Ringwall's Doom. Wolf Awert
sorcerers dared so brazenly prove their might. After many tense moments a young man stepped forward. His robe was plain.
“My name is Skorn-Vis and I have not served you long, your Majesty. But I am prepared to protect you from Fire.”
“You have an unusual name, Skorn-Vis.”
“My family tells of how we descended from the Snowy Mountains, but how we arrived in the Fire Kingdom I do not know.”
Sergor-Don rained fire down upon him, raised flames from the ground and attempted to burn the young man from within, but Skorn-Vis’ Water shield stood fast. The hot steam pushed the crowd back and hid the sorcerer from their view; fountains of water and fire shot skywards as the cobblestones seemed to bubble and melt. Skorn-Vis stood unfazed in the middle of the inferno, and the water that ran down his face might have been sweat or just as likely remains of his shield.
“Skorn-Vis, you have proven worthy. You shall be one of my kingsguard.”
The sorcerer gave a low bow and retreated.
The next one to approach was still half a child. His eyes were wide, his clothing too large for his small frame and badly patched, and the dust of the plains still clung to his hair and skin. He did not speak as he stood opposite the prince. With one hand he pulled a few straws from his hair, allowing everyone to see where his last resting place had been. With the other hand he described a small circle and the air around him glowed with silent fire.
Sergor-Don clicked his fingers and flung a swarm of tiny metal bolts outward. Before they could reach the boy, he encased himself in a fiery globe and the attack melted away. Sergor-Don followed up by throwing heavy iron balls at him – their weight alone would have sufficed to break the delicate figure in front of him, and they were loaded with more than just Metal energy, in spite of what he had announced. The fiery ball changed its shape and the attack slid off it. The final test, a spear of incredible mass and with a point sharper than any ordinary weapon, got stuck halfway through and broke in two pieces.
“There is space enough for you under my shield, my liege,” the boy called out.
“What is your name?”
“Uul.”
“Just Uul?”
“Yes, my liege.”
“You stink.”
“Yes, sire.”
“You will be given new clothes.”
Sergor-Don turned to face the crowd.
“Two of five have been found. Fire and Water protect me. I am yet in need of Earth, Metal and Wood.”
They were a motley bunch gathered around the prince in the end. Apart from Skorn-Vis and Uul he had found a half-arcanist who could not feel the earth he walked on, but whose Wood magic was strong enough even to withstand most Metal attacks. He had a beautiful name, one that, when whispered, felt as though the flowers were reaching for the sky. He was called Phloe, for the goddess of the grasslands, who blessed the plains after the first rain and transformed them into a garden of blossoms. The courtiers were rather concerned that a man was named for a goddess. Even worse was Aulo, a simpleton with a face half lame, as rigid as a blade before it breaks. His Metal was strong enough to split Wood before it could even be summoned. Nobody was sure that Aulo was his real name – his mouth produced groans and howls more than words. King Sergor’s defense against Water lay in the hands of a small man who would in other courts not have looked out of place as a dwarf jester. He declined the use of a shield, instead choosing to simply channel the Water into the ground. Sergor only stopped attacking when the entire crowd was soaked and standing ankle-high in mud.
“You seem terrible to friend and foe alike; the Water cannot touch you, but you might choke us all on the mud. What is your name?” Sergor-Don asked the dwarf.
“They call me Sijem the Brown,” the short man’s answer came quickly.
“Are there other Sijems apart from you? Black, gray or even red ones?” the king asked, for Sijem was an ancient word for ‘ground.’
“My older brother was called Sijem the Pale. But he was rather small and did not live long. Then I came. When my mother saw me she cursed my father and denied him any more children. Now I am the only Sijem. But brown is a strong color, the best of them all.” The little man was bursting with confidence.
Auran-San realized to his horror that soon none of his lickspittles would be in the direct company of the king, and began to worry in earnest.
“The Fire Kingdom will unite iron and magic to an alliance the likes we have not seen since the days of the First Kings. Sorcerers and warriors will ride side-by-side and ensure that our home achieves its old glory. I enter the throne room as Prince Sergor-Don. I shall leave it as king.”
For the second time that day, Auran-San and Haltern-kin-Eben stepped forward to crown the prince, and for the second time Sergor-Don stopped them.
“Marshal Astergrise,” the prince called into the hall. Several nobles held their breath. None in the Fire Kingdom enjoyed regard equal to that of the old rider. Even Auran-San, with all his power as an advisor and the force behind the court sorcerers, never dared speak an open word against the white-haired old man, quite apart from fear of his still impressive use of a saber. What folly awaited the man who had served the old king with such unwavering devotion?
“Tell me, do you know the old Rockvice?” The relief in the crowd’s collective sigh was immediately undermined by tension at this new turn.
Astergrise gave a short nod before breaking the silence that usually surrounded him. “Yes, your Majesty. An old fortification at the borders of our kingdom. It was abandoned when your grandfather pushed our borders further towards Woodhold. Two days’ ride from Rockvice will find you at our current border. On the other side, closer to the capital, lies the land of the tribes, until the mountains cut it off. Follow the water to Ringwall; it can be reached in less than a day at a hard gallop. There are no troops in Rockvice, but some have settled in the old buildings.”
Astergrise knew the land well. Sergor-Don seemed satisfied.
“I would have Rockvice rebuilt. Three strong walls will surround it. The innermost will have a gate small enough to allow a single warrior through – no riders will pass. Within this ring there will be chambers for me and my councilors. The second wall will have gates large enough to allow riders, but no wagons. Within this wall the townsfolk will live. The gate in the outer wall will be wide enough to allow two troops to ride through without touching each other. This part will house our new garrisons. On the fire side of Rockvice there is a plateau of black glass, too smooth for sand and plant life. There you will build a tower with a winding stair and five rooms at the top. The highest platform will be open to all sides. You will have the time it takes for a foal to be born from the moment the stallion meets the mare. Can you have it done?”
Another short nod. “The fortifications can be made. Without haste, brick by brick. Give me the people to do it and it will be done exactly as you wish. The cisterns must be expanded and the water reservoirs improved. This too will happen, even if the rock does not give in willingly. Your chambers will be small and simple, and we may have to renew them in time. If the sorcerers help, there should be no problems in rebuilding Rockvice in the time you have given. But there will be no luxuries, no pomp. No decorations around the gates and windows. Not even a sorcerer’s magic could spur an artist’s mind to work in such time. Rockvice will be the town of a warrior. Traders will avoid it, unless they bring water.
“The tower is a different matter. It can not be built so readily. The black glass is not only too smooth for sand, but also stone. No builder could immediately build there, least of all a tower that could withstand the wind and storms.”
Astergrise returned his gaze to the prince questioningly, and found a smiling face.
“Very well, for the tower I will have to be my own builder. I can live without comforts. The more important thing is that