C2 Chapter 2

After King Sergor-Don had defeated the Magon, killed the Archmages and laid waste to Ringwall, he returned to Worldbrand to prepare his next movements. The people would later claim that the dust of Ringwall’s stones still clung to his clothing when he departed for Woodhold with a fresh troop of riders and his bodyguard of Sorcerers; but as was so often the case, the common word was hyperbolic. King Sergor-Don never acted rashly.

“Welcome, cousin.”

King Tweijg-eijn-Silv greeted his neighbor with all honors, but not without having positioned archers in every corner of his castle and securing every exit with armed guards; for King Sergor had arrived without invitation, and worse, without announcement. But keeping the gates of Greenwood Growth, as the Silv family had called their home for generations, closed to him would have been improper and unworthy of a king.

A strange combination of fear and curiosity stirred in Tweijg-eijn-Silv, for he wanted to know, like everyone else, what desert wind brought the young king to his doorstep. He had, after all, immediately changed his kingdom’s capital, attacked and destroyed Ringwall and ended the reign of the Mages upon ascending to the throne. The word of Ringwall’s downfall had spread across the five kingdoms like a storm front.

King Tweijg-eijn-Silv and his wife Darkrose had risen in honor of their guest. The King of Woodhold had opened his arms wide and approached Sergor-Don as though to embrace him like a brother. His Sorcerers followed his every move; close proximity to their lord might tempt one of the visitors to using a hidden dagger.

Sergor-Don knew what was happening and stepped away from his guard demonstratively.

“Neighbor and cousin”, King Tweijg called across the hall, “welcome to Woodhold.”

“You have my thanks for your hospitality”, Sergor-Don replied deliberately, “but I fear I must resume my journey at once. I am afraid I will not be able to partake in one of your famous feasts, although I know that such haste is unbecoming of a king. Please forgive me, cousin, but fate has determined such a long path for me and I must walk it with great haste. I merely thought it impolite not to visit you and display my neighborly deference to you, especially as Greenwood Growth was on my way.”

King Tweijg nodded appreciatively, but he had been his peoples’ sovereign for long enough, and had quarreled with his neighbors often enough for land and influence that he knew that Sergor-Don’s true reason for visiting had not yet been revealed. He waited.

“My path leads to the region of the Oas”, said King Sergor-Don. “Only few people know that the cursed Mages of Ringwall, who have oppressed us for generations, made a pact with these women. I see disbelief in your eyes, King Tweijg-eijn-Silv, but I myself received lessons in Ringwall alongside a young Oa. A simple and plain girl, with not a drop of noble blood or lineage in her veins; yet she was granted freedom in Ringwall under the guise of a student and even had the Magon’s ear.”

“I heard tell that Ringwall had opened its gates for all those willing to learn, even the common folk”, the lord of Woodhold said cautiously.

“ Those willing to learn? Excuse my amusement, please. This girl was an expert in Thoughtspeak, could control the minds of others, and intruded into the Magon’s tower. Who would have dared enter there if they were not welcome? Fortunately, none of this remained secret. Yes, she was willing to learn, but not as you understand it. No; she was there to strengthen the pact between the Oas and the Mages. But now the Mages’ power is broken, and their partners must be vanquished as well. The Oas are gifted in their politics, like many women of low birth, but their magic is weak. It should take little effort to defeat them, especially as they do not live together in one place, but are stretched thin across countless small settlements. Some hide by the forest’s edge.

I will not bore you any longer. Instead, I ask you to join me in destroying the Oas’ villages. A quick, decisive attack, disguised as another attempt to bring in taxes ought to be enough to get rid of several villages in one go and drive the survivors towards the Waterways, where my host will be waiting for them.”

No one had ever known King Sergor-Don to be so talkative, yet when he stopped talking a leaden silence fell upon the throne room. Slowly, incredulous muttering spread across the hall; there was a long-standing, mutual tolerance and appreciation between the Oas and Woodhold. Their healing arts were essential to the lives of the people here, and no small number of kings had owed their long rule to the Oas’ expert treatment. The Oas, for their part, preferred to obtain goods of metal from the traders here in Woodhold rather than from the distant Metal World.

“A formality, you call your visit, my dear neighbor and cousin, and yet you come with a fully formed battle plan to which I need only agree or not. Am I right?” The word ‘cousin’ was devoid of any warmth it had had previously, and there were deep furrows in King Tweijg’s brow. But then the creases on his face changed and he smiled and continued: “Impatience and Fire. I see the signs of youth and its strength, and I admire you, King Sergor-Don, although I believe you see too dark a future. The Oas share a common belief, but no government or sovereign to strengthen them. Every village stands on its own. A well-reasoned attack on a single village might cause tension, but may perhaps be understood if the reason for it was clear to the Oas. But it would take a grand idea to ensure that. Anything beyond that would merely cause what we must avoid: unity. Every threat would bring them closer together and turn them into another power for influence and strength, just outside my gates. Dear cousin, this cannot be in both our best interests. Even if we argued the point for a long time, I see no way we could reach common ground.”

“We shan’t argue long; I do not have the same amount of time to fritter away as I have gold for the beggars in Worldbrand. Time is the most valuable and scarce commodity in the Fire Kingdom”, said King Sergor-Don coolly. “I intend to march today, with your reinforcements; I await another contingent of your elite crossbowmen on the morrow. They will be able to follow our tracks with ease.”

King Tweijg-eijn-Silv took a step back. His face was the color of raw beef. The queen, too, was holding herself differently, and now stood imperiously before her throne.

“Who do you think you are, Sergor-Don? You have no right to demand the allegiance of my warriors. You may have destroyed Ringwall, but you are no more than a young man to whom I would like to give some fatherly advice: Turn back and return to Worldbrand. Take care of your own kingdom, and practice some humility.”

King Sergor-Don deflected the tirade like a duck’s feathers repelled water. His face was impassive. “I will not make such an offer again”, he said quietly.

“I reject your offer”, thundered King Tweijg-eijn-Silv. “I will not support your stupid plans. You have no authority to pass through my kingdom with your troops. I give you the time to care for your horses and men, for the law of guest right is sacred to me. You will leave the city tomorrow at dawn. You said yourself that you have much to do.” The color had drained somewhat from the king’s face as he spoke, but his face was still contorted with rage.

“I regret your decision, cousin. I would have liked to know you as my vassal king”, answered King Sergor-Don. “We could have built a great empire together.”

“Vassal king?” roared Tweijg, spit flying from his lips.

“Your ears are as good as ever, but please calm yourself. You are on the verge of losing control, and I still hope you might come around.”

At these words, King Sergor-Don turned around and showed the ruler of Woodhold his back as he called, “I know that the throne room is full of armed guards wishing to protect their king. You can see that my own guards have lowered their weapons; I wish for no conflict between our people. There will be no war between the Fire Kingdom and Woodhold. But your king will have to leave us, for he is a child of Ringwall; worse still, he intends to remain one.”

The air around Sergor-Don began to shimmer and vibrate. His guard had begun to spin a magical shield around him. The Sorcerers of Woodhold immediately went on the offensive.

Sergor turned back to face King Tweijg. “I must bid you farewell. Unfortunately, you will have to leave us now.”

What happened next was hidden from the soldiers’ eyes, and only a few of the sorcerers understood what Sergor-Don was doing. They all saw him reach out an arm; the king opposite grew pale and an ashen color spread across his skin; his mouth sagged as he attempted to form some words, and then the dead flesh fell from his skull. Something held the bones in place for a few short moments, some magic no one could see; flesh, muscle and sinew were nothing more than grayish puddles on the magnificent brocade the king had once worn. The white bones clattered to the floor.

“A king should take better care of his life force”, King Sergor-Don shouted tauntingly. “Sorcerers of Wood: will you serve me or follow your old king?”

The attacks on his shield stopped at once. The Sorcerers knew when to bend the knee. The soldiers, however, did not, and so their arrows kept raining fruitlessly onto the magical shield. Sergor turned on the spot and at several points in the hall, pillars of flame erupted. The screams never came, for their throats were burned first, and there was no final vindictive pleasure of paining the ears of those present.

“The Fire Kingdom welcomes all who know the art of magic. But you Sorcerers have been raised under the words and rules of Ringwall. As you know, the power of the five elements is losing its meaning. What matters is the knowledge of the magic of the Other World. Please understand that I must test you before I take you into my services. Show me what you know about the Other World.”

A pale vapor rose from the ground of the throne hall, swallowing all light. It washed over their feet and danced around their ankles, climbed up their legs like a snake from the deepest depths of the forest. The Sorcerers flung balls of embers and cut the mist with their staves and attempted to wash the cloud away with Water magic. The ground shook with the magic of Earth and steel blades hacked in vain at the conjured menace. Agonized screams grew louder as the cloud ate away at their flesh. The bare bones gave way and fell to dust even as twitching arms still attempted to cast meaningless spells.

King Tweijg’s archers found that their arrows were frozen to their bowstrings, their mouths wide in horror. Here they were, the Sorcerers of Woodhold: powerless, hopeless, and useless.

“Phloe will take the position of regent in my stead.” Sergor-Don looked towards the slender, long-lashed boy and raised an eyebrow as if to say: Go on, what are you waiting for?

Phloe crossed the hall with long strides, grasped the queen by the waist and, with a spiraling flourish, sat down on the throne with her on his lap.

“My dear, do stop struggling”, he breathed. “You have nothing to fear from me.” With his left hand he took her chin and pulled up her head, like an animal handler looking into the eyes of a cat.

The queen smacked the invasive hand with all the force she could muster. Before the blow could land, Phloe had removed it, and in a graceful motion drew a circle in midair before reaching, lightning-quick, for her nose and pressing nostrils tightly together. It looked as though the court nurse was playing with a princess – stern, but no more than a game.

The queen attempted to pull away, but the pain made her stop. Instead, she parted her lips unwillingly to breathe. Phloe saw with satisfaction two rows of perfectly white, healthy teeth and gave an approving click of his tongue. “You are a magnificent thing, truly. But did I not ask you to hold still? You have nothing to fear from me. Not in any way – unless you insist, of course. Is that what excites you?”

His words were more akin to the whispering of leaves in the wind than a human voice and carried no further than to the queen’s ears, but every person in the throne room stood witness to the silent battle, to Phloe’s subdued smile that was devoid of any warmth, to the rage-filled expression distorting the queen’s delicate features as she attempted to push the slender assailant away.

Her face red with anger, she jumped up, glaring at Phloe. “I will take my own life before I let you touch me.” Her voice was loud and reached every corner of the hall, and everyone expected to see the fight continue, although the winner was already obvious. But no matter how hard they strained their ears, the onlookers could not hear Phloe’s reply.

“Brave words. Stupid, yes, but you may do as you please.” Phloe’s smile widened. “I am your new liege lord, and I am a Sorcerer of the innermost circle of our King Sergor-Don. Believe me, my dear, I would have no trouble at all in taking you like a farmer’s daughter, and you would be powerless to stop me. So you would kill yourself? I take no issue with that… afterwards. Once I am done with you. But no sooner. Ah, but have no fear. I have never touched a woman who did not want me in her turn. You are safe from me.”

“All shall know how much I despise you”, the queen hissed, her voice now also almost inaudible. She pulled up to her full height and looked down at the onlookers in that way that all rulers had to perfect.

“We shall see, my dear.” Phloe’s smile still clung to his lips. “It is, of course, your business alone what you do in your chambers. But please consider one thing: if you fail to show me, your new master, due respect in public, I will be forced to reprimand you. It might give the impression that you are not under my complete protection. Certainly, I am no danger to you, but I cannot promise that certain folks, those you once ruled over, might think that you are now available; one such man might decide to pay back some long-forgotten insult. So if you do not intend to end up being used by one of your archers or guards, do use your common sense. You have no position here but for the one I grant you. I am interested in seeing whether you were a true queen to your king, helping him rule the land, or merely a highborn mistress with a pretty face and a crown on your head. A queen uses her mind. A mistress uses her body, but such a woman would find herself somewhat powerless at the moment, wouldn’t you agree?”

Sergor-Don had watched the encounter just like everyone else, and now he turned to the dead king’s warriors at large. “From this day forth, you will obey Phloe the half-Arcanist, as Phloe obeys me.”

The word ‘half-Arcanist’ caused a sharp intake of breath all around the hall.

“Sire!” called a sturdy guardsman. “Is this our penance for serving the wrong man? Would you humiliate us for all time by having a half-Arcanist sit upon King Tweijg-eijn-Silv’s throne? Someone of no nobility, who isn’t even a Sorcerer? Did not the Fire Kingdom display tradition proudly; was not a man’s birth what decided his fate? Was this not the ideal we ought to aspire to?”

King Sergor-Don considered the warrior silently for a while. Finally, he spoke. “Who are you, and what is your name?”

The man pounded a fist to his chest. “Ock is what they call me; I come from Lightfield and have served in the palace guard for many harvests, like my father and his father before him. My weapons are the mace, morning star and bearded ax, but I have protected the king with no more than a broken stick before.”

“So listen, Ock. And the rest of you as well – times are changing, and so are the rules. Yes, heritage is still an indicator of a man’s worth; but there is also the new power of magic to consider. The unity of magic and nobility, as Ringwall has taught it for generations, is a lie. Perhaps it was true in the past, but no one knows.

Once, I too believed in the absolute value of birthright, but the Mages of Ringwall taught me otherwise. They were rotten, and true magic was unreachable for them. So forget what you know about nobility and magic, and instead live by the rules and laws I give you. Ringwall is no more. In its place, there is the Fire Kingdom, but before long that will be gone too; so will Earthland, the Waterways and Metal World. New magical laws are in place in a world without Ringwall. All power will be consolidated within a single kingdom; my kingdom, for I am the only one who knows the magic of the new age.

You, Ock, are a courageous man, and I acknowledge the value of bravery. You will lead me to those chambers in which the king kept his books, the books of magic but in particular those that tell of your sovereign’s deeds, from ancient times to today.”

Ock recoiled as though a snake had lashed out at him. “Sire, I am afraid I cannot comply, as much as I would like to. The royal vaults were only ever accessible to the ruling family and their Sorcerers. All I know is that the writings you seek are somewhere beneath us. The court Sorcerers could have shown you the way.”

“The Sorcerers and the king. So quickly can knowledge and experience be lost… but fortunately, the women can still tell. Isn’t that right, my dear?”

Queen Darkrose glowered at Sergor-Don. “Torture me if you must, you will have no word from me. I have never been to the vaults. My magic required no dusty tomes.”

“That much is clear”, replied Sergor-Don, and with greatly exaggerated movements, he allowed his eyes to wander along the queen’s slender curves for all to see. The color rose in her cheeks. “A little color suits you, my lady. But fear not, I have ways of finding things I need. But if they happen to be below ground, and well-hidden, there might be a tiny possibility that my search could blow down the walls and rob you all of house and home. Still, a house can be rebuilt from the rubble of the old… and there is more than enough wood for more close to Greenwood Growth. Skorn-Vis and brown Sijem will accompany me, the others shall remain here. And Phloe…”

“Yes, Your Majesty?”

“Be gentle with the queen. She hangs like a butterfly in the threads of history, yet she has the strength to free herself if angered. So give her time, give her attention; soothe her. Do what you will, but be cautious.”

The leer Phloe gave in response would have driven a chill down a grown man’s spine, but the queen stood upright and determined.

King Sergor-Don indicated with a sharp nod that Skorn-Vis and brown Sijem were to follow him. They did not get far: a fragile figure was cowering on the ground before them, muttering nigh-unintelligibly. “I will take you there if you wish.”

“Oh, a Sorcerer who escaped the purge and has come crawling from his hidey-hole? Or did good old Ock lie, and there are people aside from the king and his Sorcerers who have access to the library?”

The man lowered his head so far that it was touching the ground. “Yes, me, sire. A Sorcerer of Ringwall, like so many here… but the wisdom of the past always mattered more to me than the magic taught in Ringwall. I was never chosen to be a court Sorcerer, but I had other privileges. I am… I was the keeper of the scriptures.”

“There’s always one”, Sergor-Don said bitterly. “Scriptures tend to have that unneeded accessory. Sometimes they are even people like you. Get up, worm, and show me the vaults.”

*

Something kept Nill in the catacombs, whispering to him. Don’t leave, it said, you have overlooked something. The most important thing is right in front of your nose and you aren’t seeing it. But even with his supplies rationed to one bite a day he could not stay in Ringwall for much longer. He would have to leave the ruins and obtain fresh supplies if he wanted to return, but that was easier said than done: Raiinhir was firmly in the grasp of Sergor-Don’s men. Where then should he go? His immediate goal of finding his mother had receded to the back of his mind at all the discoveries he had made in the Hall of Symbols. The changeover period could be shortened. That was a message he understood. Had anyone in the past successfully done so? He would have to ask Dakh-Ozz-Han for an answer to that question. He would have liked to ask Ambrosimas, Archmage of Thoughts and his erstwhile mentor, but the fat jovial man had gone down with Ringwall. Who knows , Nill thought, perhaps the knowledge still exists somewhere, just waiting for the right hand to find it.

His hope grew like a forest fire. It was clear to him that the transition from the magic of five elements to the magic of light and darkness could be accelerated, and the people of Pentamuria would have to suffer for a shorter period of time, if only he could find out what he needed to do. And if he, Nill, was the Changer after all, then he wanted to commit all he had to accomplish this goal. But where to begin?

He would have liked to simply cross over into the Other World and ask the Demon Lords for counsel, but he knew they would not appear just because he wanted them to. And frankly – Nill was still terrified of the prospect of such an encounter. As a mortal, he felt incredibly small and powerless beside them. So far, the Demon Lords had only ever shown up because he had messed something up so badly that order would not impose itself. How would Brolok handle the situation?

Nill’s lips curved into a smile. His old friend would take one look at the dwindling rations and say, in his deep voice: “First off, we need to find something to eat. And if the warriors of the Fire Kingdom are spread all around Ringwall, plundering the farmers’ and traders’ stocks, you won’t find anyone around here who’ll muster any pity for a starving Mage.” But he could not take food by force, either; that would make him no better than King Sergor’s minions. No, he would have to return where he had come from, where he had friends. He had to go back to the Oas. Even if that meant leaving the seat of the Fire Kingdom’s power behind.

Nill took the most direct route to Woodhold, taking the occasional detour to avoid contact with other people, and after a few days, accompanied by a rumbling in his stomach, he reached his target. The Oas in this part of the land were as helpful as their sisters elsewhere, but Nill could not shake the feeling that he was unwelcome. The air sheer crackled with unrest, which was quite atypical of the usually-serene women. Once he had refilled his supplies, he took the path back waterwards to Sedramon-Per, AnaNakara and Morb-au-Morhg. It was a disappointed Nill, who made his way back to the swamplands. He made slow progress, yet what weighed him down was not his luggage but the knowledge that he was indeed the Changer. And a tiny thought, too small to suffocate him but too erratic to be ignored plagued him all the way. He had stumbled across something in Ringwall that had settled in him without his noticing. It had to be bigger than the certainty that he was the only person to hold the potential to shorten the impending suffering. But what could be more important than that? Nill wondered whether he was chasing an illusion.

He kept close to the forest’s edge for most of his journey, but even there he had to dodge armed forces and passed farmyards that had been burned down. The air was heavy with the sweetish smell of decaying flesh. Pentamuria was in turmoil, there was no question about it. And the longer he marched, the greater his worry for Tiriwi and Grimala grew, until he finally reached their village. He stayed in the shade of the trees as he traced the Oas’ auras and searched for a source of magic that did not belong here, praying that he would not find signs of death. He found nothing. It was early in the afternoon, and the Oas’ houses lay peacefully in the sunshine. And yet the peace was not right. There was no joy here.

The door to the common house stood ajar, creaking as it swung back and forth in the breeze. No one seemed bothered by it, else someone would have already come to close it. Was he the only man in the village? Where were the women who usually came running out of their houses to greet new arrivals? Yet the hamlet was not fully abandoned. Some children were playing between the huts. Their mothers were close by, keeping a watchful eye on them. No one gave Nill the slightest attention, although he was sure his coming had not gone unnoticed. Nill kept going. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the husk a hut on the outskirts of the village. It must have burned down recently. “No, no, not that one, no”, he gasped. It had been their refuge. It was the hut he and Tiriwi had retreated to when they needed to escape the villagers’ good-natured needling. His ears felt like they were burning again, just like then, as the image of the laughing women swam in front of him. The memories were beautiful – but now no more than charred wood.

As his gaze darted around, someone snuck up from behind and put their hands over his eyes.

“When you take a man’s sight, his other senses come alight.”

Nill jumped, but the touch was soft and the hands smelled of wild berries and good soil. He knew the sing-song voice. He dropped his bags and turned around to embrace the woman to whom the hands belonged.

“I was so worried”, he breathed as he buried his face in her hair.

“So was I. Then we received word from your battle in the marshes and that everything went well for you. Hello, Ramsker”, Tiriwi said as she noticed the ram. She freed herself from Nill’s hug and crouched down to tousle the ram’s coat.

“So there was a fire here?” It was less a question and more a statement. Tiriwi smiled.

“We weren’t paying attention. They came from all sides and arrived faster than we expected.”

“They?”

“Soldiers. Raiders. Armed men. I don’t know. They try again and again, but we can deal with them.”

“Tell me more. So much has changed across the land.”

“Let’s have some food first. Travelers are always hungry, right? Come, I live back there now.”

Nill went to pick up his things. So much had changed… what had happened to the Oas’ hospitality? And Tiriwi, for that matter? In their embrace, Nill had felt a certain hesitancy in her movements where once there had been only closeness.

“You must tell me everything, Nill. All the things you’ve seen in the meantime”, said Tiriwi, placing a wooden platter laden with milk, dried berries, honey and fowl meats in front of Nill. “Eat”, she said, “there’s enough for all of us.”

As they ate, the old familiarity came flooding back and Nill finally relaxed. He began to talk; he told her about Sedramon, Malachiris, AnaNakara, Dakh-Ozz-Han and Galvan; Brolok, who sent his greetings, and the figures from the Borderlands that Malachiris had summoned. But Tiriwi’s sudden twitches, always followed by a few moments of tense stillness, began to put him off. Tiriwi was not paying attention. She was too busy listening to the outside.

When he finally arrived at the part about Morb-au-Morhg, who was in all likelihood his father, and his mother, who was hiding somewhere in the Mistmountains, whom he desperately wanted to find, he could take it no longer. “You don’t seem too interested in what I’m saying”, he said glumly, unable to keep a note of accusation out of his voice as Tiriwi’s head twitched to the door again.

“I am. The things you’re saying are very interesting, but the question of parentage has less meaning for us than for you. The important thing is that you’re well.” And she turned her head again, the better to listen.

“Are you expecting someone?” asked Nill. He was not keen on telling her about Ringwall now.

“Can’t you hear it? There are people close by, making an extreme effort not to be heard. But the birds know, and they give them away. They’re silent.”

So that was the reason for her unrest. Nill probed for hidden auras in the area, but could find none.

“Have you been attacked before? I mean, apart from when they burned down our house.”

“All the time”, Tiriwi replied. “Surprise strikes, I think. They mean to sow fear and panic. They’ve managed to make us uneasy, but not afraid. We drive them back every time. But it gets harder and harder, because their numbers just keep growing. Last time they brought a Sorcerer.”

“Pushing them back isn’t enough. You’d have to shatter them so completely that they never want to challenge you again.”

Tiriwi stroked his cheek. “You know we can’t do that.”

“Yes, I know. But every skirmish tells them more about how you fight, until they know everything and can counter any defense you put up. Then it won’t just be small raids anymore. They’ll come in full force.”

“And when they do, they’ll regret it”, was all Tiriwi said on the matter, and she refused to speak about it any longer. And so they sat side-by-side, each lost in their own thoughts, struggling to bridge the gap between them. Nill gave it one last try, asking whether the Oas knew anything about the Demon Lords; whether the powers of belligerent persistence, of chaos and old wisdom, of constant change were familiar to them, but Tiriwi was not listening properly and simply said: “Ask Grimala.”

As the evening gave way to night, Nill wondered where he was going to sleep. He remarked that the common house stood empty and he would have it to himself for the night. Tiriwi laughed out loud. It was the first time she had laughed that day. “You’re staying with me. What else?”

Nill laid his arm around her. “I wasn’t sure how welcome I was. We’ve been apart for so long, even if it still feels like yesterday to me.”

“Don’t be silly. You’ll always have a special place in my life, even though I am an Oa. Someday, another man might come, and then maybe another. But there’s time until that happens. You shouldn’t worry. You are the only Mage in my heart, and if anyone has a problem with that, they can take it up with me.” She gave him a tender smile. “Perhaps I shouldn’t jest about it. You fought alongside Dakh-Ozz-Han. I can see no higher honor, and the other Oas agree.”

Nill smiled back gratefully, but there was a contradiction in her words. It was a spoken declaration of love, something Tiriwi had never done before, but he heard another message in what she said. And the other feeling he had simply refused to go away. What good was it that she was still willing to share her nights with him, that he could still recognize the smell of her skin and her hair, that the little noises she made were so familiar to him? Nothing was as it had once been. Not at all.

They came at dawn. More than a hundred warriors had approached overnight, under cover of magical deception. Nill lay wide awake in bed. Four piercing whistles, ending in a trill, had woken him just in time to see Tiriwi gliding away like a shadow. The attackers’ war cries did not come crashing down upon a sleeping village, as they had perhaps hoped. The Oa guards had formed a defensive circle that repelled the first push, and the circle was strengthened with every Oa who joined them. Silent screams in Thoughtspeak found their way into the attackers’ minds, giving the Oa at the big drum time to respond with deep, thunderous beats. Nill clamped his hands over his ears as the screams reached him; realizing that it was futile, he instead formed a protective barricade around his mind and pulled on his clothes.

He poked his head out of the door. He had expected the metallic clashing of blades and more battle cries, along with the screaming and moaning of the injured. But it was surprisingly silent. The invaders had ceased their shouting, and the only sound was the big drum, taking its cues from the pulse of nature and amplifying it a thousand times, fighting back against whatever magical shield the enemy force tried to protect itself with. The Oa at the drum was beating the skin with two branches that could have served well as battle-maces in a warrior’s hands. Her torso was bare but for the thin strip of cloth that held her breasts. She was short and her muscles glistened in the morning haze. Nill could not tell whether it was sweat or dew running down her back. This, he thought, was what AnaNakara must have looked like, in the days she had still lived with the Oas. Nill tore his gaze away and pushed his memories to the back of his mind. As long as he just stood there, pondering, he was of no use to anyone.

He closed his eyes and searched for the enemies’ auras. The warriors were receiving magical support. A different aura flickered in each of the five cardinal directions. What kind of Sorcerers were they? Four of them controlled only one or two elements, and their auras fluttered like badly burning torches. And Brolok said he was crippled, as a half-Arcanist… what would he say about these pitiful figures? Only one of the five Sorcerers, if the term was even appropriate, had a complete aura, nourished by all five elements. It was strong in Metal and Wood, but weak in Water. This last Sorcerer led the other four, and perhaps he was the commander of the entire troop.

He was the one protecting his men from the Thoughtspeak screams, and at the same time was attempting to disturb the steady rhythm of the drum. Its pounding pulse made the magical shield vibrate, and the shields were too brittle – they shattered. It also slowed the warriors’ movements as though the air was sticky sap. But over the course of the fight the Oas would pay for the fact that they knew so little offensive magic; and what little they did use, they used timidly.

The women stood in front of their huts, apparently at ease as they faced the enemy forces. Their movements were little more than a dancing of the hands, as fingers spread and closed like flowers in the sunrise, but Nill had learned enough from Grimala to understand the movements. The gestures themselves had no innate magic, but instead supported the flow of natural powers. Every strike with a club, every slashing sword was directed skywards or down into the ground. However, despite looking so simple, it actually required utmost concentration. Not every Oa was equally gifted in combat. Grimala – and also Tiriwi – would have been more than a match for any fighter, but there were some in the circle that could barely match the enemies. Over and over again, Nill saw a defender fall to the ground, but there was always someone there to replace them. Their defense was holding, but the enemy’s numbers were too high.

The invaders seemed to recognize their advantage and so pushed it. The Arcanists focused their attention and magic on a small group of soldiers. Protected now from the rumbling drum and the mind-screams, they charged and pushed back the defenders. This they did again and again. Every attack weakened the circle. To Nill it looked as though the Sorcerers were attempting to find the weakest point in the barrier, so that they might break through in one maneuver. This time, the Oas would not so easily repel the attack, no matter what Tiriwi had claimed yesterday.

Yet still he hesitated. If he got involved with the fighting, word might get around that a Mage had helped the Oas, even though he might just pass for a Druid. But maybe…

An idea came to him. Even though he was far from mastering the magic of the Oas, he knew just enough to pass as one of them in front of these people, who were unlikely to be experts in recognizing the different forms of magic. Nill made the earth tremble and raised lumps of dirt and rocks into the air. Harmless lightning shot from the sky, splitting the stones into countless small pieces and catapulting them in all directions. It caused no more damage than forcing the attackers to close their eyes for a moment to avoid getting dirt in them, but the Sorcerer closest to him now turned his attention to Nill. He began to hurl mighty, dark red fireballs at him. No, these Arcanists were hardly a worthy match. The red balls radiated great heat and would easily set any hut they hit alight, but they moved as slowly as the ones back in Ringwall, where he had practiced dueling as a student.

Nill conjured a thin layer of dark magic over a heat shield. Wherever the barrier was struck by fire, the darkness dissolved and bright, cold light shone forth. He rained down light from the skies. This, too, was no elemental magic. The white light was blinding and burned the skin it touched; leaping and bounding, it reflected off of blades and plate armor, robbing the invaders of reprieve.

The Arcanist nearby cooled his burnt skin with a fountain of Water, but light is not Fire. The Water was cooling, but increased the blinding reflections manifold, and the Sorcerer was now utterly preoccupied with himself. His warriors were on their own, and they began to fall back as the Oas pressed their advantage. Nill’s eyes scanned the scene and found Tiriwi.

“Can you use Wood magic to grow saplings from the ground, Tiriwi?”

“Of course – do you think I’ve forgotten all I learned in Ringwall? But I don’t want to.”

“So at least grow flowers. In front of the Sorcerer’s barrier, and behind it if you can.”

“I don’t know what you’re up to, but dreamblossoms don’t care for magical barriers. They grow where I tell them to.”

Tiriwi drew a wide arc with her hand, as though she was sowing seeds, and black flowers began to push their heads out of the ground, slowly opening their petals and spreading a beguiling scent. Even at a distance, Nill could see the fear in the Sorcerer’s eyes. He strengthened his shield, but what was there to deflect? He sent out a storm of swirling scythes that cut down the flowers faster than the kitchen Mucklings cut herbs.

Nill saw the momentary hesitation and took his opportunity. All around the Sorcerer, he drew forth the darkness from the mutilated flowers and encased him in everlasting night. Blind and deaf, he no longer knew how to defend himself; he stumbled about, invisible to his own men. The drum’s beat shattered the barrier. The attackers pressed their hands to their ears, but even then, their minds were rent with mind-screams.

Nill sprinted through the confusion towards the Sorcerer, grabbed him by the throat and jabbed a finger at the point directly above his collarbone. The Sorcerer collapsed. Nill tore apart his clothing, wadded some of it up and pressed it to the large, pulsing vein in the man’s throat. Then he pulled the Sorcerer’s hand to it and whispered in a stilted voice he prayed would pass for a woman’s: “I don’t want to kill you. Hold the rag to your throat. If you let go, you will die.”

It was easy to impose one’s will on a half-unconscious person. Let him believe he was bleeding out – it was far easier than tying him up.

Behind them, the first torches were flying into the thatched roofs. Nill called down the rain. The Oas retreated, and Nill let the sun shine through. A bundle of golden rays forced everyone to close their eyes, and when they opened them again, they found themselves surrounded by mist, unable to tell friend from foe. Nill searched for the aura of the nearest Sorcerer, drowned it out with darkness, crept up on him and sapped his aura.

The third Sorcerer pulled back, but Wood magic grasped at his feet with green climbers and before he could concentrate his Metal energy, Fire took its strength.

A group of warriors was shooting burning arrows, and Nill saw to his astonishment that none found their mark. They flew only a few short steps before falling uselessly to the ground.

How are they doing that? Nill wondered and decided to ask Grimala. Then he turned back to the battle: two Sorcerers still protected the enemy forces.

Now would have been a perfect opportunity to use his gray dawn-cloak, but he would have had to run back to the hut to get it. It would have to work without cover. He focused on one of the Arcanists’ shields, empowered it and made it grow before pulling it tight around its creator. The harder he struggled, the more powerful the shield became, until it was so impenetrable that even the air could not pass through it. Unable to breathe, the Sorcerer keeled over.

The last Sorcerer was running now, but he did not get far. Grimala herself took him down.

“If you want a lasting peace, you’d have to execute every last one of them”, Nill said to Grimala.

“You know we can’t do that”, the wise woman replied.

Grimala had grown old. Perhaps that was why she had entered the fray so late. Nill could see her dwindling lifespan in her aura, and in her eyes he saw the certainty of her fate. He embraced her and held her tight.

“I’m not afraid, you silly boy”, said Grimala as she pushed him away. “But it is nice to know that you worry about me.”

“If you don’t want to kill them, you must strike fear into their hearts that they will never forget”, Nill said. Try as he might, he could not mask his anxiety. Grimala smiled at him. Then she spoke in Thoughtspeak with the other women. Nill saw surprised expressions; one or two of the grim faces even smiled.

“What will you do?” asked Nill, who had not understood what she had said.

“We will take everything they have. Not just their weapons and armor, but every last scrap of cloth on their bodies, and in particular their shoes. They left their homes as warriors with bad intentions. They will return as naked children.”

“Unfortunately without a child’s innocence”, Nill added.

“No, it’s too late for that. But even if the shame of it engenders a thirst for revenge, they will find no support amongst others. A brave warrior fears not death, but disgrace. We have won valuable time.”

“I still await the bearers of belligerent persistence, chaos and ancient wisdom, and whatever represents the endless changes. With them, we can achieve victory.” Nill peered curiously at Grimala. Would the wise woman know what he had just meant?

“We do not like to fight, and if we do, it’s usually among ourselves. Changes worry us, even if that is not always wise. Chaos is part of nature, part of life, and wisdom is so old, carried from generation to generation – it hardly needs a bearer. Whatever you hoped to find, Nill, you will not find it here.”