Ringwall's Doom. Wolf Awert

to open up his aura to the falundron. Madness. An attempt born of desperation.

      Nill re-established his connection to the swaying dragon. At the same time he inflated his aura until it reached the outer limits of the falundron’s. Gently, searchingly. No more than a shy first kiss. Nill hesitated. He did not want to be misunderstood. But the response came, and it forced him to his knees. The blow made him grab the pulsating wood of the door for support, and he felt with horror how the reality drifted away from him. All that remained was the urgent impatience of the falundron, and a feeling that was somehow connected to time. Everything was bathed in blazing flames. The falundron invaded his aura, a stab of pain shot through his head, followed by a flood of feelings and images. Nill understood the falundron.

      There were neither words nor clear thoughts. Instead, he saw scraps of pictures, fleeting impressions and, most of all, emotions. A rush, haste, an almost palpable urgency that seemed to pound to a monotonous rhythm. “Da da dam, da da dam, it is time, it is time, da da dam, not much time, da da dam, not much time, not far now, da da dam.”

      The stream of rhythm and fragmented words was endless. Or were they even words? The pounding hooves of a galloping horse? War drums? Da da dam, da da dam! No, they were words! Or not?

      And between the hammering blows, the breadth of the world. Glimpses from mountain peaks, all the way to the horizon. Gray water, broken up by clusters of reeds, angry mountains under a coat of ash, throwing rocks and fire into the sky, choking on their own breath. Nill saw earth, burnt by the sun, its crust hard as iron, where no sapling would ever grow. He saw green woods, fertile and good, with branches and twigs woven so densely as to shield them from the world outside. And, again and again, the feeling of haste and fire. The falundron pushed Nill away with a last, painful shove, and became as rigid as ever before. The door shook one last time. The chamber grew silent, and the magical seal wove itself anew. All was as it had always been.

      Nill’s legs gave out from under him. He fell to the floor, asleep.

      Much later, he awoke again and dragged himself to his own cave. It was unchanged: all it contained was a chest, a pile of quilts and furs that made up his bed, a table, a chair and a jug of water.

      “Fitting for a neophyte,” Nill thought, “and just as fitting for an Archmage of Nothing.”

      He had not chosen this place on a whim. His cave was one of many small ones that the legendary founders of Ringwall had carved into the mountain, where they had hidden from persecution during the black times. These days, they were far enough away from the lodgings of the other archmages, and deep beneath the surface.

      “I ought to rest and do something entirely different for a few days, but I’m running out of time.”

      Nill felt the urgency that drove him in a very real sense, and his unrest troubled him. He slowed his breathing, making it deeper and calmer, and attempted to block out the thoughts that danced around in his head like a group of angry apes in order to get some sleep. Unfortunately, in vain.

      The apes stayed and chased each other in circles. The falundron, the symbols, Perdis, the amulet, ancient magic, magic of nothing, magic of five elements, Other World, cosmos and thoughts, prophecy, truth (which truth?), fate and time, past, creation, magic of Nothing, ancient magic, magic of elements, Nothing, Nothing, Nill the Nothing, Nill, Nill, me, me, me. Nill punched himself in the head and the shock of pain interrupted the spider’s web of thoughts that sprawled through his mind. He coughed and gasped for air.

      “I’ve been down here too long. I have to leave the catacombs. The magic down here will kill me.” He leapt up and hurried to the entrance that separated the Hermits’ Caves from the rest of Ringwall. He knew where and how to tame the chaos in his mind, where he could refresh his energy. The Sanctuary. But in order to get there he would have to leave his quarters and cross Ringwall.

      “All the caution in the world won’t matter if I die down here anyway,” he muttered. He left the Hermit’s Caves and climbed the stairs that led to the entrance area of Ringwall. Down the corridor to his left lived Gnarlhand, Archmage of Earth. On the right side, behind the dining chambers and the kitchens, was the Metal lodge, where his old enemy Bar Helis had lived. Before him lay the path to the world outside Ringwall, to sunlight, to the sounds of wind and life. But that was not his goal.

      Nill’s path to the Sanctuary led him to the other side of the city, close to the Wood lodge. He stepped through a series of portals and soon found himself standing before the circle of the five magical symbols – the basalt column for Earth, the shimmering, composite crystal of Metal, the gurgling fountain for Water, the tree for Wood and the everlasting torch, representing Fire. His own element, Nothing, was in the center of these five, and all that hinted at its existence were pale colors, fuzzy outlines and a profound feeling of emptiness.

      Nill approached the Sanctuary with the same reverence he had felt when he had still been a lowly pupil. Here, the elemental magic existed in its purest form. He wished he had more command of it, but the art of magic required more than just the gift: hard work, practice and a lot of experience were mandatory.

      He absorbed the silence of the place like the earth drinks morning dew. He was alone, connected only to the magic of the place. But next to being alone was loneliness, which suddenly crashed down upon him. He had to be cautious not to let loneliness become abandonment. He shook his head.

      “I chose it this way. I chose Ringwall and Magic.”

      The Sanctuary was rarely empty. Time and again, white mages and colored ones alike visited the place, for only here was the purity of the elements complete. Nill saw the flaming red of a Fire mage and the blue of a Water mage, but they vanished quickly. Nobody liked to share the company of an archmage, even if they were barely more than a boy. He paid them only a moment’s attention before stepping into the inner circle, where he sat down on the pale grass.

      His thoughts dispersed, his emotions forgot about him, his body was lost. Only his self was still there in the grass for a while, until that, too, disappeared. The Nothing, the end of all things, had come to get him, and the Nothing, the beginning of everything, threw him back into the world. The traces of the ancient magic had fled his body, his mind was soothed, and the agitated exhaustion had been replaced by a more comfortable tiredness. Just before he fell to the side to sleep, a short chuckle escaped him. He, Nill, was the archmage and thus the master of Nothing. A jest lost on most others, he assumed. His mastery consisted solely of giving in to the Nothing for it to come and get him. Who could have any doubts as to who the master was and who the slave? Nill smiled in his sleep. He did not notice the watchful eyes that rested on him.

      In a corner a fair distance from the entrance, in the shadow of the restless Wood, stood an old man in an ugly gray robe, the surface of which seemed to be constantly moving. The combined weight of many winters rested on his crooked back, and his roughly carved staff served more as a walking-cane than a tool of magic. He muttered to himself in silent conversation, words streaming constantly from his mouth. His eyes were hidden. Half-closed, they rested in the shade of the hood. It was a picture of peace: the old man and the sleeping boy.

      Nill began to stir. His eyelids fluttered open like a butterfly’s wings and his feet twitched.

      “Greetings, brother in spirit.” The old man stepped out from the shadows silently and unexpectedly, startling Nill. He had not noticed the brother and wondered how it was possible to move so inconspicuously.

      “Greetings to you, Murmon-Som.” Nill carefully avoided addressing him as “brother,” for the Archmage of the Other World gave him shivers, although he could not say why. After his victory against Mah Bu in Ringwall’s library there had been a vote for a new Archmage of the Other World. The High Council had decided on Tofflas. But Tofflas had wasted away quickly. Everyone saw how he lost part of his life force every day, powerless to resist. Several archmages were disquieted by this, half-expecting an attack on the council; others saw a personal, unresolved conflict and denounced the attacker for not showing himself. But a newly-appointed archmage who could not protect himself was of no use to the council, and so they abandoned him to his fate.

      After