Ringwall's Doom. Wolf Awert
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.
Chapter II
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