LITMIR.BIZ

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3

      In Metal World a foul-tempered sorcerer straightened his sumptuous but threadbare robe. The glory of days long past seemed a constant reminder in the small stone house where he resided with his son, his son’s wife and their son.

      “You should be forging more weapons than tools,” he grumbled in the direction of the dimly glowing fire. “Magical weapons, armor and helmets.”

      “Leave it, father. The war is over, and the people of the area need the tools more than they need weapons.”

      “You fool!” The old man shook his fist. “The war never ends. And even if it subsides for a while, then it is just the precursor to another war. And if you were to use the gifts bestowed upon you, you would know what awaits us; alas, you care more to shut your senses to the outside world and entomb yourself away from the truth than to take your rightful place.”

      The blacksmith was used to his father’s volatile temper and answered calmly: “Leave it be, father, I have enough tasks to see us through the winter. I will take care of our other worries once they actually exist.”

      The old sorcerer snorted. “In spite of all his weaknesses, your son has more backbone than you. He is a true Chron-Lai. Fetch my grandson.”

      But the grandson was more than a day’s march away from the stone house. He rushed through the dusk like a gray khanwolf, afraid of coming too late. His goal was somewhere between fire and wood. He avoided settlements and merchant roads and tried to regain some lost time with daring leaps down steep mountainsides. More than once he barely managed to escape the falling rubble he himself had set in motion with his foolhardy movements.

      In the darkness he felt safe. The moon only illuminated the ridges and cliffs ever so slightly. He knew about this; but no hunter can catch running wild in the night. The boy welcomed the moonlight, and so he kept running towards the fire until the exhaustion forced him into a short, uneasy rest.

      The Oas’ journey to Ringwall dragged on. Grimala lead the cavalcade and her many breaks decided their speed. Quiwill and Feirie, two of Tiriwi’s mothers, had joined their daughter on her journey and took the opportunity to refill their stocks of seeds, leaves and roots. A young Oa from the neighboring village was there to carry Grimala’s luggage, three more women were responsible for all the equipment that a traveling group needed in terms of food and shelter. Grimala had carefully planned everything, for the steppe that lay between Ringwall and their home forest gave little shelter and seemed dangerous to all Oas.

      Tiriwi was the only one who did not need to bother with any of this. She had been chosen, and it was she who traveled by order of her people, and with their wishes. When had anything like this happened before? Her luggage, consisting of a small knapsack and a broad shoulder bag, was carried for her by others. She did not need to partake in setting up camp, nor did she have to help with the cooking. Her company sought to outdo each other with new ways to help Tiriwi, and in the end she had nothing to do herself.

      But as comfortable as the journey was physically, the heavy burden of responsibility weighed down on her. Since their departure from the small hamlet Grimala had been constantly offering advice on how to behave in Ringwall, what she should ask for, what she must observe and especially how important her task was for the village and her entire people. And every day Grimala came up with more. As if that were not enough, Tiriwi’s mothers also bombarded her with well-meaning words – although the things they said had more to do with the daily routine of an unknown area than with the Mages of Ringwall and the fate of Pentamuria.

      And so the small group crawled on tightly winding paths and later on wide roads, strewn with sand or rough stones, on to Ringwall. They learned that wanderers who did not dodge the fast carriages with lordly coats-of-arms quickly enough made painful acquaintance with the iron-bound wheels, dancing whips or bouncing rocks. The Oas learned to leave the road once they heard the distant calls of the coachmen and the snapping of their whips.

      Grimala’s old age demanded frequent pauses and her impatience grew each time. “We must hurry. Ringwall is further than I had thought.”

      Tiriwi inhaled deeply and summoned up all her courage. “I think I can make this last part of the journey by myself. It’ll look no different to that which we have already passed.”

      Her words were met with objection, but even Grimala had to accept that time grew short and that it was not a good idea to attract so much attention as a traveling party. And so they let Tiriwi go in the end, but not without repeating all they had said numerous times on the way here.

      Tiriwi’s fear of the unknown had been driven away by Grimala’s extensive worry on the long road to Ringwall, which had surrounded her like chains, pulled ever tighter. She took her small knapsack and her shoulder bag, embraced Grimala and her mothers and went on her way. Her step was bouncy, her breath deep and even and she would have quite liked to sing out loud. But she contented herself with a small melody that she hummed to herself. Ringwall could not be much worse than traveling with Grimala and her mothers.

      *

      For Nill and Dakh-Ozz-Han one day passed like the last. The dawn had barely made out the outlines of the trees and bushes against the gray sky, yet Dakh and Nill were already packing up their camp. The nightly cold that gnawed at their joints when they did not manage to find a small forest or a thicket to sleep in was countered by the first movements of the day. In the mornings they always made good progress. The noon-rest was long and took quite a part of the afternoon as well. They caught up with the sleep denied them by the short, cold nights. For Dakh, as Nill now amicably called him, would always keep walking until the last light of day had expired.

      Very slowly, the world around them grew darker. The grass lost its yellow color, the small copses became forests, and before long the slender trees became thicker and mightier. Dakh stopped.

      “The first proper trees. Not all that large yet, but at least their trunks are straight,” he muttered off-handedly. Nill gulped. Apart from the Mylantos he had never seen trees this tall. He thought of a thousand ways in which all that wood could be used.

      “Trees are always something of a wonder for Earthlanders,” Dakh said with a smile. “But if a Woodhold person came here, they would be astonished at the wide open plains before them. We should rest here.”

      Nill was surprised, for the sun was still close to its zenith and they could have easily managed a good stretch before their usual resting time. Dakh’s urgency seemed to have fallen off somewhat. They kindled a fire and the druid filled his cauldron with water, herbs and bits of dried meat, as he always did. Nill had taken his amulet out from under his shirt and was examining it pensively. The druid turned his head respectfully away, as though he did not want to disturb the communion between Nill and his amulet. Every now and then his gaze would flicker back to the pot in which the water bubbled merrily.

      “This wooden disk is supposed to come from my parents. At least that’s what Esara told me. Apparently I was wearing it around my neck when the Ramsmen found me. Do you think that my parents knew of magic, like you do?”

      Dakh grumbled uncomfortably. “Possibly.”

      “Would you like to take a look at the amulet?” Nill asked, holding the disk out for the druid.

      “If you ask it of me, Nill, I will take a look. Be warned: do not hand out an amulet without thought. Nobody can know what additional powers it grants you. These small advantages are often what determine whether you stay alive… or not.”

      “Please,” Nill said simply and gave Dakh the amulet.

      The druid held it up gingerly. “The main body of this amulet is made from a rokkanut’s shell.” His voice sounded flat, objective, and he took great care not to emphasize any single word. “This nut is not very common in Pentamuria, because the only place it grows is in the high mountains of Metal World. The nut’s shell is so hard and thick that it is very difficult to break.”

      “But how is the seed supposed to bud if the shell is so hard?” In Nill’s inner eye

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