Ringwall's Doom. Wolf Awert

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СКАЧАТЬ he was playing a dangerous game. The stakes were high, the potential winnings even higher, and the game was far from over. The archmage laughed bitterly.

      And we masters of magic believe ourselves to have fate firmly in our hands, and yet it does with us as it pleases.

      He helped himself to a slice of black bread and spread honey thickly upon it.

      Leaving Ringwall with the taste of sweet honey on my lips is comforting, if nothing else, he thought.

      The honey dripped off the bread and ran down his fingers, slipped past his wrist and staining the delicate cloth of his sleeves. But Ambrosimas barely noticed as he stared into vacant space. When he finally rose, it was not to act, but to fetch a cup of wine. He filled it from the pitcher, added a whole pouch of spices and heated it absent-mindedly.

      His fingers stuck to the cup, but did not feel the heat; the fiery drink passed over his honeyed lips and down into his stomach. Ambrosimas grimaced in disgust. No wine was ever as sweet as the honey he had treated himself to, but the hot spices sent streams of embers through his veins. He lurched to his feet and entered an adjacent chamber that was completely empty. The only decoration here was the floor; a closed eye was formed by the artful arrangement of small tiles.

      Ambrosimas’ breath was shallow. He settled onto the eye and delved into his own body. The first thing to happen was that his breath fused with his pulse. The beads of sweat on his face dried, and the face itself lost its color. Fear rose from the area around his kidneys, but was melted away by the heat of his heart. A comfortable warmth spread from his navel, enclosing his heart and enlarging his manhood. Ambrosimas summoned all the strength he could muster and concentrated every last bit of heat to a small, white-glowing point within himself.

      The birds’ voices fell silent and then returned to their usual evening chatter before quietening once more. The soft beat of the nightsailors’ wings came and went in the darkness. Now and then a rock-owl called down from the roofs, until the songbirds took the morning duty. For a day and a night Ambrosimas had sat upon the eye. Now he rose and drew great and powerful symbols onto a bare wall with his hands. His sing-song voice made the dust settle, through which previously had shone the sun, bathing the dissolving wall in pale light. Rust-red rings in a niche awoke and in the small portal in the corner of the room a form began to manifest. It had to hunch low, for it was tall and the pointed hat required more space than usual. Ambrosimas turned his back wordless on the portal. Keij-Joss, the tall Archmage of the Cosmos, followed him silently.

      The two archmages stood upon the eye and embraced. Their wide auras grew larger still, more translucent, and finally began to meld. Keij-Joss shrank as Ambrosimas grew, but his breadth diminished. Their fused aura stormed around the center of the eye, surrounding a single body that was unlike either Ambrosimas or Keij-Joss. The eye opened and blinked at the sun. The ground had disappeared under the new figure, and the world had opened itself to them. The mage that had sprung from Ambrosimas and Keij-Joss was no longer on the mosaic, but in the clouds, surrounded by them, part of them. The clouds grew thinner, rose high to a thin sliver of mist until they finally dissolved and made space for a wide, blue sky.

      “Pentamuria, open. Eyes of the sky, be my eyes. Birds of the air, see for me. No more than a sign is what I need; no more than a sign is what I want.”

      With these words the mage sent out sign upon sign into the world. Every symbol Ambrosimas had seen on Nill’s amulet was branded into the eyes of the sky, and for each of them there was an explosion in the air above Pentamuria.

      After the last symbol was sent, the mage stopped, breathing heavily. The sudden silence allowed him to listen, until sudden squawking and screaming tore him to the ground. The eye closed again and it took all his remaining strength to stay awake. He had little time left.

      If he could barely stay upright with the birds, how would an ever broader audience affect him? He cursed his impatience and attempted a slower ritual.

      Tree and bush, scrub and thicket

      That bends in the wind and skywards grows

      Grasses and herbs, matted moss

      That sees in the darkness and everything knows.

      Be as my ears, flower and fern

      Find farmer’s tales and fishwives’ lace

      What’s needed is short, no more than a word

      What I seek is called Perdis, a man and a place.

      The mage pressed his hands to his ears, but the approaching pain came from within. The world around him shrunk as the first black shadows from outside dulled his senses. Only in the innermost point of his eyes and ears did he still hold tight to the connection with the outside world. And his greatest task yet lay before him.

      Incapable now of another ritual, he sent an image out, an image of earth and stone, of feet and claws, of hooves and paws, of gliding scales. The sounds of steps and leaps, stumbling and scratching were his pleas now.

      A last image of his skin, his hands, as they constantly changed, died. The spell was too powerful even for him to complete. The archmage crumpled and the eye beneath him blinked. Ringwall shook as though it had just woken from a dream. The falundron removed the seal from the gate, rose and stretched its neck into the air of the catacombs. The White mages of Ringwall exchanged worried glances. Some held hands and formed protective circles. They all felt an enormous magic, as there had never been in Ringwall before. The magon raised his head anxiously and sent his spirit hurrying through the corridors. He only looked down once he had made sure that there was no magical gap among his archmages. Whatever had happened, the High Council was unscathed.

      The other archmages and their cloaked subordinates were worried too, but less for Ringwall than for themselves. It was important for them to know who could cast such a spell, and why it had happened. And so the lodges sent out their High mages and grand mages and for a long time the rooms were empty as the corridors were full. But the messages they brought back were confusing. The origin of the magic was in the Quarter of Thoughts, but the magic was far too strong for a master of illusions and glamours. Even the magon would have had difficulty in holding streams of such immense magical strength.

      Those familiar with auras were sure that this magic bore Keij-Joss’ fingerprint. His abilities were relatively unknown; they could not put anything past him. But what was the magic of the cosmos doing here on earth, in Ambrosimas’ quarters? Finally, there were those who were certain that only the Other World could cause such a tremor, and consequently they suspected Murmon-Som. The guessing went back and forth. The only thing they all agreed on was that what had just been summoned was a magic of the elements nobody had ever known before.

      Nill remained blissfully unaware of all of this. The magical storm passed him by as he stepped into the hallway that led from deep within Ringwall’s foundations to the outside world, where his teachers had once claimed there was no notable magic in that location. Blind mice, Nill thought as he beat the earth from his clothes and cautiously made his way around the swampy spots by the exit.

      Nill was intent on his hasty departure not being noticed too soon. But, as always, plans are made to be foiled. The quiet beating of his feet in places where otherwise silence reigned had been enough to wake several stoneteeth in Ringwall’s walls. They could not see, only feel, but they felt the direction he was going in, and that woke the eyes that had been placed there by mistrustful minds. A flickering robe melded with the shadows of the roughly-hewn walls.

      “So, the chick leaves the nest. Not too clever, СКАЧАТЬ