Wolf Awert - Ringwall's Doom

The small platform offered little room to walk on. As he paced around it, a set of stones always interrupted his concentration. A watcher up here had full view of the surrounding area, save for the sun’s point at midday. It was blocked by a sort of bay. There was no entrance to it, nor windows to look out from. It was as solid as the walls below. In his childish anger he had beaten against it with his fists, and learned the lesson that anger can amplify pain severely.

One day, he had stood on tip-toe upon the winding stair that led to the top to touch the bottom of the walled-off area. There was no entrance here either, but as he scratched the stones he found that the mortar had rotted. He drew his knife and plunged it repeatedly into the gap between the stones until the mortar had fully given way, releasing a pitiful sigh of ancient air.

There was a hollow space there! It had taken many more visits for Sergor-Don to remove the first stone and place it on one of the steps, and many more still until he had enough stones to stand on to reach into the hole. He had to sink his arm up to his shoulder into the hole, and all he got for his trouble was an old cloak, rolled up and skewered by a spearhead. The cloak was so old that it started to fall apart as he removed it. Dust and brown tatters he held in his hands. But hidden within that rolled-up cloak was a treasure more valuable than all the riches of the Five Kingdoms. It was several old parchments, hastily bundled together. They were torn in places, burnt in others, and stained all over in different colors that told of blood, the sweat of countless hands and tears from long-blind eyes.

The prince remembered clearly how he had held them close to his face and breathed in the magical vapors that still clung to the scraps after so many years. It was all he could do at the time; the writing was unreadable to him. The map that was rolled up with the other parchment was equally useless to him. But Sergor-Don, the young prince, was not a child like any other. He stood still for a moment. Then he carefully stowed everything back in the space, returned the stones to their positions, cleaned the dirt and the dust from his precious clothes and made his way to Auran-San, his father’s First Advisor.

“Teach me to read!” he commanded in his child’s voice.

Prince Sergor-Don read all he could find in Gulffir, and as he did so he found himself pushing further and further into the past. He finally read the tales that the court scribes had written to honor their kings. The older the stories were, the closer their writing resembled that on the parchments he had found. To his dismay, the only thing he was not allowed to read were the books of magic they kept at court.

He issued the order not to be disturbed when he was on the tower, where he stood on the platform, his arms raised, singing a monotonous melody before he vanished behind the balustrade. It was a prayer, meditation, an encounter with the elements; at least, he let them think so. His regular visits to Skyseeker became a ritual nobody understood, but it served its purpose: nobody dared disturb him. How easy it was to fool the common folk with empty gestures!

Some riders were bemused by the young prince’s behavior, but as he excelled in all earthly arts and could ride and shoot brilliantly, the royal household left him to himself. And so Skyseeker became his own. Yet many foals were born before Sergor-Don retrieved the old scriptures. Finally, he understood them. He read, and he was shocked.

The scraps were old, but infinitely older still were the words upon them. Every sentence brimmed with magic and affected the young prince like a spell, even if they were short and simple.

“Only magic remained.”

These three words were the only thing Sergor managed to read on the first parchment, but as he spoke them loudly and clearly into the wind, a power flowed from the parchment, through him and out into the world. It was not like the wind that shook the people and tore at their clothes. It was more like the gentle force of earth; calm, embracing, controlling.

“There is only one magic, this every creature knows,” he read on a different scrap. “Only the human forgets. He uses magic and forgets his natural knowledge. He invents a feigned illusion of many powers. Know that the changing illusion will alter the world more through those who follow it than the world itself ever can. But he who understands the secret of the first magic can create any for himself.”

The prince did not understand the wisdom in these words; he only felt their might. He did not know what was meant by illusions, nor had he ever heard of this first magic or ever wasted a moment’s thought on where it came from. But he did understand what it meant for him. The magic of the five elements was fragile, and Ringwall, based upon this magic, even more so. Even if Knor-il-Ank was the magical center of the world, Ringwall, the trove of magic of the Elements, the Cosmos, the Thoughts and the Other World, was man’s work. It was fallible. It was only as strong as those who controlled it. It was not, by nature, the center of power, just as little as Gulffir was without the king. Without humans, neither city meant anything.

Several scraps belonged to other books. Most of it was incomprehensible, prophetic nonsense. Yet one of them bore the words: Use the Olvejin. It sees through illusion and carries all magic within it.

“The Olvejin!”

The young prince knew this word, had read it in myths and fables. A magical item of sorts, or a sacred site shrouded in legend. Here in front of him was proof that the Olvejin must have existed, and perhaps he might find a clue to its whereabouts.

It took some time before he had calmed down enough to inspect the last parchment. His immediate feeling was disappointment. It was more of a field sketch than a true map; there were a few wildly zig-zagged lines that could barely be called mountains, and a bent cross that marked a spot. It could be anywhere in Pentamuria, wherever there were mountains. That included the Fire Kingdom, the neighboring Woodhold and Metal World. Even the Waterways and Earthland had some mountains, albeit only at the border to Metal World. Without further clues it would take several lifetimes to find the marked place.

Hours later the prince found among the markings that covered the map a word and a symbol. Both meant the same thing: The sleeping dragon. The prince knew about it. It was a fire dragon. Its raised tail was a rock needle, its back a ridge strewn with ruins, its fire-spitting mouth a twin mountain covered in craters. The dragon was hidden deep in the desert, and few people had been brave enough to search for it. The tail served as a point of direction for trading caravans. Sergor knew the place where the dragon slept, he knew which mountains were depicted on the map, he remembered the stories of courageous men who had crossed them. Did the Olvejin and the dragon belong together? Was the Olvejin the tool of ultimate power, and would it help him gain control over all of Pentamuria? Prince Sergor-Don decided to find out. To that end, he would have to travel to Ringwall, where he could learn more about magic than was possible at his father’s court.

It was for the future of Pentamuria, for the glory of the Fire Kingdom and for the peak of power that Sergor accepted his place as a subordinate student. He had forged friendships with the mighty and been humiliated for one purpose: for a different fate, his fate.

That was the final time anyone will ever stand above me. Everyone who enjoyed giving me orders will have little time to enjoy their sense of power.

The young prince’s smile was grim as he urged his stallion on. With each galloping stride Sergor-Don grew a little older and a little harder.