Wolf Awert - Ringwall's Doom

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He-he-he-haaa!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Was someone on the other side of the door?

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

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

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

“Done. Another day survived.”

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

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

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

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