by Licia Troisi
Nihal cast him a scathing glance, silencing him on the spot. “The Fammin are our enemies, you know that as well as I do.”
“But this one saved our friend’s life.”
“Exactly, so he could use him to track us down and kill us.”
“Then talk to him,” said Sennar. “Interrogate him, find out what he wants, then we’ll decide what to do with him.”
Nihal tossed and turned, unable to sleep with the thought of that creature lying nearby, until at last she decided to speak with him then and there. With a kick, she woke him. Her hand gravitated instinctually to her sword, though she refrained from killing him on the spot. Something in his eyes held her back—a deep, pervasive sadness that kept her from drawing her sword and sweeping the blade across his neck. “We need to talk,” she said.
The Fammin stared back at her patiently.
Nihal sat. “Do you have a name?”
“Vraśta.”
The half-elf jumped. That word: She knew it from the forbidden spell she’d learned. Just hearing it gave her the chills.
“It’s a word the Tyrant uses in his dark magic,” he explained. “All of the Fammin are given names like mine. That way, just by calling our names he casts a spell over us, which forces us to obey.”
“Is that what your commanders do when they give you orders?”
“Yes,” said Vraśta. “If it’s just a routine order, a Fammin can refuse to obey, but when we’re called by name, we have no choice.”
“You’ve come here to kill us, haven’t you?” Nihal asked.
“I have no desire to harm Laio,” Vraśta replied.
“I know your kind well,” Nihal began. “Almost three years ago, two members of your esteemed species burst into my home and killed my father right there before my eyes. And they had a grand old time while they were at it. I know what it means to kill with pleasure, and I could see the pleasure in their eyes. That’s the way you all are. You all love to spill blood.”
“I don’t love anything. I’m happy when Laio is happy, that’s all.”
“You were able to take advantage of Laio because he’s naive, but it won’t work on me. I’m a Dragon Knight and I have plenty of experience dealing with your sort.”
“Then why haven’t you killed me?”
The question caught Nihal off guard. Faced with this creature, her own feelings seemed a mystery. She hated him, that was certain, but she also felt they were alike in some ways. Compared to the Fammin she was used to fighting on the battlefield, there was something different about him. “I’m not like you and your kind,” she let out at last. “I don’t kill for pleasure.”
“You’re a half-elf.” His response startled her. “I’ve heard of your people. Many men brag of your city’s destruction.”
“Not men. Fammin were the ones who massacred my people.”
“No, you’re wrong,” said Vraśta. “Many years have passed, but some of those who were there at the massacre are still alive, only now they’re high-ranking generals. I’ve heard them speak of Seferdi. Countless cities in the Land of Days have been destroyed by Fammin, but Seferdi was razed to the ground by men alone.”
“That’s a lie,” said Nihal.
“They brought a troop of Fammin along with them to scare the city into chaos, but for the most part they were men. Many of them sorcerers who’d been banished from the Land of Days by the last king of the half-elves and had come back seeking revenge. With their strongest warriors, they stormed the city and set about massacring its people. In the end, one of the most powerful sorcerers cast a spell over Seferdi, preserving the horror for all time, ensuring that the hanged corpses would dangle forever from their nooses.”
Nihal unsheathed her sword and pointed it at his throat. “Take it back!” she screamed. “Take back every single one of your lies!”
“It’s the truth,” Vraśta replied calmly. Nihal could sense his fearlessness. “We are killers, yes, but men are the ones who order us to kill. Left to our own devices, we’re useless. They say slaughter and we slaughter. They designed us to take pleasure in killing, but we don’t. They give us orders and we have no choice but to obey.”
Nihal was trembling with anger, though she knew he was telling the truth. She’d run into traitors on the battlefield, and she’d heard their nauseating celebrations at the tavern only a few days before. She pressed the point of her sword to the Fammin’s throat.
“If you truly knew the Fammin you wouldn’t be so doubtful,” said Vraśta. “Among us exists a group that we call the Mistakes. Men aren’t sure why, but the Mistakes are against killing. They speak of feelings; they say that to kill is not right.”
“There’s no such thing,” Nihal exclaimed, but even as she spoke she began to doubt her words. If true, it would explain her sensation of anguish near the imprisoned Fammin, not to mention the deep emotions she perceived in Vraśta.
“The Mistakes claim to suffer whenever they kill. They don’t want to, but they have to, because they’ve been commanded to do so by men. When a man calls us by name, what we want or what we feel no longer matters.” The Fammin paused for a moment in thought. “All I know is I have no desire to kill Laio.”
“Are there many of them, the Mistakes?” Nihal asked.
“Not yet, but their numbers are growing. The men hate them. They force them to fight, they summon them by name and order them to commit terrible acts, just for the pleasure of watching them suffer. Some of them, in the end, are put to death.”
“You’re not one of them?” said Nihal.
“No,” Vraśta replied, though she could sense his hesitation.
He was a Mistake, Nihal could feel it, but she was reluctant to believe it, just as she was reluctant to trust in his story of Seferdi. The Fammin were monsters and she’d slayed thousands of them in battle. And yet she knew Vraśta was telling the truth. But if that was so, then what was good and what was evil? Were men the true monsters? Weren’t those, like her, who killed by choice, far worse then those who killed because commanded to?
Vraśta stared deep into her eyes. “Kill me,” he said.
Nihal stood there, silent, dumbstruck.
“I don’t want to harm Laio. He taught me what it means to be alive. He is my friend. He showed me what friendship is. But if someone commands me by name, I’ll have no choice but to kill him, and you, too. And I don’t want to do that. Kill me.”
Nihal gritted her teeth, trying to make a decision she wasn’t ready to make. “Of course I’ll kill you, there’s no need to beg.”
She gripped her sword in both hands and raised it above her head, eyes fixed on the Fammin’s throat. That’s where she’d strike him. It’d all be over in a flash. To keep him in their company was too dangerous, and she had to end it now. Her sword trembled in her hands.
“Kill me,” Vraśta repeated. But this time his voice was human. It lacked that guttural, raucous tone that reminded her always of Livon’s death. This was no assassin begging for his life to be taken; this was a prisoner. Nihal lowered her sword.
“No, I won’t. Not now,” she said.
“But I’m a danger to you …” Vraśta protested.
“I won’t allow you to kill me, or any of my friends,” said Nihal. “As long as I’m around, you won’t be a threat.” With that, she turned and walked away, with the Fammin’s suffering still heavy in her heart.
The following morning, Nihal filled the others in on her decision. “Vraśta will be coming with us, as a sort of prisoner. Sending him back is not an option; he’ll give our position away, and if we kill him …” She paused, not wanting to admit that she’d lacked the courage to finish him off the night before. Seeing Laio’s hopeful gaze, her spirits lifted. “If we kill him, they’ll send others after us, and then we risk being discovered.”
Her explanation held no water, but no one objected.
> “If needed, we can pretend he’s transporting us as prisoners, as a means of crossing through enemy territory,” Nihal concluded. Rather than wait for a response, she stood and turned away, making sure to avoid the gaze of Vraśta, the only one among them who was truly unhappy with her decision. Before long, they were back on the road.
One day, shortly after their meeting with Laio, they crossed into the Land of Night. The swamp was bathed in a twilight glow when they entered, but utter darkness soon enveloped them. A strange darkness. There were no stars in the sky, only a pale radiance, as on the night of a full moon, though the moon was absent, too.
“We’re here,” said Laio. Nihal glanced at him. “This is my land, the Land of Night.”
Laio had been carried away from the land of his birth when he was two years old and remembered little, having hardly formed a memory. His parents had stayed for as long as they could, doing their best to hide their opposition to the Tyrant’s regime and to aid the local resistance. When the first rebels among their company were discovered, they decided it best to protect their child and leave. So they fled to the Land of Water, and his father built the dark, enormous home where Nihal had once stayed as a guest. Laio’s mother died during her second pregnancy, and Laio and his father were left alone. Pewar spoke to his child often of their beloved homeland, shrouded in perennial darkness. Together with the memories of his father’s stories, homesickness took root in Laio’s heart, and he’d always dreamed of once again seeing his native land.
On the first evening, they set up camp in the swamp, protected by the surrounding darkness, and Nihal consulted the talisman. Its power, she noticed, had increased. Half of the stones were now lodged securely in their niches, and as a result, the directions she received were clearer than usual: She saw an image of clustered trees off to the south, their bare branches scraping the sky. A dying forest.
“My father was always talking about that place,” said Laio, after Nihal had shared her vision. “There’s a large forest, the Forest of Mool. One of the most beautiful forests in the Overworld, though it’s been in slow decline ever since the Tyrant came along.”
Turning southward, they pressed on, and after two days’ travel, they grew accustomed to life without daylight. Maintaining their regular sleeping patterns proved nearly impossible, and they began resting whenever their legs grew tired. And if that weren’t already enough, they couldn’t keep their bearings. Sennar was forced to use magic to set them straight, which placed them at risk of being discovered by other sorcerers. On several occasions, they lost their way completely and ended up walking around in circles. Before long, their food supply dwindled, and they had to content themselves with what they could find along the path: roots and various herbs. Every now and then, Vraśta managed to hunt down a small animal.
After crossing the Looh River, they found themselves standing before a vast flatland covered with green, wooly tufts that could hardly be referred to as grass. Stricken with exhaustion, they prepared themselves for the crossing.
It was around then that Vraśta began showing his first signs of discomfort. Up until that point, he’d been mild-mannered and eager to help—Nihal alone understood his private torment. The Fammin carried Laio on his back, employed his keen sense of smell, marched tirelessly forward. When they slept, he stood guard even when it wasn’t his turn. As the days passed, the Fammin’s voice grew ever more human, his eyes ever clearer.
“What’s bothering you?” Nihal asked one evening, as they sat beside the fire, sharing a turn as lookout.
The Fammin cast her a bewildered glance. “What do you mean?”
“I can feel your sadness, your suffering.”
Vraśta sighed. “I can’t stop thinking of what will happen to me. Here with Laio, I’ve become aware of so many things I never knew before, and I’m not so sure that’s a good thing. Maybe I’d be better off if I’d never opened my eyes to the world.”
Nihal waited silently for him to continue.
“Maybe I am like the Mistakes,” Vraśta went on. “When I think about the things they told me, I almost feel like I can understand them now. I don’t want to be who I am, I don’t want to kill anymore, but I know that one day, I’ll be forced to. I’d rather die. Would you kill me if I asked you to?”
Rather than answer immediately, Nihal sat for a moment in thought. “I’d never allow you to harm us,” she said at last.
One day, marching across the steppe, Sennar noticed that Vraśta hadn’t stopped sniffing the air since they’d left that morning.
“Is there something out of sorts?” the sorcerer asked, but the Fammin merely shook his head.
During their third week of travel, they reached the Forest of Mool. There, in the dim light of that land of shadows, stretched a thick network of bare branches, rising intertwined against the sky, as far as the eye could see. Even then, starving for life under the Tyrant’s wrath, the forest still bore some of its ancient magnificence.
Not all was dead, however. Inch by inch, as they pressed deeper into the dense forest, they began to encounter the occasional leafy sapling. The little trees seemed sickly, and yet they struggled upward. One day, they found a small clearing surrounded by flourishing trees and decided to rest.
Vraśta went off hunting and Nihal took advantage of the free moment to check the talisman once again. She was reluctant to take it out with the Fammin around. Closing her eyes, she could sense the sanctuary’s nearness. Perhaps this time, for once, they’d make it without running into any obstacles.
When Vraśta returned, Nihal and Sennar recognized immediately that something was wrong.
“Everything okay?” Nihal asked. Her hand dropped instinctually to her sword.
“Yes,” Vraśta answered, though he refused to look her in the eye.
“Are you sure?” She drew her sword and aimed the sharp blade at his throat.
“Leave him alone!” Laio shouted, stepping forward. “Do you really not trust him, after all this time?”
Nihal lowered her sword. She knew Vraśta wasn’t afraid to die, that he coveted death, even. There was nothing to be gained by threatening him.
“It’s best we keep moving,” she said. They abandoned their resting place and set off toward the sanctuary.
They walked through the afternoon and into the next day, until their legs gave out and they settled in a clearing, this one larger than the last, though more barren. Laio still hadn’t fully regained his strength, and they’d gone eighteen hours without stopping. Vraśta was still on edge.
Within an hour, Nihal was the only one left awake. Sennar had collapsed from exhaustion, and Laio was already deep asleep. Even Vraśta seemed to be taking his rest. Suddenly, one of the Fammin’s eyelids flicked back, revealing a blood-red eye in the dark, and he jumped to his feet. He was breathing heavily, and his eyes were no longer clear and mournful, but burning with rage.
The moment she caught sight of him, Nihal gripped her sword.
“They’re calling me,” Vraśta muttered. He spoke in a hoarse tone, almost a grunt.
Nihal woke Sennar and Laio and immediately drew her sword. “Who’s calling you?” she asked the Fammin.
“They’re close,” he replied, his voice ever more raucous.
“Whatever happens, you head to the sanctuary,” said Sennar.
Nihal turned to him as he made ready for battle. Laio was beside him, half-asleep, his sword in his hand.
“What?” Nihal asked.
“You have to survive. If they attack us, run for the sanctuary,” the sorcerer repeated.
“And just leave you here?”
“It’s our job to protect you,” Laio replied.
Nihal hesitated.
“There’s nothing else to say,” Sennar concluded, his tone firm. He walked off and crouched at the edge of the clearing, listening intently for the enemy.
N
ihal could hear Vraśta’s labored breathing behind her, the panicked breathing of a prey as it flees from its predator. She turned and saw his bulging red eyes.
“Go!” Sennar shouted. Now they could hear the distinct sound of footsteps approaching through the forest.
Vraśta grabbed Nihal by the arm and dragged her deep into the forest, out of sight of her friends. Nihal wriggled her arm from his painful grip, so tight he’d left a bruise. “What in the world are you doing?” she yelled.
“They followed me here,” said Vraśta, in a voice so inhuman it was difficult to make out the words. “I saw them yesterday, in the distance. They were with me in the prison. They’re calling me. They know I’ve betrayed them and they’re telling me to kill you, all of you, to kill Laio.” A crooked smile spread across his face.
Nihal gripped her sword, but she didn’t strike. She didn’t fear Vraśta the way she did other enemies, but the way he looked now, the way he’d changed, it made her uneasy. The Fammin shook his head and for a moment his eyes returned to their former clarity. But they were so filled with terror, they frightened Nihal.
“I brought you here for you to kill me,” he said, his voice wavering between human sympathy and animal ferocity. “I didn’t want you to do it in front of Laio.”
“I can’t—”
“Kill me!” Vraśta implored.
“You saved Laio’s life, you traveled with us, hunted for us … I can’t. …” She’d killed thousands of Fammin, but the one standing before her now was no enemy. Not at all. To take his life would be murder.
“I don’t want to kill Laio, I don’t want to kill anyone. … End it now!” Vraśta howled, his voice filling the forest.
Nihal, too, could hear Vraśta’s name echoing through the trees now. The Fammin took his head between his hands and pressed so hard into his temples that blood began to trickle down his fingers. He looked up, glaring at her with wild eyes, and begged her again to kill him.
Nihal leaped to her feet, closed her eyes, and plunged her sword through Vraśta’s stomach, straight up to the hilt. When she lifted her eyelids, the Fammin was on his knees in a pool of blood. Once again his eyes were clear, his face lax. He was smiling.