The Last Talisman

by Licia Troisi

  The next night, they continued trudging forward. Sennar placed Nihal under the same spell he’d used to change her appearance in the Land of Days. “It’s absolutely essential at this point that no one finds out you’re a half-elf,” he said.

  The farther along they advanced, however, the more enemies they met. The Dead Plains swarmed with enemy encampments and structures of every sort: grand towers looming above the plain, cities like those they’d seen in the Land of Days, fortified citadels. More numerous than anything else, however, were the strange, fenced-in camps, surrounded by high walls of black crystal, beyond which their gazes could not hope to penetrate. Several times, as they passed by these mysterious camps at a cautious distance, they heard a roaring fill the air and felt the earth tremble beneath them, as if shaken by heavy footfalls.

  “The sounds seem familiar,” Nihal remarked on one such occasion. “It might be coming from dragons.”

  One night, passing by another of these walled camps, they heard an unusually violent ruckus of wild shouts and brutal roars. In terror, they watched as an enormous creature rose above the crystal walls and up into the night’s darkness. From its mouth came a stream of bright flames, as it spread its diaphanous wings in the dense air above the plain. A black dragon. So that was the reason for all the hidden camps—the Tyrant was breeding his savage beasts right here in the Dead Plains.

  “There are sorcerers around here, lots of them. I can feel their presence,” said Sennar, and as he spoke the hairs raised on his arm. If he was able to sense their presence, they could sense his, too.

  From that moment on, their journey wasn’t so much a voyage as an escape, a panicked flight. Without respite, day and night, they felt the enemy breathing hotly down their necks.

  One evening, as they crept narrow-eyed across the plain, red lava coursing incandescent in the dark, Nihal heard a sound. She stopped short and gripped her sword. Sennar, too, halted, listening attentively. The air was filled with sounds between the groans and grumbles of volcanoes, but Nihal had heard something different. A metallic sound. … She closed her eyes and seemed to sense the earth trembling rhythmically beneath her. Footsteps, most likely. Or maybe not. In any case, a sign of danger.

  Nihal drew her sword. “I think someone’s coming,” she said.

  Sennar glanced around. “There’s nowhere to hide.”

  “We’ll have to use magic,” said Nihal.

  “It’s best if we avoid it. Especially now, with the enemy so close by.”

  “We have no other choice,” said Nihal firmly, cutting short the discussion.

  Sennar gathered his concentration and recited an incantation. Immediately, Nihal took on the appearance of a Fammin and Sennar that of a simple foot soldier. The half-elf sheathed her sword. Her senses had been right—the footsteps were more distinct now, and even the light clinking of the enemy’s armor could be heard in the distance.

  They set off walking again, both tense with fear. Moment by moment, the footsteps grew closer. By the light of the lava’s liquid glow, they could make out several figures approaching, perhaps four of them. Three were hunched low to the earth. Fammin, no doubt. Nihal’s heart raced. They were sniffing the ground, just as Vraśta had, whenever he went off hunting.

  The figures drew closer. The fourth among them was a dwarf, and no basic soldier by the looks of it—he wore an ample cloak and elaborately decorated armor.

  The dwarf slowed his footsteps as soon as he saw them. When at last they were face-to-face, Nihal noticed the dwarf’s strained look of perplexity. Sennar raised the hood of his cloak.

  “Declare yourselves,” the dwarf ordered.

  A cold chill ran down Nihal’s spine. She only prayed that her friend would come up with another good excuse.

  “We were sent on reconnaissance from the camp, in search of the two runaways,” said Sennar.

  Nihal could hear the trembling in his voice. In the meantime, one of the Fammin had begun sniffing the air and glaring mistrustfully at the sorcerer.

  “I was assigned patrol duty this evening, and as far as I can remember, no one else was sent out in advance.”

  “The decision was made last minute. You must not have been informed in time,” Sennar explained.

  The suspicious Fammin began to snort, and the others raised their axes.

  “What are your names?” the dwarf asked, already gripping the handle of his sword.

  It was then that Nihal grabbed Sennar’s arm and took off running. The Fammin launched after them.

  “What in the devil?” Sennar spluttered, as they sprinted across the plain.

  “They didn’t fall for it this time, we had to run,” Nihal shouted back.

  Their enemies were rapidly gaining ground, their heavy panting and furious grunting growing closer with every second.

  “There’s no point in running!” Sennar shouted. “They know who we are. They’ll never let us go.”

  Nihal ran faster, gripping his hand.

  “We have to fight,” said Sennar.

  “No. You don’t want to. I know what it would mean for you.”

  Sennar dropped Nihal’s hand and halted, turning back in the midst of the plain to face the enemy.

  Nihal had no choice but to follow suit and ready herself for battle. She went head-to-head with the dwarf, while Sennar took care of the three Fammin. Once again, just as in the clearing, the encounter ended in a massacre. For a short while, they’d convinced themselves they could leave the war behind, but death had tracked them down. And as they stared at the ruined bodies splayed before them on the ground, it felt as if nothing had changed at all. Again, they were lost and alone.

  The following day they crossed the border, leaving behind the Land of Fire for good. It seemed as if a century had passed since the evening they’d spoken of their mission’s end. Only two stones remained, but Nihal and Sennar were marked targets now, and their skirmish back on the plain would only attract new enemies.

  “That’s the last time we’ll fight,” said Nihal, as they walked. “If we just keep traveling at night, no one will find us. We’ll be careful.”

  Sennar said nothing. And when at last he decided to break the silence, his response was completely unexpected. He laughed. “Don’t worry about me,” he said. “I’m done being a mama’s boy. No more losing my head every time I see a drop of blood. I’ll fight again if I have to, and whenever else it’s necessary.”

  Nihal made no answer; trusting her silence would be worth a thousand words.

  29

  A Cry of Rage

  The long, idle days in Dama wore on Ido’s nerves. Summer was behind them, and the Council would soon be meeting to discuss the next plan of attack. It was time, he felt, to return to the soldiering life.

  In fact, he was surprised no one from the army had yet shown up. He couldn’t stay on leave forever, and any day now he’d assumed someone would arrive with his next order. But instead, the days crawled by without a word.

  One sunny morning, however, he woke feeling better than usual and decided to leave for Makrat. He knew all the commanders and higher-ups would be gathered there, including Soana.

  He dressed and immediately asked the attendant what they’d done with his armor and weapons. The boy hurried off, but his return a few minutes later came with an ugly surprise. Something was missing among his belongings.

  “Where’s my sword?” he asked, impatient.

  “Deinforo snapped the blade,” the boy muttered, his voice trembling.

  Ido’s spirits sank. The duel had robbed him of every last anchor of his existence. His sword was his life. Without it, he couldn’t fight.

  “But I was able to find you a new one,” the attendant added right away, pointing to a sword leaned up against the wall. Its handle, Ido noticed, was completely without ornament—it must have been the sword of a basic soldier who’d
fallen in battle.

  “What,” Ido thundered, “did you do with the rest of my sword?”

  The boy jumped with fright. “The sorceress gave it to me before she left. I put it in storage, with the other weapons.”

  Ido hurried toward the warehouse, his attendant rushing after him. The idea of his sword mixed up in a junk heap had him fuming.

  He saw it right away, tossed in a corner of the room. The blade had been snapped a few inches above the hilt. A sharp pang gripped his heart. He lifted his weapon. The handle was encrusted with blood. His or Deinforo’s. Even the stump of blade that remained was dark red. Ido thought of all the years, all the battles he’d fought with that sword, and his eyes welled with tears. “I’m taking it with me,” he said.

  “But, sir, it’s broken,” the boy argued.

  The dwarf ignored him, rushing out of the warehouse.

  Vesa, at least, was still Vesa, proud as ever. His dragon had come out of the duel nearly unscathed, and at the sight of his master, he gave a welcoming snort. And as soon as Ido hopped on Vesa’s back, the dwarf felt at home again. All the emotions he’d lost touch with during his recuperation surged through his veins again, and he found himself thinking that maybe it hadn’t been such a bad injury, after all.

  “Up you go. It’s time we head back to the Academy for our next orders,” he said with a smile as he spurred Vesa into flight.

  When he arrived, Ido found Makrat had changed a good deal. The harrowing echo of the defeat in the Land of Water had reached the city, and people were frightened. Soldiers walked the streets in large numbers, and the city crowds no longer bustled about with their usual exuberance—there were fewer shoppers in the markets, less foot traffic at the crosswalks, and even the children shrieked and played with less abandon. The situation was dire, and everyone knew it.

  Ido went directly to the Academy and requested an audience with Raven. The sooner he unloaded this burden from his shoulders, the better. As usual, he was shepherded into a waiting room. Then he was summoned before Raven, who remained coldly seated on his throne, not even bothering to greet Ido. Ido, however, was in no mood for quarreling and knelt quickly before his superior.

  Raven’s gaze fell immediately on the patch covering his eye. “How’s the wound?”

  “Healed. It’s nothing serious.”

  For a brief moment, silence filled the room.

  “Well then, what have you come to ask me?”

  “I think that’s fairly obvious. I want to know what’s next. You’ve been letting me rot there in Dama without a single order.”

  “You’re on leave.”

  “I’m healed.”

  “I see you refuse to acknowledge—”

  “No, it’s not that, ” Ido said, peeved. “The problem is that I don’t understand.”

  “You are on leave, Ido. Indefinitely.”

  The general’s words crashed over Ido like an avalanche. This was something he had truly not expected. “I told you, I’m fine,” he insisted.

  Raven stood and walked toward Ido. “I didn’t want to have to be so hard on you, but you’ve left me no choice,” he said brusquely. “There are two reasons you’ve been relieved of your duties as a knight.”

  “What is this, another pathetic attempt to get rid of me? I thought we’d left our differences behind!” Ido burst out.

  Raven seemed not to hear his words. “Your behavior on the battlefield was indefensible. You left your troops to fend for themselves while you went off to settle a meaningless personal grudge. You led more than three hundred men to their deaths.”

  Ido flared with anger. “I was wounded. What did you want me to do, take command of them from the infirmary?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying, and you know it. The moment that battle began, you went after Deinforo, throwing strategy to the wind. You left your men on their own. Nearly every one of them died that day. Does that mean nothing to you?”

  The faces of Ido’s students flashed before his eyes. They seemed terribly young, like the faces of children. Then a voice, far-off, echoed in his memory, the voice of Nelgar calling after him. “Dammit, Ido, your soldiers!”

  “I …” he uttered in protest, but no words came. It was undeniable, and he knew it. He’d known it ever since he’d spoken with his student in Dama.

  “In other words, you’ve finally given me the proof that I’ve been right all along to mistrust you,” Raven continued. “You haven’t changed at all since your days fighting for the Tyrant. You’re still a bloodthirsty animal, and that thirst has taken its toll.”

  “That’s not the way it is, and you know it. Sure, I made a mistake, but—”

  “But nothing. Such grievous errors cannot be tolerated, not from an inexperienced soldier, and certainly not from a veteran who has stepped onto the battlefield as many times as you have.”

  Ido stood stock-still, his fists clenched, his lungs tight in his chest. He could hardly breathe.

  “In any case, that’s not the only reason we’ve decided to place you on leave,” said Raven. He turned and took a few steps back toward his throne. “You’ve suffered a grave wound, Ido. You’ve lost an eye, and you’ll never be the warrior you once were.”

  Ido steamed with rage. “Don’t insult me,” he hissed.

  “I’m only speaking the truth. A lost eye is no small setback for a warrior.”

  “I’m no less capable now than I was before. Would you like me to prove it?”

  “Don’t act like a child. It’s always the same with you, isn’t it? Everything ends in a sword fight. Don’t think I didn’t hear about your little show here at the Academy, either. Ido, there’s no denying it. Your depth perception’s been compromised and your field of vision significantly reduced. You can’t just walk out on the battlefield and go back to fighting the way you used to.”

  Ido did all he could to contain his emotions, but his fury boiled over. “Then pick up your rusty sword and prove it to me. Prove that I’m not what I used to be! You and I should have settled this long ago.”

  Raven kept his calm. “Ido, don’t force me to—”

  “I’m asking you to, dammit!” Ido’s howl brought a host of guards to the doorway.

  “You’ve lost your head,” Raven said coolly. “I see no reason to continue this conversation. Get out of here for now, and we’ll discuss this later when you’re ready to speak reasonably.”

  Raven turned once again and made to sit on his throne. Ido was blind with rage. With a wild cry, he drew the sword given to him by his attendant and launched himself at the Supreme General.

  Raven parried his attack with ease. “Remember, I’m your superior. Don’t test me, Ido.”

  As if deaf to his words, Ido lunged in again, and again the general met his blade effortlessly, following with a blow to the dwarf’s side. Ido hadn’t seen it coming. He had only time to hear a confused rustling behind him. When he shifted to the side, he was suddenly standing face-to-face with one of the guards.

  “Are you convinced yet? You didn’t see my blade coming. You didn’t see the guard coming. Ido, it’s over.”

  Ido cried out again and resumed his attack. But Raven’s and the guard’s blows seemed to strike back at him from out of nowhere. He lost all sense of orientation, of positioning, and soon he was stumbling awkwardly back and forth. A sudden blow struck his back and Raven took advantage of the moment to disarm him. With a rattling clang, his sword fell to the floor. Ido collapsed to his knees, breathless.

  “You’re in no condition to fight,” the Supreme General declared. “I’m sorry Ido, but we have no place among the ranks for a mediocre knight.”

  Raven left the room, his boots stamping against the hard metal and echoing in the dwarf’s ears.

  Ido remained on his knees, panting. His sword lay a few feet away.

  I’ll never be what I used to
be. Never. He’s right. I’m just a mediocre knight.

  Turning his head up to the ceiling, Ido let loose a howl of wild rage.

  Like a whirlwind, Ido burst through Soana’s door, his face pale and crazed. The sorceress leaped with fright.

  “What are you doing here?”

  She’d had no idea he’d arrived in Makrat—as far as she knew, he’d never left his bed in Dama.

  “I want my eye back.”

  Soana stared at him, perplexed.

  “Huh?”

  Ido began rifling like a madman through her books, her possessions. “You’re a sorceress aren’t you? Then give me my eye back, dammit! There must be some godforsaken spell that can make it grow again, that can make me what I use to be!”

  Soana tried to stop him, but the dwarf went on flinging her books around the room. “Ido, no such spell exists, there are certain limits that no one can—”

  “This isn’t possible! This cannot be the way it ends!” He launched himself at another shelf, but when he went to pick up the next book to his left, he lost sight of the spine. “Dammit! Damned thing!” With a cry of rage and desperation, he fell to the floor in tears.

  Soana had never seen him cry. She stood motionless, waiting for Ido’s nerves to settle.

  “Deinforo took everything from me, even my ability to fight. The one thing I had left. Without my eye, I can’t set foot on the battlefield, and if I can’t fight, then what am I? What am I but a traitor?”

  He held his face in his hands and went on sobbing. In silence, Soana leaned down and wrapped him in her arms.

  Gradually, Ido calmed down. The wound in his eye had reopened and Soana set about treating him.

  The dwarf would never have allowed anybody else to see him in such a state. “Forgive me,” he said.

  “There’s nothing to forgive,” the sorceress replied. “Everything’s okay now.”

  Ido reached up to touch his eye. No, he’d never get used to the cavity there. Outside the window, the sun gradually sank over the city as evening crept in to cool the stifling summer heat. Soana lit a candle.