Wolf Awert - Ringwall's Doom

Nill approached the Sanctuary with the same reverence he had felt when he had still been a lowly pupil. Here, the elemental magic existed in its purest form. He wished he had more command of it, but the art of magic required more than just the gift: hard work, practice and a lot of experience were mandatory.

He absorbed the silence of the place like the earth drinks morning dew. He was alone, connected only to the magic of the place. But next to being alone was loneliness, which suddenly crashed down upon him. He had to be cautious not to let loneliness become abandonment. He shook his head.

“I chose it this way. I chose Ringwall and Magic.”

The Sanctuary was rarely empty. Time and again, white mages and colored ones alike visited the place, for only here was the purity of the elements complete. Nill saw the flaming red of a Fire mage and the blue of a Water mage, but they vanished quickly. Nobody liked to share the company of an archmage, even if they were barely more than a boy. He paid them only a moment’s attention before stepping into the inner circle, where he sat down on the pale grass.

His thoughts dispersed, his emotions forgot about him, his body was lost. Only his self was still there in the grass for a while, until that, too, disappeared. The Nothing, the end of all things, had come to get him, and the Nothing, the beginning of everything, threw him back into the world. The traces of the ancient magic had fled his body, his mind was soothed, and the agitated exhaustion had been replaced by a more comfortable tiredness. Just before he fell to the side to sleep, a short chuckle escaped him. He, Nill, was the archmage and thus the master of Nothing. A jest lost on most others, he assumed. His mastery consisted solely of giving in to the Nothing for it to come and get him. Who could have any doubts as to who the master was and who the slave? Nill smiled in his sleep. He did not notice the watchful eyes that rested on him.

In a corner a fair distance from the entrance, in the shadow of the restless Wood, stood an old man in an ugly gray robe, the surface of which seemed to be constantly moving. The combined weight of many winters rested on his crooked back, and his roughly carved staff served more as a walking-cane than a tool of magic. He muttered to himself in silent conversation, words streaming constantly from his mouth. His eyes were hidden. Half-closed, they rested in the shade of the hood. It was a picture of peace: the old man and the sleeping boy.

Nill began to stir. His eyelids fluttered open like a butterfly’s wings and his feet twitched.

“Greetings, brother in spirit.” The old man stepped out from the shadows silently and unexpectedly, startling Nill. He had not noticed the brother and wondered how it was possible to move so inconspicuously.

“Greetings to you, Murmon-Som.” Nill carefully avoided addressing him as “brother,” for the Archmage of the Other World gave him shivers, although he could not say why. After his victory against Mah Bu in Ringwall’s library there had been a vote for a new Archmage of the Other World. The High Council had decided on Tofflas. But Tofflas had wasted away quickly. Everyone saw how he lost part of his life force every day, powerless to resist. Several archmages were disquieted by this, half-expecting an attack on the council; others saw a personal, unresolved conflict and denounced the attacker for not showing himself. But a newly-appointed archmage who could not protect himself was of no use to the council, and so they abandoned him to his fate.

After Tofflas had left the world of the living, Murmon-Som took his place on the chair. Among the council there was little hope that the old, rather pained-looking mage would last long. To their surprise, however, he found some way to prove himself. Malicious tongues wagged, claiming he had been the one to get rid of Tofflas.

Nill waited with the politeness expected of a youth, but Murmon-Som did not seem intent on adding anything to his greeting. He simply stood there, motionless, his eyes fixed silently on Nill, until Nill felt ever more uncomfortable under his gaze. More to say something at all than because he had thought about it, he muttered: “Is ‘brother in spirit’ not a little… dignified for one such as me? It is no secret that I am no true archmage. I lead no lodge and am little more than a neophyte. I must be the weakest archmage ever to join the council.”

Nill gave a pained smile; he knew within the first few words that his jest would not reach his fellow archmage.

Murmon-Som flicked his wrist weakly, as if driving off flies or a bad smell. “You yourself are the secret now, brother. Your classmate Prince Sergor-Don had little effort in defeating you. Indeed, not a sign of great strength. Yet in the tournament you succeeded against powerful sorcerers such as the great Morb-au-Morhg or old Infiralior. You passed under Binja and Rinja’s watchful eyes, and Malachiris, the old wood-witch, could do you no harm. And only shortly afterwards you killed Mah Bu, one of the most powerful archmages on the council.”

“I never defeated him,” Nill retorted passionately. “He killed himself, because he could no longer control the powers he presumed to use.”

“Oh, really?” The old man’s laugh was more of a coughing bark than a true sign of mirth. “And who has the power to make an archmage kill himself? An archmage is no simpleton, brother, who makes mistakes so foolish as to cost his own life. Especially not in a fight.”

Nill grew annoyed at this. He hated praise for accomplishments that weren’t his; quite beside the fact that killing an archmage ought not be counted as one in the first place. “I had help. Was that not mentioned? To this day I still don’t know how I won, but I suppose the Ramsleg accompanied me as a friend, and saved me in the end.”

“Yes, yes, I heard whispers… the Talon-foot, the Ramsleg and the great Serp. The three great Demon Lords.” The old man gave another bark. “In ancient legends they speak of mighty sorcerers who boasted of meeting one. None of them ever mentioned working alongside one. You claim to know all three. Not that I distrust you – only every explanation you give is more wondrous than the last.”

Murmon-Som stood still as a statue, immovable, untouched and with a blank stare.

“And the Nothing,” the Archmage of the Other World continued after a long pause. “You forgot the Nothing, Brother Nill. You may laugh about it, jest about it, but it looks as though you are the only one who can enter without personal risk. Not even the magon can do that. Ringwall housed many future victims of the Nothing, those who poked their noses in too often. These days, the path into Nothingness is no longer a search, it is a way for the desperate to escape their miserable lives.”

Nill agreed unwillingly. One of Mah Bu’s apprentices had suggested he visit the Nothing to find truth and magical power. In his naivety he had followed the advice and survived the resulting attack. The Nothing had granted him a questionable fame.

“Not for nothing were you chosen, by the magon and the archmages, to sit the chair of Nothingness, a chair that has been empty for so long, waiting for a master,” Murmon-Som broke the silence.

Nill wanted to reply that the empty chair was no more than a symbol, but suddenly speaking was incredibly difficult. He felt trapped in the opposing archmage’s aura and could not fight back. He did not even know how he could have fought. He felt as if time itself had become stretched and viscous, forcing its way forward ever so slowly. Murmon-Som did nothing but look, but he did so with such force that Nill forgot where he was. He could not even tell if it really was Murmon-Som holding him, or whether it was one of those magical moments in which time stops and the world ceases its movement.