could make out what was happening.

“What is wrong, my prince?” Auran-San whispered. “Have you taken leave of all that is holy? What crown is it you speak of?”

The prince pulled back his black hood and removed his bandeau. “The red band of the desert.”

Sergor-Don bent over and picked up a simple black shawl from the ground. Upon it was a long red line, coiled up like a snake. In its center there was a silver ring, and from the ring hung a simple smoky quartz. It shook as the band moved.

“Wrap the band around my head, Auran-San. I command it.”

The old councilor took a step back from the throne, then turned around and ran into the middle of the throne room.

“Prince Sergor-Don has dismissed the crown and the king’s grace with it!” he shouted to the throng.

For a moment there was deathly silence. Then the crowd broke out into screaming and shouting, cursing and threatening. Several blades were unsheathed. Haltern-kin-Eben retreated as quickly as a cat. He knew where he stood and what he stood for, but this was not his fight. That was Auran-San’s concern. He suddenly noticed how worryingly small the number of sorcerers was. And he saw that Sarch had pulled out his weapon just like Astergrise. How would the old marshal act? And what would the other generals and captains do?

Sergor-Don had risen once more from his seat and now looked down at the crowd from the dais that held the two thrones.

“My crown is the red band of the desert. It is the old symbol of power all the tribes know. It is the only crown I will ever wear. The crown of gold you see there is my father’s crown, and it is heavy with the magic of falsehood, of treason, of broken trust. Auran-San, wouldn’t you agree that it suits you rather better than me?”

Before the councilor could respond the prince raised his voice to a roar.

“You betrayed the old king and now you want to do the same to his son! Did you really believe I knew nothing of your plans? My body may have been in Ringwall all this time, but my heart and my ears and my eyes were always here in Gulffir. The only reason I haven’t already had you drawn and quartered is your past services. My parting gift to you, my childhood teacher, is this chalice. Drink deep from it. The hemlock’s bitter taste is all but hidden by nectar and the sweet smells of plainsflowers. I wish you no discomfort in death.”

Sergor-Don picked up the goblet from beside his throne and made for Auran-San with determined steps. The councilor smacked the cup from his hands and the milky substance spilled onto the floor. The smell spread through the hall. It was sweet, but not the smell of flowers. It was the sweetish smell of decaying flesh. The breathing in the room grew shallow. Only Auran-San seemed unfazed by it.

“Fool! You believe I would bow to a child? This is the end of the line of Herfas-San. For generations my family has served the kings of your lineage. Each more foolish and weaker than the next, until finally we have this pitiful boy right here who humiliates dutiful generals, ignores border security, and abandons a flowering city to hardship to hide in the shadow of Ringwall. I too am a San like the Herfas, and can trace my father’s fathers back to the first rulers. Little prince, I am Auran-San of the line of Auran-San. My name itself is a constant reminder of my ancestry, and none of my family has ever forgotten it. I will promise you one thing, however: your end will be quite the show. I will grant you renown eternal. You will become a legend, and the people will tell of you in hundreds of years, of the death of the boy king who wanted everything and did nothing.”

At the last word he unleashed a wave of fire; the prince managed to deflect it, but the force of the attack knocked him flat on his back. Uul ran forward and strengthened the barricade. Auran-San flung fragments of meteorite at Uul, but they melted down to glowing droplets and hit the floor. Splitters of rock sliced at Sergor-Don’s skin. Auran-San called roots from the ground and sent Water to follow his Fire in an effort to boil the prince’s blood, and he pushed his foe through the hall.

Prince Sergor-Don was no match for the old sorcerer, but he fought back. Now was the moment to see whether his chosen guards were up to the challenge. Auran-San’s Metal attacks were held back by Uul, whose shield was flawless and did not give an inch. But Metal was not Auran-San’s only weapon – he switched between the elements at the speed of a galloping stallion. It was clear that he drew pleasure from playing with the prince.

“Enough!” he suddenly shouted into the din of crackling air and sparks. Silence descended on the hall once more. The flames flickered out and died. Into the silence the old sorcerer pointed a finger straight at the prince. Sergor-Don let out a scream and pressed his hands against his head. But as quickly as the vice had tightened around his brow it relinquished its grasp. For a moment Auran-San seemed uncertain. He stretched out a second finger and the pain shot through the prince’s feet into his legs, where it evaporated and left only a tingling sensation. The sorcerer raised his second hand to the ceiling and threw something at the prince. Sergor-Don was hunched over in pain and could no longer make out what was happening around him. He did not see a great stone loosen from the ceiling, just above Auran-San. It cracked like a nut that had been thrown in a fire as the stone came down upon the sorcerer’s head and crushed his skull.

“Take him away,” Sergor-Don coughed once his tongue could form any coherent sound again. “And open the doors for the King of the Fire Kingdom. Or is there another San who would deny my claim?”

The young king stepped out into the open, his magical guard behind him. The crowd and many soldiers in it burst out in cheers. Only the court sorcerers remained subdued. Sarch had sheathed his blade, Astergrise still held his weapon drawn. Haltern-kin-Eben was nowhere to be seen.

It was a day of joy, and Gulffir celebrated the first step into a new age. But many of the elders remembered earlier festivities that had been far more joyous. Too many shadows tainted the air. The Fire Kingdom finally had a new king, and the time of waiting and uncertainty had passed. But what a king they now had, who turned everything upside-down, who killed a court sorcerer with magic, whose chosen guard made up of half-arcanists had defeated as experienced and powerful a sorcerer as Auran-San as handily as a griffon kills a dove.

Those blessed with property could only lose under King Sergor-Don. Those with nothing could only win. And so there was drinking, dancing and laughing, but the royal household retired early. Worldbrand hung over them like a black cloud. No, security and trust had not been won that day. Instead, fear and unpredictability would rule the future of the Fire Kingdom. However, brave minds knew that limitless possibilities were open to them. The king had no more councilors; his guard was made up of just five sorcerers. The troops were disquieted and veteran generals trembled for their ranks. The almighty Haltern-kin-Eben had fallen from grace, even though he still held his position. The only one who had made it through the events unscathed was Astergrise.

King Sergor-Don reveled in the celebrations in his name. He had achieved what he had set out to. He was the new king and had destroyed his opponents. Nobody near him was strong enough to challenge him, and with every day the sun gave him he would grow stronger still. And yet his triumph too was not perfect, his smile even thinner than usual. He had underestimated the old man. The body might falter with age, but magic was seldom great in youth. He had hoped to subjugate Auran-San with the aid of his new shields, that they might together destroy the magic of the Other World. But Auran-San’s attacks had been too surprising, too wild and strong. He had not accounted for such ferocity. That was a mistake he loathed himself for.

The fact that he had won the fight was little encouragement; he had been unable to loosen Auran-San’s vice-like grip on his head, unable to stop the pain in his legs, unable to hear the last, fatal cast the sorcerer had attempted. Whatever had happened, he was not the victor. At least, not alone. Which of his guards was strong enough to break Auran-San’s spells and kill him?

King Sergor-Don called for Skorn-Vis and Uul.

“I grant you a temporary respite from your duty to defend my life,” he said quietly. “There is a more pressing matter. Go out and find powerful sorcerers. Search for them in the troops or wherever they decide to be. Search among Astergrise’s bowmen. Any sorcerer who knows how to use bow and arrow, or any marksman who has a spark of magic within him, is a gift to me. Do you understand?”

Skorn-Vis furrowed his brow and said cautiously:

“A sorcerer who has mastered a weapon is as rare as a warrior who knows magic. That is simple to understand. The rest only you understand, sire, for only you know why you seek such people.”

Sergor-Don stared at Skorn-Vis and attempted to reach the depths of his soul through his eyes, but failed.

“Your name, sorcerer. Vis is not honorific, it denotes no rank of lineage. Who has Wit in their name, what does it mean?”

“Everyone in my family has Vis in their name, my liege. It truly is not of honor or rank. It means ‘white as the mountain snow,’ where my ancestors came from. Others say it comes from wisdom, but that must have got lost long ago.” Skorn-Vis’ lips curled a little in his usually stoic face. “It may also come from wide, as in, a broad view, or open mind. Whatever it means, it merely shows my family’s origin, far from the desert.”

“So your ancestors’ birthplace is a legend, and like all good legends it’s wrapped in a veil of mystery.”

“As you say, my king.”

“And how long have you been at court?”

“Not for long, sire. The mares that carried their foals when I arrived may still call a stallion’s attention. As Ringwall measures it, no more than ten winters perhaps. I never counted the days.”

“You were under Auran-San’s command, yet you did not help him.” The king’s voice was objective. Although the answer to his words was what he wanted more than anything out of this conversation, he was satisfied with the simple statement.

“The other court sorcerers did nothing to help him either, my liege. We all swore fealty, but the order of our oath is to the king first, then the kingdom, then our leader. The king was dead. Our oath bound us foremost to the kingdom. You were at the time the one true claimant, and I had sworn to defend you. As I will continue to do, as long as your plans allow it.”

Skorn-Vis knelt down and kissed the hem of the king’s robe. King Sergor’s eyes left the sorcerer’s head and found Uul’s wide open ones. It seemed he had absorbed every word spoken between the sorcerer and king like a piece of cloth.

“And your name, Uul?”

The boy formed a loose ball with his hands, thumbs side by side. He raised his hands to his mouth and blew into them, calling forth a wailing, yet alluring sound. It was unlike anything in the plains and echoed out dimly.

“That is no sound of the land.”

Uul looked rather helpless. “I was told it was a sound of the forest, but I don’t know the forest. Someone once told me they heard a similar thing in the rocks, but that could have just been the wind howling in the crags like my own breath in my hands. It was they who knew the forest who gave me my name. It has no meaning.”

“Who were these people?”

Uul shrugged. “The others, here and there.”

“And who taught you to use magic?”

Uul shifted his weight back and forth; the boy seemed uncomfortable.

“I’m no sorcerer, Sire. I was a child of the desert for as long as I can remember. I can talk to the fire. If I ask it, it follows me. My task was to guard the horses, Sire. Never did an arrow hit a horse under my protection, and I could keep the predators of the plains away with the fire. That is all I can do. I’m no sorcerer, Sire.”

After a brief, tense pause, he continued: “Will you send me away?”

“I needed a shield of Fire to protect me against Metal. A person who can shield a herd of horses has the power to shield a king. We will see how strong you really are in due time. Until then, rejoice in your gift.

“And now ride. Both of you. And remember: we need a shield against all the elements, one that no one could hope to penetrate. The five of you are only the core of the army I will build, and it will be unstoppable.”