Wolf Awert - Ringwall's Doom

Ambrosimas, Archmage of Thoughts, lugged his massive body through Ringwall to get to the High Lady Morlane’s chambers. Despite his considerable size he was surprisingly quick, and beneath the fat powerful muscles were hidden. If the occasion called for it, he could strike hard and painfully.

“Morlane, my dear,” he purred. “Terrible times are upon us. So terrible, even, that old friends can barely meet anymore.”

A smile flitted across the High Lady’s face, still beautiful despite the criss-crossing lines life had drawn on it.

“What an unexpected pleasure. The master of feints and deceits, the lover of intrigues and the dancer of thoughts, careful never to take the straightest path out of fear it might bore him, has decided to honor me with his presence. But even behind your many faces, today the disguise for your sinister intentions is a little lacking. This worries me.”

“Oh, my dear,” Ambrosimas protested as he explored his right ear with his little finger. “You have known me for so long, and still you do not really know me. I have no intentions, none good and certainly none sinister. I had merely come for a drink, you see, and had hoped to find no more than a sympathetic soul who would listen to my moaning and wailing without all of Ringwall knowing.” Ambrosimas looked as though he was about to cry, and Morlane felt an overwhelming sadness rise up inside her.

“Stop that,” she scolded him. “An archmage should not play such games with his friends.”

“Apologies.” The broad face cracked into a grin and the sun seemed to shine on Morlane’s heart again.

“Ambrosimas!” Her voice cracked like a whip.

“Alright, alright, my dear. No, truly, it is no more than my own sadness. Nothing serious. I suffer daily from the mistrust that grips Ringwall more every day. You may or may not choose to believe me, but not even two archmages can meet here without somebody sniffing out a conspiracy.”

Ambrosimas pouted and Morlane patted him on the shoulder comfortingly. “Oh, you poorest thing. But has it not always been so in Ringwall? You yourself trust no one.”

“I must protest! That is a completely different circumstance. Deep within me, there is no mistrust.” Ambrosimas laid a hand on his heart and adopted a sincere expression. “It is only on the outside that a certain caution has grown,” he continued before dropping onto a comfortable seat.

“I see. One of those rare occurrences where something hasn’t gone according to plan, is it? And this irks you. Is it not so? Who have you met and who did not do as you asked?”

“Oh, nobody, truly.” Ambrosimas threw his arms up in mock desperation, but then he smiled like a mischievous little boy and whispered conspiratorially: “The thing is… I would like to meet someone.”

Morlane sat upright on her stool, her hands laid on her lap. She could wait. Ambrosimas wanted something, and he would tell her.

“I see you cannot guess. Or perhaps you can, and you choose not to, to spoil my fun,” Ambrosimas resumed after a long pause. His face fell into a sullen grimace. “There was this rather undutiful student once, no manners and no abilities, of course. His only talent was to gain as many enemies in as short a timespan as possible. I merely wondered whether your lessons were any use for the boy. But as I said, it has been a while, and it’s rather unimportant.”

His tone was light, but his body tense. Morlane saw through the lie immediately.

“I understand your troubles. The uncouth lout can still barely wield magic, he is probably even less popular now, and unfortunately, he is an archmage.”

“His becoming an archmage was a lucky chance, as it protects him to a degree. I cannot always watch over him, after all. Still, it makes some things so endlessly arduous.”

Ambrosimas sighed as if the entire weight of the universe rested upon his shoulders.

“I have not seen your erstwhile charge in a long time. You know how it is yourself. Archmages come and go as they please. You cannot simply invite them. Look at you – you are no different.”

“Yes, yes, you’re right of course.” Ambrosimas put on a contrite demeanor and once again Morlane felt as though she needed to comfort him. The Archmage of Thoughts played with emotions like a storyteller played with words.

“Archmages follow no summons but to the magon – it’s too dangerous. But…” – Ambrosimas’s face lit up – “… Nill might not know that. He is an exception to almost all the rules; perhaps for this one too. I am sure he would come to visit you. I’m rather afraid he might not want to seek out his old master.”

His visage of sorrow could have made sandstone bricks cry. The High Lady nodded and smiled gently. Ambrosimas could have dispensed with his usual games: she had never been able to deny him, even when she knew that he was simply taking advantage of her. But Ambrosimas was an archmage. And occasionally he cared for her feelings.

“For you. I could invite him to a cozy chat in a few days, for old times’ sake. Does he still choose to live in one of those awful small caves? They are no place for an archmage. I will send one of my girls to him.”

“In a few days.” Ambrosimas scratched his head. “I would hazard a guess that he is on the way back from the Sanctuary to these, ahem, caves. He will probably choose to take the portal to the Battlefield, and from there to the portal that leads from the Metal quarter to the kitchens. Once there he’ll pass through the mucklings’ work rooms to get into the entrance hall. That’s only a few steps from the stairs down into the catacombs. The best place to catch him is in the kitchens.”

“I am astonished that you still know so much about the habits of old friends you have not seen in a long time,” Morlane teased.

“Habits make us humans, my dear. Habits! And, now and again, a watchful eye to see whether they don’t change. Now, if you please, time is fleeting.” The mummer’s act was dropped. Ambrosimas was once again the archmage, and he left no doubt as to what he wanted.

“I will see what I can do.” Morlane had not abandoned her smile, but her lips seemed to have frozen.

Nill squeezed past the empty tables and benches in the mages’ dining hall, stepped sideways and entered Growarth’s realm. Growarth, according to none other than himself, was the highest-ranking warlock in all of Ringwall, and had complete command of the kitchens. Nill did not doubt the truth of his claim – he was the only warlock in Ringwall.

Occasionally Nill visited his old friend, but today he was in a hurry to get back to the safety of the catacombs. From the back, where meats were smoked and pickled, vegetables were washed and fruits were sorted, he heard the busy sounds of the mucklings. Plates clattered, water sploshed and now and again a knife sang as it felt the whetstone. The only thing he did not hear were voices. The mucklings knew that silence was safest.

Nill slipped through the chambers like a shadow until something plucked at his sleeve. He turned about and saw a girl with a face as white as chalk, her lips pressed together resolutely.

“I have an invitation for you.”

Nill was not in the mood for being invited anywhere. One could never know what the other’s intention was, so he remained silent and waited with a blank look on his face. The young girl had used up all her courage and had to take another deep breath before forcing out another sentence.

“My mistress, High Lady Morlane, begs the pleasure of your company. Will you come, your Excellency?”

Nill had to laugh. The girl turned, if possible, even paler.

This is how far it’s come , Nill thought, for my laugh to scare young girls. Out loud he said: “Very well, you may go. Tell her I will be happy to follow her invitation soon.”