Wolf Awert - The Reign of Magic

“So a city is basically just a big village,” Nill said, disillusioned.

“Rainhir is a big village, yes. It really only exists to supply Ringwall with all the things it needs. Mages need to eat and be clothed too. Mages need plants, metals and certain types of wood. This is a place of haggling, dealing and trading. This is not Ringwall.”

The sky had grown dark, almost black, but now flickered a few times and suddenly shone in blinding white light. It began to rain for a few heartbeats and stopped again. The sun burned down upon them in the short breaks from the rain and gave the air an uncomfortable humidity. The druid deemed that a great battle had been fought a few days ago. It always took some time for nature to get back to normal.

Dakh-Ozz-Han’s steps grew longer. Nill knew his companion well enough by now to know that restlessness had taken hold of him, invisible beneath the calm exterior. They crossed the city and stood before the sheer rock of the mountain. High up above, just below the peak a strong wall encircled the mountain. If Rainhir was the necklace, then this wall was the crown.

“What a city that must be if the walls enclose the entire mountain!” Nill exclaimed.

“The walls are, in fact, the city,” Dakh smiled. “They are two stories tall and the mountain is full of carved tunnels and vaults. Nobody knows how far down they go.”

This Ringwall had to be humongous. From a distance it looked like a thin braid on a giant’s head. That head just happened to be the legendary Knor-il-Ank, a mountain with a round peak, deep ravines in its roots and the large ruins of collapsed caves. Even though its peak could be reached in less than a quarter day, the mountain exuded power.

“The deepest roots of the mountain dig deep into the core of the world, and some say they even reach beyond this realm,” Dakh whispered.

The thin crown appeared to be dancing, though Nill knew that to be impossible. Here and there parts of the wall were swallowed by a mystical mist. Other parts of it broke through the fog and jutted out with hard angles against the mountain. Nill could not see where the entrance to the city was, but Dakh was already walking a winding path upwards. The wall’s height was not always even, and so the top of it looked ever more threatening the higher they went and the darker the sky became. Like fangs , Nill thought. The zigzag line was broken at one point. Where the wall would meet the rising sun the next morning a dome was built on the wall, like the nest of a swift cloud-arrow. Above it the view to the stars, below it the thin air of a free fall and all around it the free, endless far sight. Nill gaped, amazed.

But the wondrous construction that so gripped the boy was a source of discomfort to the druid, one he could not quite grasp. He gave himself a shake as if to shake off his foreboding thoughts and wondered whether his decision to bring Nill here had been the right one. Perhaps, though, it was just the concentrated magical energy below a small dome that caused his unease. For there, at this moment, the High Council held a meeting, led by the Magon.

Gwynmasidon, the Magon and spiritual leader of the archmages, sat at the top end of a long oval table made of smooth, gray onyx. Rust-red scars dug into the rock, looking more like dried blood than aged iron, yellow sulfurous lines criss-crossed over it. Above all, green shades billowed over the surface and gave the stone an irregular life.

Across from the Magon sat the five archmages of the elements: Ilfhorn, the young one who watched over Wood, Nosterlohe and Gnarlhand, keepers of Fire and Earth, Bar Helis, commander of Metal and finally Queshalla. Queshalla was the only woman at the oval and after the Magon the oldest member of the High Council. She presided over Water.

On the Magon’s left and right sides, respectively, sat Keij-Joss, the star-reader, and Mah Bu, who was reputed to always be in the Other World with a part of his being. Keij-Joss and Mah Bu were war-names, honorific titles, in recognition of extraordinary deeds. Some believed war-names were purely coincidental, chosen on a whim – a sentiment shared throughout the halls and corridors of Ringwall and by the common folk in the five kingdoms of Pentamuria. But in the world of magic things do not often happen purely by coincidence. A mage whose real name had become too trivial for anyone to use it any longer had reached the highest rank of recognition. The only thing left for such a person was the title of Magon.

In the middle of the table, between Keij-Joss and Queshalla, Ambrosimas resided – Archmage of Thought and third master of the spheres. Whispers behind his back called him simply “the word.” If addressed directly, however, it was always respectfully, with his proper name. Ambrosimas was one of the perpetual mysteries of Ringwall. Of stately corpulence and with a constant smile playing around his mouth, he was as suited to playing the fool as he was to being part of the council. His wit was scathing and his advice was profound. But as so often with high mages, appearance concealed truth; his smile seldom reached his eyes.

Across the table from Ambrosimas there was a stool wedged between Mah Bu and Bar Helis. The stool belonged to the Archmage of Nothing, the incomprehensible and mysterious magic that had not had a place in Ringwall for long. Nobody knew where the magic came from or who had welcomed it here. The space between Bar Helis and Mah Bu had always been slightly larger than between the other mages, and it had grown larger the stronger the Nothingness became. One day the Circle of the Council had broken at this precise place and the Magon had ordered that the magic of Nothing be accepted into the council to fill the gap. The plain shape of the stool – a round surface and three thin legs – was a general sign of disapproval. But what had originally been designed as a sign of disregard now contrasted with the ornamental chairs of the others and served as a constant reminder to keep focused on the origin of magic.

As the Magon’s gaze wandered along the oval, the Onyx awakened. Pale lights erupted from the center, ricocheting off the edges and burning out in sizzling sparks, or else simply extinguishing before the throne of Nothingness. The stone slab had begun to absorb the magical fumes in the room and release them again.

Gwynmasidon looked around at the Circle, and the longer he stayed silent the more his presence filled the room. When he finally spoke, his whisper reached every crevice.

“We have Keij-Joss’ sharp senses to thank that we know of the changes coming to Pentamuria this early. But the glimpse into the future is denied us – a glimpse we know from legends we once had.”

Nobody who laid eyes upon Gwynmasidon would have guessed that he was the spiritual leader of the Mages of Ringwall. He was of medium height, and his muscular build, not entirely covered by his luxurious robe, and stocky neck told of more than just strength of mind. His hands, which he kept motionless and slightly curled on the table, were callused like those of a fisherman or a farmer. They seemed not to fit with the golden robe which he wore with the same serenity as the pressing burden of his title.

His face was angular, as though it had been hewn from rock. The nose stuck out from under a broad brow, casting a shadow on his mouth that nobody had ever seen crack into a laugh. He seemed like a wild beast in a king’s clothes but for his eyes. They stared with a strangely broken, empty gaze, like a dying person before they pass through the great gate. Some of the archmages considered the Magon too old. But who knows of the images only the Magon sees, who knows the burden he must bear; of what importance are eyes to someone directly bound to the magical world? Only those brave enough and close enough to him to look into his face took with them a gaze into nowhere, where magical forces collided, fused and dissolved again in a silent storm.