by Licia Troisi
Nihal raised her sword. “Charge!” she cried at the top of her lungs.
Just then, the memory of Seferdi filled her mind, the image of its battered doors, and her spirits exalted at the thought that she was now repaying the Tyrant for a small part of the evil he’d done to her city.
And in that brief moment of distraction, Nihal nearly lost her life.
Behind her, an enemy was taking aim with his bow, unaware, perhaps, that with this one simple gesture he was on the verge of deciding the fate of the entire war.
As he struggled to restore calm among the rejoicing troops, Raven caught sight of the distant bow, aimed at their one last hope, and acted without pause. In a rush, he launched in the direction of the arrow and set himself in its path.
Nihal had time enough only to turn and watch as the arrow, destined for her, penetrated the breastplate of the Supreme General and lodged deeply in his chest. In that instant, the half-elf understood. She froze, staring in disbelief as Raven breathed his last—her former enemy had saved her life.
By the irony of fate, Raven, who’d done all he could to block her way in the past, now opened the way before her.
“Go!” Raven cried, as he slipped from his dragon, tumbling to the earth.
It was the Supreme General’s last order, and Nihal obeyed. Turning to the battered doors, she plunged through with Oarf, letting out a piercing battle cry, a squadron of men at her heels.
Inside, the Fortress was steeped in darkness. Nihal found herself in a high-vaulted corridor that was wide enough for Oarf to pass through easily. She was surrounded by a silence so absolute it seemed as if the palace were empty.
Nihal could sense nothing—no sound, no sight, no smell—even though the enchantment had heightened her perceptions. And yet, the Tyrant had to be there, inside. There was no way out. Their forces had invaded the entire plain. For a long while, Nihal and the group of soldiers who’d followed her heard nothing but the sound of their own footsteps. Until, in the distance, came a frantic shuffling. Guards coming their way.
Nihal raised her sword, brandishing it before her. A moment later, a horde of strange, monstrous creatures came pouring down the hall. They resembled Fammin, though they were smaller, hairless, and thin as rails. Their skin, an off-red color, stretched taut over their freakishly long bones. They were armed and came charging without a moment’s hesitation. The Tyrant must have brought them to life without resorting to magic, by crossbreeding races or by way of some unknown alchemy.
The clash in the corridor proved long and bloody. Nihal countered with her sword while Oarf used his powerful jaws to make short work of the beasts. Though they moved about with an awkward limp, the creatures were ferocious and incredibly strong and there seemed to be no end to them. As soon as one horde fell, in came another, just as eager to sacrifice itself.
With the battle dragging on, Nihal knew the time had come to press forward with Oarf. Advancing just in front of her line of soldiers, she ordered her dragon to spit a stream of fire. A pathway of crisped corpses opened up before them. “Everyone who can, follow me!” she shouted, pushing through the blockade with a group of her soldiers.
They sped down the corridor, which soon opened out into a large room. It was completely empty, and even darker than the hall they’d just come from. A sinister glare glimmered along the walls: black crystal. Nihal and her men continued forward. Yet another swarm of repugnant creatures stormed after them, though Oarf swept them away with a torrent of flames.
They passed through a number of dark hallways and empty rooms, each identical to the last, until they found themselves in a vast, open space. A battle ring, it seemed. In the corner, in fact, stood an enormous weapons rack, now empty, and beside it a heap of shackles, their chains massive enough to hold down a dragon.
Nihal surged upward on Oarf, hoping to spy Aster’s hiding place from above, though nothing below struck her as particularly suspicious. On one end of the battle ring rose the bulk of the Fortress’s central tower, bearing a multitude of windows, many of them lit up, and all scattered about the structure, seemingly at random. There was something labyrinthine about it.
Frustrated, Nihal lowered back down to the battle ring. And only then, as she descended, did her gaze land on a protruding structure some distance from the Fortress. It was short and squat, and seemed to burrow down into the belly of the earth. Narrow windows closed with heavy bars lined its walls. Prisons. Nihal felt her heart sink. Sennar could be down there! Sennar was down there!
The impulse to run toward the prison and search for him surged through her legs, though she held herself back. She’d promised to finish her mission. To save him and leave the Tyrant to escape would be pointless. In a world ruled by Aster, there was no room for her and Sennar. She had to find that monster as quickly as possible.
As soon as Oarf touched down, Nihal scanned the area and realized she’d have to leave her dragon behind. Not one of the surrounding doorways was big enough for Oarf to pass through.
“I have to leave you here, Oarf. You can’t come with me,” she said, turning toward her dragon. Oarf replied with a stubborn grunt of refusal, and Nihal ran her hand along his snout. “You can keep fighting from here. Hold back the guards. You can still help me. I’ll see you soon, when I come back victorious,” she said, and for the first time since she’d met her dragon, she gave him a light kiss on the snout. Then she made for the nearest door.
A few of her men still trailed behind her, though not many. They passed through several grand halls, some rooms crammed with books, others with weapons. They seemed to be traveling in circles, with no sign they were nearing their destination. Now and then a stray guard appeared, threatening to block the way, but Nihal took care of them quickly. Some of her soldiers stayed behind to fight. Others had fallen along the way.
The seconds ticked by relentlessly, and when Nihal glanced out one of the windows, she found that afternoon was fading into evening. She had to act quickly. When the sun disappeared, so too would all their hopes.
The pain concentrated in her chest had begun spreading to the rest of her body, and a deep exhaustion took hold of her limbs. The stones were growing ever dimmer.
Not yet, not before I’ve finished. Not before I’ve saved him.
At last, they came to an immense room, dozens of feet high and so unendingly long that its back wall stretched out of sight. Thousands of books filled the room, many of which Nihal had seen before, though many others she’d never heard of. Some were written in languages that had long since fallen out of use, with arcane symbols and dark runes scrawled on their covers and spines, untold horrors lurking within their pages.
The library. This was where the Tyrant had enhanced his magic and forged his power.
Nihal snaked through the shelves, searching for a way out, wandering in circles to no avail. When she landed right back where she’d started for the thousandth time, she let out a howl of rage and brought her sword down on the first shelf in front of her. Pages and splintered wood rose up like a dust cloud. Still, she persisted in her wild fit of destruction, until the sound of a sharp cry filled her ears and she came to a sudden halt.
Trembling at her feet was a thin, emaciated man, his knees pulled up to his chest. “Don’t kill me! Don’t kill me!” he begged, in a puny, shrill voice. “I did nothing wrong!”
The man’s pathetic, whining caw set Nihal’s blood boiling. She hoisted her sword above his head and he grabbed her by the knees.
“Spare me!” he cried.
Nihal pushed him aside with her foot. “Where is your master?”
The man shook his head, utterly petrified. “I … I don’t know. …”
“Where is the Tyrant?” Nihal shouted, pressing her sword to his throat. “Tell me or you’re dead.”
“In the throne room!” he squealed, shrinking further into his fear.
“You idiot! Do yo
u think I know where the throne room is? Tell me how to get there!” Nihal cried in revulsion.
The man stood and pointed to the back of the room, trembling convulsively. “B-b-b-back th-there are the la-laboratories. … J-j-j-just p-past them are the s-s-stairs.” He swallowed. “T-t-twenty f-f-f-flights up and you’ll f-find what you’re l-l-looking f-for.”
Nihal dashed off in the direction of his quivering arm. It took her several minutes to cross the library, but soon she was in another, narrower room, immersed in an impenetrable darkness. A stale smell invaded her nostrils: mildew, and the sickly sweet odor of putrefaction. The laboratories. These were the Tyrant’s laboratories.
Nihal shivered at the thought of what might be hidden near here. And as her eyes adapted to the dark, she was able to see for herself. More than anything else, it reminded her of Reis’s hut. Herbs of every sort hung from the ceiling, and the shelves were crammed with strange jars and plants. Nihal paced through carefully, doing her best not to look—she’d already had her fill of horrors—but soon the scent of blood was too much to ignore. It was then that she saw them.
Halved bodies. Jars filled with organs and sanguine flesh. Bizarre creatures locked in chains, their limbs mangled—experimental crossbreeds. As she glanced at them, one of the creatures snapped out at Nihal, pulling its chain tight around the collar. She couldn’t help but think of Malerba. So this was the place. This was where he’d come from.
Her anger mounted and her footsteps quickened until she was fleeing from the room in terror. Faster and faster she ran, her chest heaving, and when the stairs appeared before her, they seemed a paradise. In a leap, she was rushing up them three steps at a time.
Where are you, you creep? Show yourself!
The climb seemed endless, and soon she was forced to stop and catch her breath. Pain tore through her body and she fell limply to the stairs. She pulled out the talisman. Two stones, she saw, had turned completely black. Time was ticking, and she couldn’t afford the luxury of rest.
It wasn’t only the Tyrant she was rushing toward, but Sennar, too. For an instant, his image blended with the horrifying scene of the laboratory, though she immediately pushed the thought aside. She had to get back up, to keep moving. She rose to her feet, wrestling with each breath as if yanking it from the air.
Then, at last, she reached the room. For a moment, she rested, her heart pounding in her chest. She could sense a presence nearby. There was someone there. Aster.
Nihal glanced around. The room was immense, with a grand, vaulted ceiling. Columns wide enough for three men to wrap around them, their arms outstretched, divided the room into five naves. There were no decorations, no statues or bas-reliefs, only the long, bare walls and the imposing grandeur of the arched vault above.
Nihal felt miniscule. One emotion, however, pervaded the entire room, and now she could sense it clearly: despair. A despair too deep for words to express. And then, loneliness. Crushing loneliness.
“Why waste time, now that you’re here?”
Nihal felt her heart clench like a fist. It was him. His voice, however, wasn’t what she’d expected. Aster had to be old, but what she’d just heard certainly wasn’t the voice of an old man. It seemed almost a woman’s voice, or the voice of a child. Nihal stood, her sword stretched out before her. She began moving cautiously through the room, her footsteps echoing against the bare walls.
She passed the first two naves and came to the third, central nave, at least thirty feet wide. Darkness shrouded the far end of the room, but he was there, Nihal knew it. As she paced forward, the dark gave way to a faint light, and Nihal could just make out the outline of a towering throne.
“There’s no reason to be afraid anymore,” said the voice.
“Aster?” Nihal stopped short. She felt calm now: no more hatred, only fear, a coiling, chilling fear.
“Yes,” said the voice.
It was him. At long last.
“After hating me all these years, don’t you want to see me?” the Tyrant asked.
Nihal continued forward, and the figure on the throne began to resolve itself. The figure was miniscule, too small to be a man. A dwarf, perhaps? It rose to its feet and took a few steps forward until it stood directly in the line of light coming in through a windowpane behind the throne. Nihal’s blood froze. Her sword trembled in her hands.
Standing before her was a frighteningly beautiful child, twelve years old, at most. He wore a long, black cloak with a wide collar and a blue eye sewn into the chest—a sorcerer’s cloak. His eyes beamed emerald green and his hair was an intense blue, curly. A few loose ringlets tumbled down over his forehead. Two pointed ears arose from beneath his night-black mantle.
“Aster, where are you?” Nihal asked, her voice quaking with fear, not daring to look beyond the child.
“I’m right here. I am Aster,” the young sorcerer replied.
“What have you done to this child, you monster?” Nihal shouted.
The boy frowned. “But Nihal, haven’t you always felt lonely? Haven’t you always suffered at the thought that you’re the last remaining survivor of your people? You should be happy to see me. …” He smiled. “You’re not alone anymore, Nihal. I too am a half-elf.”
Nihal backed away, petrified. It couldn’t be. “Aster is an old man. He’s been in power for forty years.”
“I am older than I seem, Nihal. I’m very old, and very tired, in truth.”
“It’s not possible!”
“It was the father of the woman I loved who made me the way I am. He was a powerful sorcerer, and when he discovered our love, he locked me in this curse. Until the day I die, I will remain a child.”
Nihal continued backing away, horrified. It seemed like a nightmare, all of it. Aster went on staring at her with his astonished, innocent eyes.
“In truth, I understand. For all these years, you’ve hated me, and now you must reconcile the image in your mind with the child standing before you. And yet, this is the reality.”
Nihal ceased backing up and raised her sword, as if at any moment Aster might attack her. She felt lost, perplexed.
Aster continued pacing toward her. The closer he came, the more Nihal felt racked with terror. She forced herself to look her enemy in the eye. But what she saw were her own eyes, none of the hatred or wickedness she expected to find there. Aster held her in his gaze, with a look of serenity, of concern, almost. Yes, he was a half-elf, beyond doubt.
Nihal had never seen another of her people in real life, but she could sense her deep affinity with the child. They were alike, just like the figures depicted on the piece of parchment Sennar had given her so long ago, just like the creatures carved into the bas-reliefs of Seferdi. She began to tremble.
“What is it about me that terrifies you so? That I’m a child? Or that I’m a half-elf?” Aster asked.
“How could you … your own people,” Nihal murmured. “Your own brothers, and you massacred them.”
Aster smiled. “I had no choice,” he said calmly. “When I began constructing this empire you see before you, when I began my mission, an old man prophesied that you would one day stand in my way. He did not say that it would be you, only that it would be a half-elf like myself that would foil my plans. The mission with which I was charged was far too great, far too important, to allow myself to be tripped up by anyone, of any race. And so I sent my creatures, the Fammin, whom I’d only just created, to the Land of Days to exterminate my people.” Aster’s cold, detached voice echoed through the immense room.
“This can’t be true.”
“But it is, Nihal. And I did it because of you. If you’d never gotten it in your head to come all this way, to enter my palace, to seek revenge, the half-elves would still roam their land. Sure, they’d be subject to my rule, but they’d be alive.
Nihal began backing away again, as the Tyrant’s last words reso
unded in her head. She’d always known it. She’d always felt herself a curse upon the world, a harbinger of death and misfortune. So many lives had been lost on her account: her people, Livon, Fen, Laio, Raven … all dead because of her.
“Don’t torment yourself over it,” said Aster. “In the end, they’d have died all the same. The half-elves, your friends, the free, the enslaved. Everyone.”
“You’re a monster!” Nihal shouted, her back against the wall.
“Of course,” said Aster. “Though no more than anyone else. No more than you or your soldiers. No more than any other living, breathing creature that walks this wretched earth. Are they not all out there butchering one another? Are they not all in front of my palace, right this moment, slaying one another mercilessly and delighting in the act?
“It’s freedom we’re fighting for,” Nihal answered.
“No, you merely delude yourselves into thinking that,” the Tyrant countered. “But you must have figured that out by now. You know as well as I do that peace has never once graced this world, that the fifty years of rule under Nammen that you and your rebels can’t stop praising were merely fifty years of war: silent, yet no less bloody. And you know that it was men who tore down Seferdi. You know it all, and yet you refuse to see.”
“You’re wrong. I see it all just fine. I’ve seen the monsters in your laboratory. I’ve seen Malerba. I’ve seen the corpses hanging in Seferdi. I’ve seen the Fammin, forced to fight against their will. And you are the creator of all this horror. You are Evil itself! You are Hatred!” Nihal shouted in a single breath.
“You would know, an expert in hatred,” Aster cried, and cast her such a searing, penetrating glance she was forced to avert her eyes. “You slaughtered hundreds of Fammin without even asking yourself if it were just and you did it for the pleasure of killing. You basked in the glorious feeling of your enemy’s blood as it trickled down your arms. You felt a surge of power each time you thrust your blade into a man or into a dwarf. Lives—discarded at the point of your black sword. And don’t come here trying to tell me you weren’t cruel. It won’t bring an ounce of relief to any of the victims you slaughtered.”