by Licia Troisi
Since becoming a full-fledged sorcerer, Sennar was completely caught up in his new role. He spent hours bent over his books, and after he finished everything in Soana’s library, he began to wander around the Land of the Wind looking for new volumes.
Since the journey to the Land of Water, Nihal had become impatient with the inactivity of her life in Salazar. She was anxious to discover new lands. So with the excuse that Sennar might need protection during his brief voyages, she began to travel with him wherever he went.
Nihal admired Sennar’s determination. She, too, would have liked to be determined, strong, focused. It was true, her gift was not for magic, but she’d decided that at the very least she needed to learn the spells that might be useful to a warrior, which meant she was concentrating in particular on healing formulae, which would come in handy if she were wounded, and on some simple attack spells, which might save her skin if things got desperate. Surprisingly, Soana didn’t interfere, although she insisted that Nihal learn how to fully commune with nature.
Nihal trained with Fen once a month. She usually went along with Soana to see him, but sometimes he surprised them with a visit, which always filled Nihal with joy.
The more time passed, the stronger her love grew. She worshipped his every move and knew his every expression by heart. What did it matter that he could never belong to her? Love is not about possession, she told herself. Love doesn’t let anything stop it. And I love him.
Fen seemed not to notice his young pupil’s infatuation. It was clear that he had begun training Nihal to please Soana, but dueling with the scrappy girl had quickly become a pleasure in its own right. And besides, it was always an opportunity to see his sorceress.
Nihal learned much during their encounters. Fen did not go easy when fencing with her, and she soaked things up like a sponge. She took in all of his advice, lessons, and technical comments and refashioned them with ingenuity, inventing new moves, devising new ways of striking and adapting the art of fencing to the way her own body worked.
Fen was impressed with the girl’s progress and never missed an opportunity to compliment her. He’d never seen anyone fight like her.
Naturally, Nihal felt honored, but in her heart of hearts she hoped that one day he would notice her in other ways and realize that even though she fought better than most men, she was still a girl. Sometimes she felt like one of the unfortunate heroines of folk ballads, in love with the wrong man but heroically dedicated to the emotion. By now, she knew that Sennar was right: Soana and Fen were like one person. When the knight was around, the sorceress’s eyes shone with a special light, and Fen treated Soana with such attentiveness. Nihal could only dream he might one day show her the same care. It was torture to see them together. On more than one occasion, when she knew she was alone, Nihal wept, but she wouldn’t have renounced her love for anything in the world.
If anyone could rival Fen in Nihal’s dreams, it was Gaart.
She probably stood fewer chances with the dragon than with the knight. One afternoon, when she’d tried to touch him, the dragon grew increasingly agitated and finally sent a burst of flames out his nostrils.
Nihal understood once and for all that there was no point insisting, but she didn’t give up on the idea of riding a dragon—perhaps one of her own. From that day, she steered clear of Gaart, but she continued to admire him from afar and to daydream about endless voyages on his back.
“Why are you always off with that guy? What’s so special about him? Aren’t I enough for you?”
Livon had not reacted well to Nihal’s training sessions with the knight, and it didn’t matter how many times he reminded himself that he’d always encouraged her to follow her own path.
To the armorer, the few days Nihal spent in Salazar now and then passed as though nothing had changed, as though Nihal was still a little girl, black with dust from the workshop, handing him his tools.
But when his daughter went back to Soana’s, he’d suffered immensely. He missed the girl he’d raised; he would have liked for the woman Nihal was becoming to stay with him forever.
A year after Sennar’s initiation, daily life in the Land of the Wind remained tranquil. Merchants sold things, tavern-keepers poured wine, and kids of all races scrambled up and down the stairs of the tower cities.
There were, however, events that might have warned of worse to come. King Darnel did whatever he could to appease the Tyrant. The taxes due to the Tyrant had increased beyond measure, and the better part of every harvest ended up in his granaries. Many fields went unplanted because the Tyrant needed able-bodied men for his eternal war against the free lands.
During her travels with Sennar, Nihal had noticed that there were more and more poor people in the corners of the land. Sadly, the inhabitants of the Land of the Wind remained convinced that Darnel’s practice of appeasement would keep them safe for a while longer. Thus, they carried on tranquilly.
Until the day something particularly alarming occurred.
A distraught old farmer arrived in the city. Dressed in rags, he traveled through the stairwells of Salazar hollering between his tears that the Fammin had sacked his village and others near it, and that the men serving with the beasts had kidnapped all the girls and killed anyone who tried to block their way.
When pressed for more information, all the old man could do was say, over and over again, “Lada, my poor Lada …” as if he didn’t understand what they were asking him.
The majority of people took him for a lunatic and stopped paying him any attention, but Sennar and Nihal rushed to warn Soana.
Soana decided to head out toward the borders to see for herself if there was anything to fear.
For the first time since their destinies had crossed paths, Soana would take a journey without either one of them.
“Someone who knows how to fight should stay in the city, just in case. You take care, Nihal,” she said, smiling. “In a way, Salazar is in your hands, too.”
Soana had Fen accompany her. After she left, Nihal was sad and happy at the same time. She did not like the idea that the sorceress and the knight who held her own heart were traveling together, but she was very proud to have been promoted to protector of her city.
The day after Soana’s departure, Nihal and Sennar met as usual on Salazar’s roof.
They’d gotten into the habit of relaxing there at day’s end, taking in the sunset over the grasslands. They liked to watch the sun as it went from yellow to red and tinged the sky red, too, before it disappeared into the dark green enormity of the plain. They’d talk about this and that, debating and chatting about anything and everything.
But that night, there was something different about Nihal. She was somber as she peered at Sennar out of the corner of her eyes. Sennar rolled his eyes when he noticed.
“All right, Nihal. So he’s gone. But there’s certainly no point in―”
Nihal interrupted him. “Did I ever tell you I used to come up here before we met?”
“No. Why?”
“Sennar, there’s something I’ve never told you. I’ve never told anyone.”
“What?”
Nihal took a deep breath to gather some courage and said, “I hear voices.”
Sennar was silent for a moment. Then he burst into laughter.
Nihal was infuriated. “Stop laughing! If you want to hear me out, fine. If not, that’s fine, too.”
“No, no! I’m sorry. It’s just that when you hear someone say ‘I hear voices’ …” His laughter slowed and he said, “All right, I’m listening.”
Nihal told him the whole story: the strange melancholy that always set in when she was alone, the distant voices that seemed to be calling out to her, the images of death that she saw so often in her dreams. She didn’t know why it seemed so important to talk about it right then, seeing as the dreams had been a mystery to her for her entire life, but that evening she hoped Sennar could give her an answer.
The sorcerer sat in silence for a few
moments after she finished telling her story. Then he made up his mind to speak. “I’m confused, Nihal. I don’t know what to say. Maybe you’re a seer and your dreams are premonitions. But it doesn’t seem like anything you’ve told me has happened, so it’s hard to say. Maybe you should talk about it with Soana.”
“Yes, I’ve thought so, too; it’s just that …”
Nihal broke off mid-sentence as she looked at a distant spot on the plains. “What’s that?” she whispered to Sennar.
At the edge of the plains, it was as if a little dark trail like a pencil line were tracing the contours of the horizon. It stretched long and curving and slowly became thicker until it began to look more like a stain, like a blotch of ink spreading on a page, a black mark that had fallen to cover the earth.
Nihal and Sennar continued to study the horizon, but they were blinded by the glare of the setting sun. Slowly, a dark fear began to grow in them. Then they understood.
It was an army. An immense army of warriors as black as night.
For a moment they were in shock. It was a vision of the end of the world, and yet it held them inexplicably captivated. Thousands of ants racing toward the city; it was at once a beautiful and terrible sight. Across the grim expanse shone the gleam of hundreds of thousands of lances rising skyward. A winged figure rose above the multitude of hollering beings, an enormous black dragon mounted by a man entirely covered in a suit of brown armor. Thousands of savage yells that sounded of death began to resound through the stillness of the sunset.
Nihal felt the echo of a memory. It was as if she’d already seen this scene, not once but a thousand times. Her own voices traversed her mind with a roar like thunder. She brought her hands to her ears and let out a cry of pain.
Something in Nihal’s wailing shook Sennar to action. He grabbed Nihal by the shoulders and forced her to listen. “It’s the Tyrant, Nihal! It’s the Tyrant. He’s coming to take Salazar. We have to warn people! We have to tell everyone to escape!”
Nihal responded with a blank gaze. Her voices were still echoing inside her head as the yells of the invading army drew nearer.
“Do you understand what I’m saying, Nihal? Run!”
And Nihal ran. She threw herself through the trapdoor that led down from the rooftop. As she raced down the stairs she tried to chase away the icy terror she’d felt moments before. Tiredly, she yelled, “The Tyrant is here! His army is upon us!”
But someone else had already seen and spread the word.
It was pandemonium. Salazar echoed with alarmed voices. People gathered in the stairwells and alleyways. Everywhere there were desperate people trying to escape. In mere moments, the corridors had filled with yelling people trying to reach impossible escape routes. Nihal had never seen the streets of her city so full, not even when the king himself had visited. But it was a lifeless chaos. It already tasted of death. The yells of men, women, and children rose over one another, a furious river that smashed against the walls and dragged along everything in its path.
Of course, some urged calm. Others gathered together those who knew how to fight and tried to organize some sort of resistance. But the truth was that there was no way out. There was nothing they could try, no means of defense, nothing to be done. Years before, Darnel had put his army at the service of the Tyrant. What could the inhabitants of Salazar—the refugees from other lands and the men who’d fled the cruelty of combat—do now? Die with honor as they sought to defend themselves? What was the point, if they were bound to die no matter what?
That was why everyone ended up seeking his or her own improbable salvation in an impossible flight. In the meantime, the army devoured the plains with incredible speed and reached the city walls.
Terror filled the tower. Screaming women clutched their children, men threw themselves out the windows into the void, and a few courageous souls, weapons in hand, made their way through the crazed masses.
Nihal wanted to get to Livon. They must escape together. She knew all the hidden routes out of Salazar; she’d played in them since she was a little girl. They would find a way out. Yes, they’d save themselves. There was no need to be afraid. She had to keep a cool head. She had to concentrate.
The shop wasn’t far now, but Nihal was at the mercy of the crowd. She heard the army hollering across the walls and then, a few moments later, the blows of the battering ram against Salazar’s main gate.
There’s no way out, she thought to herself, but then she chased the thought away with all the power in her soul and went on, hemmed in by dozens of bodies.
A blow. Another blow.
Just a little more. I see the sign. Made it!
She heard the sound of something crashing to the ground. The city gate had given way.
The ancient wood of the gate splintered.
With ferocious yells, the Tyrant’s soldiers poured into Salazar.
Nihal burst into the shop. “Pop! We have to get out of here! Let’s go! Quick!”
Livon, who had already thrown together a bundle of clothes, was busy gathering up swords. He glanced at Nihal and went toward the back of the shop.
“Wait. We have to find something to cover you. I’ll get a cloak.”
“What are you talking about? Let’s get out of here! Hurry!”
“They mustn’t see you, Nihal.”
Nihal started yelling. “There’s no time! Don’t you understand? We have to get out of here and hide!”
“You’re the one who doesn’t understand. If they see you, it’s over! They’ll kill you!”
Outside they heard yells, coarse laughter and guttural, inhuman sounds. The soldiers were swarming through the city.
Nihal didn’t know what to do. Livon wasn’t making any sense. She had to stop him. She threw herself at him and tried to drag him toward the door. “Come on, dammit! Come on!”
Too late. The door opened with a crash.
Two monstrous creatures appeared in the threshold. Long, curving fangs jutted upward from their jaws. Their bodies were entirely covered with prickly reddish hairs. Their hands and feet were identical: four long digits armed with long talons. The first clutched an axe, the other a crude, enormous sword. Their voices seemed to come straight from hell.
“Well, look here, what a surprise! An old man and a half-elf. How is it that you’re still alive, half breed?”
Nihal wasn’t listening. All her senses were primed for the attack. She put her hand on her sword. She prepared to throw herself at the Fammin, but Livon grabbed her by an arm, lifted her of the ground, and threw her to one side.
Nihal hit her head when she fell. For a moment, she thought she might lose consciousness. Everything was dark. She heard clanging blades as if from a distance. When she opened her eyes again, she saw that Livon was attempting to hold his own against the two creatures. She raced toward him.
Livon pushed her away roughly. “Run away, Nihal! Get out of here!”
It took a split second, just the blink of an eye. One of the Fammin passed his sword through Livon from one side to the other.
Nihal saw her father fall to the ground like an empty sack.
She saw his blood spread over the floor.
She saw the demon pull its sword out of Livon’s body.
She felt nothing. She simply looked at the scene, eyes wide, her arms and legs paralyzed.
A savage rage engulfed her. With a yell, she threw herself upon her father’s killer and cut off its head with a single stroke of her blade.
The other Fammin was still for a moment, but quickly recovered and raised its axe against Nihal. She felt the air moving as the blow came toward her. She leaped to the side and ducked behind the workbench, but the Fammin came toward her, growling and swinging its weapon. The workbench broke into pieces in an explosion of little bits of wood.
The monster was hanging over her, but Nihal managed to grab the mallet she’d seen Livon use so many times. She bent down to grab it and swung it hard against the monster’s knees. They gave way. Only
then did she throw herself on the monster, stabbing him so hard that a single thrust did the job.
Then Nihal felt a strange sensation along her left side: a metallic chill, a warm wetness down her thigh. She looked down at herself. There was a deep wound; it was bleeding profusely. She looked at Livon. He lay on the ground, his eyes closed as if sleeping.
To lie down next to him … to close her eyes, to rest. The idea began to take hold in her confused mind, but then a sharp, bloodcurdling cry from the street brought her back to her senses. She had to leave that place. She had to save herself.
Think, Nihal. Breathe. A way out. All you need is a way out.
The maintenance shaft. She had discovered it during her childhood games. It ran behind the shops, an old service tunnel, dark and airless, built in a gap in the outer wall.
Nihal grabbed a big mallet from the forge. It took an enormous amount of strength for her to lift it, but when she banged it against the wall, putting her shoulder into the blow, the wall gave way. The shaft was still there. With some difficulty, she managed to slip inside it and begin to make her way down the stairs.
It was dark. Nihal’s vision was blurred and her heart was racing. Blood continued to soak her leg. Every step required enormous willpower. Through the walls she could hear the cries of the soldiers, the heartrending cries of women, weeping children, the dull thud of bodies as they fell to the ground, the whistle of axes moving through the air.
After a short distance, it was clear the stairway was in terrible condition. The pain in her side grew until it was almost unbearable. Nihal began to cry. She couldn’t stop weeping. She moved forward along the stairs no longer knowing where they led. The stairwell grew hotter as she went down.
Nihal couldn’t tell where she was. At times, the stairs went upward while at others they were flat like a road, and sometimes they went down. She felt like she was suffocating. She was sorely tempted to drop to the ground and let them find her. It felt like she would die if she took another step. But she kept moving forward and dragged her left leg along.