Ringwall's Doom. Wolf Awert
moment he had mounted his steed, Prince Sergor-Don had banished Ringwall from his mind. What lay before him could not be accomplished by stooping over barely legible scrolls. The very air in Gulffir seemed to vibrate as the town anticipated his arrival. Fear and worry pushed the people out of their houses and into the streets. The courtiers had left their quarters and formed fleeting groups in the halls, coming together and breaking apart whenever they were joined by someone they did not trust. And such were many. The king’s old councilors whispered and hissed like old fishwives cooking up rumors. The sorcerers of the court kept to themselves and made sure with their own means that no one could eavesdrop on them; the generals had called their captains to hold a council of war, even though not a single weapon had been raised in the kingdom.
Those who held office and respect in Gulffir were poised to lose all; those who had lived off scraps hoped to gain everything. The stewards responsible for clothing and armaments, for building material and tools had worry in their faces, for in the past they had never been accountable to a higher position than themselves. For too long they had neglected their duties, and the fear of retribution was like the crack of a whip on their backs. The cooks did not know whether to prepare a banquet or provisions for a marching army. Tyr, heold of the kingdom and the master of horses and stables, worried about which animals he could keep for breeding, which yearlings must be broken in, which horse he could promise to which rider. His stock had shrunk as the sick king’s hand had lost its power. Many of them cursed themselves for fools, knew they should have thought what they were now thinking many moons ago; but the king’s steady infirmity had never given them pause.
Prince Sergor-Don had left his companions far behind and arrived at the outer perimeter of Gulffir before night fell. He could see from afar that the traditional red banners of the Fire Kingdom had been exchanged for black as a sign of mourning.
The young man’s chiseled features betrayed no hint of emotion; no sorrow, but also none of the satisfaction he secretly felt.
The old fool’s finally at peace now.
Sergor-Don galloped through the gate and leapt down from his horse. Immediately a servant came to guide it to the stables. The prince stormed up the stairs to the castle’s entrance and sprinted through the long corridor where even his soft-soled boots caused an echoing din. He reached the antechamber before the throne room. The guards straightened up when they caught sight of him and hastily opened the double doors to let him through.
Through the creaking crack between the doors shone the golden light of many candles. It felt as though the entire room was rushing towards the prince. Familiar smells from his childhood days, the rustle of clothes, wildly dancing spots of light and shadow flew at him before finally coalescing to something recognizable.
Sergor-Don knew this scene. He had witnessed it many times in his youth; every time his father the king held an audience, he had been surrounded by the powerful and the strong. The only difference was that today the two thrones were empty. The right one had been so for as long as he could remember, for his mother had died early in his childhood. But now the left one was vacant too. As if to make up for the lack of a person on the throne, a painfully dense throng surrounded the platform upon which the thrones stood. The effect was odd; the center seemed almost unreal to him in comparison.
Next to his father’s throne stood, keeping a respectful distance as always, Auran-San, his old teacher and first councilor at the king’s court. His appearance was gaunt, yet he radiated such power that the group of generals beside the queen’s throne seemed diminished. The prince felt as though he was standing in front of a set of scales, their pans quivering up and down due to the tiny, involuntary movements the people in the room made. Of course, Auran-San was not wholly alone on the left side. Behind him stood the courtiers and the most important sorcerers of the court.
Indeed, today judgment must be swift and wise, the prince thought as he scanned the room for the central force present. Who presided over Gulffir when Father let go of the reins? Auran-San? Astergrise, the old marshal, commander of the palace guard? One of the generals perhaps, or even Haltern-kin-Eben? Who could know with such a man – one moment he acts solely as keeper of tradition, the next he might as well be king for all his flouncing. He realized that he was looking in the wrong places.
The central power in Gulffir was a small object in front of the two thrones. Upon a red velvet stool lay the crown of the kingdom, glittering ominously. Sergor was able not only to see it clearly, but also to see life in it, even if that was no more than a reflection of the flickering torches and candles. Only the crown was important.
The king’s favorite dog and the stunted dwarf fool sat together on the stairs before the throne; their shadows were small and posed no threat. In the second line behind the throne stood the servants. Prince Sergor-Don recognized a few, but even the man who had once held his pony and the one who had carved his first wooden sword did not dare betray a flicker of emotion.
And now the vultures circle together, the prince thought. He remained in the entrance for another moment to engrave the image in his memory forever; he had to remember who stood where. His pupils dilated for the merest heartbeat when he realized how close together Auran-San and Haltern-kin-Eben were.
Idiot, he cursed silently. Must you show them all that you support the first councilor? All that remains is to see who the captains are loyal to. Not to you, Astergrise, I can see that. I suppose you didn’t howl loudly enough with the dogs.
After what seemed an eternity, Prince Sergor-Don began to walk at a leisurely pace towards the throne. Just before reaching it, he turned slightly to the left and addressed Auran-San.
“Where is my father?” he asked.
The first councilor essayed a bow and replied quietly: “My prince, you came too late. A tragedy. Your father has already left us. If you would follow me…”
Auran-San made an inviting gesture, but it was slow with mourning. He turned around and led the prince to a small chamber behind the throne room. He gave a short sign and from the shadows on the wall emerged two guards to unlock the small door.
The prince hurried over to the deathbed, where he fell to his knees. “Leave. All of you, leave me alone,” he called as he grabbed hold of his father’s cold hand.
His words were not to be a respectful farewell.
You were a useless fool. How can a King achieve greatness and power if he does nothing but rest easy on what he has? Didn’t Astergrise always cite the Book of Sunn, saying that a great marshal can win a war without leading a single battle? Is it not greatness and power, exactly like fear and powerlessness on the enemy’s side, which stops attacks before they even begin? Ringwall has never fought a war, yet all of Pentamuria bows before it. I was there, father, and I have studied their ways. So believe what I tell you now. That was what I wanted to learn, not the simple summons they teach. And I learned. The High Council of the Archmages and the Magon is not Ringwall’s true strength. It is its weakness. All it takes is someone who understands Ringwall, and it will fall. Do you understand? Ringwall will fall. But before I take care of the Mage City, I must save the Fire Kingdom. Our kingdom, that you so recklessly left to rot!
The prince stayed in the chamber for a long time, talking to his dead father. He knew he would never be heard, would never receive a response, but that would not save him from the reckoning. Sergor-Don was alone behind closed doors for so long that he began to hear voices; they worried about him – might not the young prince need aid in his sorrow? But everyone who tried to enter was repelled by the guards. Many hours passed before the prince opened the door and stepped out to meet those who had waited.
“A great king has left us. We shall honor him for a full moon’s cycle.”
Haltern-kin-Eben leaned towards Grand General Sarch and whispered mockingly: “The less we mourn, the longer the festivities.”
“And take down the pathetic rags from Gulffir’s towers. I wish to see great black banners, whipping in the wind, to capture the truth of our sorrow. And…”
The prince paused for a moment