Chronicles of the Overworld Book 1 — Nihal of the Land of the Wind (11 page)

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.

She had to move forward without stopping and without thinking. Livon had died to save her. She had to live.

She didn’t know how long she’d been walking. Hours? A few minutes? When she felt a gust of fresh air on her face, she instinctively picked up her pace. There were more minutes of walking—or maybe it was a few hours. Then she finally found it.

A crack in the outer wall, the way to salvation, the way to freedom. Nihal pulled herself over to it and stuck her head out. A river of sewage ran below her. She mustered her last remaining strength and scratched at the bricks with her hands until she’d made an opening that was wide enough. Then she drew in a mouthful of air and simply let herself drop.

The impact with the water was unpleasant. Nihal was cold and felt weak. She was completely uncoordinated. She felt like she was about to drown and so, exhausted, she gave in. The current dragged her along for what seemed like a long time. Every now and then she noticed she was closer to the bank, but she had no strength left. All she wanted to do was float with her eyes shut. Rest. Forget.

Suddenly, she felt someone grab her arm.

Here we are
, she said to herself.
It’s over. Finally.

Someone was dragging her along the bank, but she couldn’t make out the face.

“Nihal!”

The voice seemed to come from far away.

“It’s Sennar. Nihal!”

She closed her eyes. “Livon. Livon is dead,” she whispered.

Then it was like in her dream.

She slid backward, and darkness enveloped her.

He was little more than a boy when he became a member of the Council of Sorcerers. A native of the Land of Night, he was blessed with extraordinary magical powers and struck others as a wise young man, dedicated to good and to justice. He was welcomed into the Council unanimously. It wasn’t until he was nominated Head of the Council and began excluding councilors from the most important decisions that his true nature became apparent. …

The young sorcerer was dismissed dishonorably, but he had planned everything to perfection. With men and weapons provided by kings deposed by Nammen, who were eager to take back their lands, he led an assault on the Council hall.

Only a few sorcerers managed to escape the massacre. They took refuge in the Land of the Sun, but the man destined to become the Tyrant took little notice. In just a few hours, he had become master of half of the Overworld. Gradually, he deposed even those rulers who had supported him, until he assumed control over four lands: the Land of Days, the Land of Fire, the Land of Rocks, and the Land of Night. That was when war between the four free lands and the Tyrant became a permanent condition.

—
Excerpt from the
Annals of the Council of Sorcerers

Nihal was unable to move a single muscle. She didn’t know where she was or what was happening. She heard muffled sounds something like a prayer. She felt something warm along her side. Then she saw a light. Nothing else.

It was early morning when Nihal woke again. A dim light filtered in through the window near where she lay. She remembered little apart from a long journey through a narrow passage—an escape from something.

Her memory returned slowly and in fragments. She could remember running away from an army and being captured. But the room where she now lay was nothing like a prison cell. She tried to move her head. Someone was sitting at her side. Her vision was blurry, but she tried to force her eyes into focus in order to make out the person’s face. At last, she recognized him.

“Nihal, you’re awake!”

Sennar looked pale and weary. There were questions she would have liked to ask him, but not a sound would come from her throat.

“
Shh
. You’re at Soana’s. There’s no reason to be afraid. Try to rest. We can talk when you’ve recovered.”

Nihal closed her eyes and slipped into a dreamless sleep that lasted a day and a night.

When she opened her eyes the next morning, the sun, already high in the sky, was casting a light that looked unusually wan. Then she understood. An acrid odor filled the air and dense clouds of smoke blotted out the sky. The army must have finished its sack of Salazar and set fire to the city.

She still felt very tired, but now she remembered everything.

Livon is dead.
It was her first thought. She relived the scene in her mind’s eye, his body falling to the ground, the monster as it pulled back its sword. She closed her eyes again. Her chest felt like it would burst.
Livon is dead.

Sennar was still there beside her. “How are you?”

“I don’t know,” Nihal answered, and marveled at how weak her voice sounded.

“It was a very serious wound. It’s a miracle you’re still alive.”

Nihal turned toward her friend. “How did you manage to escape?”

“With magic, but it was very difficult.”

Sennar told Nihal he’d cast an invisibility spell before venturing into the narrow alleyways of the city. Salazar was like a crazed termites’ nest. The Tyrant’s soldiers were everywhere. There was nothing to be done. Sennar, certain that Nihal had gone to Livon, tried to reach her, but the spell required too much energy. He hid in a tavern. There was a soldier there, dead. Sennar took his armor.

“It was already too late when I got to Livon’s forge. I saw Livon and the two Fammin. Then I saw the breach in the wall and I figured out what had happened. I ran to the riverbank. When I pulled you out, it seemed impossible that you would ever breathe again.” Sennar smiled at his friend. “It’s lucky you’re so small, you know that? I rolled you up in my cloak, threw you over my shoulder like a sack, and headed toward Soana’s house. We didn’t meet anyone along the way. The army came from the east and didn’t go anywhere near the Forest.” Sennar rubbed his red and weary eyes. “Since we got here, I’ve used every healing spell I know. That’s how I spent the night, hoping that the army would set up camp around Salazar and not venture this far. Then Soana came back. She and Fen were at the border of the Land of the Wind when they saw the advancing army. They raced back. Fen wanted to gather his troops and defend our land. Soana wanted to warn the population. It was too late—but you know that as well as I do.”

“How long was I unconscious?”

“Three days. Three days without showing any sign of coming to.” Sennar stopped and turned a grave look upon his friend. “I was really afraid you were going to die.”

When Soana appeared that afternoon, she looked nothing like the beautiful sorceress Nihal remembered. It was clear from Soana’s puffy eyes that she had been crying. Soot covered her face. Her hair and her dress were in disarray. The skin on her face was pulled tight from the strain of maintaining a magic barrier around the house so it would be invisible to the Tyrant’s army. Even if a group of soldiers passed close by, they would see nothing but a dense grove of trees, and an unknown force would compel them to move on.

Soana sat next to the bed and tried to smile. “How do you feel?”

“Who are the half-elves?” asked Nihal in a cold tone.

“If you rest you might get better soon and …”

Nihal raised her voice. “Why did those two monsters call me half-elf?”

Soana breathed a deep sigh. A tear coursed down her ash-stained face. “Okay,” she said to Nihal. “You have a right to know.” She began her tale. “Sixteen years ago, I hadn’t yet joined the Council. I was merely the assistant to one of its wisest members, the sorceress Reis, a member of the dwarf race. We were on a diplomatic mission in the Land of the Sea and we decided to visit what remained of the half-elf community. What we found was horrible.”

There was blood everywhere.

The air was filled with the metallic smell of blood and covered in a heavy, utter silence.

There wasn’t the slightest bit of wind, no noises, not even the rustling of leaves or the distant sound of birdsong. Nothing but death.

Soana brought her hand to her mouth. “He’s been here.”

Reis’s tiny fists tightened around the folds of her long dress. Hatred flashed in her eyes. “This will never stop.”

The two sorceresses were picking their way around the corpses that covered the ground in the village. They walked dazed, as though they were dreaming, and forced themselves to look at the atrocity before them. No matter where they turned, all they could see were faces tight with pain; open, blind eyes; bodies that had fallen heavily to the ground.

Then they heard a sound so feeble they might have imagined it.

Soana turned with a start, almost as if she smelled something in the air. For a few seconds, she heard nothing but a deafening silence. Then, once again, came that feeble cry. She bent over and began rummaging through the corpses, turning them over as she looked.

“What is it?” asked Reis in her cold tone.

“A voice! Someone must still be alive.”

Gradually, they neared the source of the sound. It wasn’t a cry of pain. Nor was it the muffled, desperate cry of a survivor. It was the wail of an infant, strong and full of life.

Soana noticed a bit of cloth moving vigorously beneath a woman’s corpse. Delicately, she turned over the lifeless body. The woman was barely more than a girl. An axe had felled her.

The woman clutched a tiny newborn baby in her arms. The baby hollered insistently, like any infant who needed changing or food. Soana moved aside the bloody cloth that covered the baby and lifted her aloft. The child’s tunic was spotless; she had not been harmed.

Reis drew near. “Is she wounded?” Her manner was, as always, cold and direct. Only when she spoke of the Tyrant did a terrible, dark light fill her eyes.

Reis grabbed Soana’s arm and pulled her lower to the ground so she could get a better look at the child. All of a sudden, her expression changed.

“Do you see something?” Soana asked apprehensively.

“A child found alive and unharmed among corpses is a sign. I have to check my cards. Only then will I be able to say something to you about what this could mean.”

Soana stood and began rocking the baby, whispering tender, soothing words.

Reis looked around. “There’s nothing more we can do here. There’s no point in staying. The Fammin could arrive at any moment. Cover the child so no one sees her. We must get back to the Council.”