Chronicles of the Overworld Book 1 — Nihal of the Land of the Wind (12 page)

Soana obeyed. The two sorceresses left the village.

Soana paused and looked at Nihal, who’d listened in silence. “That baby was the last half-elf of the Overworld, the only survivor of an entire race. We decided to bring her to the Land of the Wind, where no one would be likely to notice her features.”

Nihal’s heart began to beat more quickly.

“She had big purple eyes, pointy ears, and blue hair. That baby was you, Nihal.”

A seemingly infinite silence descended over the room.

“But then … Livon …”

“Livon was an extraordinary man. When I brought you to him, he welcomed you without hesitation and swore to protect you with his own life. At first, we raised you together, but then things became more complicated. Reis left the Council. People began spreading rumors about me in Salazar, saying that I was a witch, and I had no choice but to move away. And so Livon raised you alone. He loved you like a daughter, Nihal. But you know that already.”

Soana reached out to caress the girl’s cheek, but Nihal angrily moved her head away.

“Why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you tell me anything at all?”

“Because we wanted you to live freely and without worries for as long as possible. For sixteen years, I let myself believe you might live a normal life. Reis saw something in you, something important for the future of the entire Overworld, something she chose not to tell me. I hoped she was wrong, I hoped you weren’t predestined for anything. But Reis has never yet made a mistake. I didn’t want you to find out like this. I’m so sorry, Nihal.”

But Nihal was no longer listening.

She was thinking about Livon. He wasn’t really her father, yet he’d dedicated his life to her, had even died to save her.

She was thinking about all the times she’d wondered about her mother.

She was thinking about her people, who no longer existed.

She was thinking about the massacre of an entire race.

That’s what those voices were, those dreams—a cry for revenge, for blood. And they were demanding it from her: the last one, the only survivor of an entire people and of Salazar. She would have preferred to die a thousand times at Livon’s side rather than find herself here in this bed, crushed by sorrow.

Soana brushed a strand of hair off Nihal’s forehead.

Then she stood and left the room without a word.

Nihal spent the four days that followed in utter silence. She lay in bed and looked wordlessly out the window; the pain in her leg kept her company.
She needed to think about things. It was as if she’d been thrown into someone else’s life. Until that moment, she’d woken in the morning to the sound of Livon’s hammer against steel, the sight of his back bent over his work. She’d gone to meet Soana, learned magic, talked about the future with Sennar. She’d taken her sword in hand, played at being a warrior, and looked optimistically to the future. In a second, everything had changed. She’d killed. Her sword was no longer a toy. She’d never see Livon again, except in her memories of him as a dead body on the ground. And it was all her fault.

Who had distracted Livon, driven by a lust for battle? She had. Who had acted like a child and treated death like a game? She had. She was the last survivor of a race the Tyrant had sought to eliminate; she was the danger. Wasn’t she the one the Fammin wanted to kill when they entered the forge?

Nihal felt like the agent of doom.

She had always thought her odd appearance was just one of nature’s quirks. Now it turned out to have a terrible significance. Her dreams had shown her in graphic detail what had happened, and she’d watched, a spectator to the annihilation of her people. Soana’s story had confirmed the events. That forgotten massacre had a terrible relevance for Nihal.

Every night during those four days, the voices of Nihal’s slaughtered race tormented her. They cried out for vengeance.

The last night, Nihal dreamt of the faces of her kinfolk, each one bearing down on her with despair, their mute gazes telling her that what had happened could never be put right. She saw Livon’s face among them. His eyes revealed a profound sadness as he whispered to her, “You’re the one who killed me. It’s your fault, Nihal.”

She woke up screaming and bathed in sweat. Sennar was immediately by her side.

“Another nightmare?”

Nihal nodded, short of breath. “I’m all alone, Sennar. I shouldn’t be here with the living. I should be with my people.” She looked out the window. “Why am I alive? Why did Livon die for me?”

Sennar had preferred to say nothing to Nihal up to then. He was convinced she had to find her own explanation. He remembered the soldiers who had tried to console him, how empty their words had felt. Silence was better. Now, though, at the sight of Nihal’s tears, he could no longer hold his tongue.

“I don’t know, Nihal. And I don’t know why the Tyrant killed all the half-elves. But now you’re here. And you’ve got to look ahead, for yourself and for Livon, because he loved you and he wanted you to be strong and happy.”

Nihal shook her head. “It’s so hard. I think of him all the time, all the things he did for me and especially of all the things I didn’t do for him. I keep telling myself over and over again that what happened is my fault. He was a real swordsman. He could have fought those Fammin. He could have made it. But I distracted him, and I killed him. I’m so stupid. I …”

Nihal burst into tears. She hadn’t shed a tear since the day of the battle. Sennar hugged her tight, the way he’d done that night in the Forest. That time felt like centuries ago.

The next day Nihal saw a small, frightened face through the window. It was Phos. Sennar let him in and he settled down on Nihal’s bed. It was some time before he began to speak.

After a few days of raiding throughout the Land of the Wind, the Tyrant’s army entered the Forest to stock up on wood. There, they’d discovered the wood sprites and set to hunting them down. It was terrible. Many were captured, many more killed.

Phos gathered together all the wood sprites he could and brought them to the only safe place left: the Father of the Forest. The minute the Fammin approached, the towering tree defended them by grabbing four or five of the horrible monsters by the neck with its branches and strangling them. The others fled. Phos and his companions hid for days until they could no longer hear the cries of the Fammin and the soldiers. When they came out from their hiding place, the Forest had been devastated and less than half of their population remained.

“Then I happened across Sennar. He told me about everything that happened, and I decided to come to you. I thought that maybe, if we cried together, we might feel better.”

The wood sprite began to sob. Nihal lifted him and held him against her cheek.

“Come on. You’ll explore and find a new land where you can live.”

“You don’t understand. We can’t leave. If they see us, they’ll capture us and then it will be all over.”

Sennar, who’d been listening quietly, interrupted. “Listen, Phos. We’re going to have to leave here soon. Soana is exhausted. She’s not going to be able to keep up the barrier much longer, and I’m exhausted, too. We’re going to go to the Land of Water, where Nihal will be safe. You can come with us. We’ll hide you. There are lots of wood sprites there. You can start over.”

Phos fluttered up from the bed and threw his little arms around Sennar’s neck. “Thank you. Thank you. Whatever can I do to repay you?”

“We need horses and ambrosia for the voyage,” said Nihal. “Otherwise, I’m afraid you’re going to end up leaving me behind.” Nihal was beginning to regain her wits.

They began preparing for the journey. It was decided that Sennar would wear the armor he’d stolen on the day of the invasion so as not to arouse suspicion. The group would travel along a hidden path Phos knew. All they had left to decide was the date of departure.

Nihal had yet to get out of her bed. Before they could set out, she at least needed to get used to walking again. It was difficult at first. Her head spun and her legs felt too weak to hold her up, but she carried on without complaint. Sennar was right: they had to leave. If they died there, everything would have been in vain. Survivors have a responsibility to those lost.

They set out at night beneath a crescent moon.

It was almost pitch black. Sennar was wearing the suit of armor. Nihal was covered in a black cloak. Soana wore a sackcloth hood.

Before them, a number of small lights began to glow through the darkness. It was the wood sprites. Nihal was amazed at how few there were: a few dozen, all of them worse for the wear, with dark circles under their eyes and the lost gazes of refugees.

“This is all I could find,” said Phos, pointing to a bony and frightened nag. “The Fammin took all the rest.” It took a great effort for Sennar to turn toward the horse. He looked comical in the armor and Nihal wondered how he managed to bear its weight.

“This horse will serve very well. Thank you, Phos.”

The wood sprites hid inside the saddlebags as Nihal mounted. Although her wound was no longer open, it was still painful.
Perfect. We haven’t even left yet and already I’m not feeling so hot
. She took a sip of ambrosia.

The caravan set out.

They traveled along the edge of the forest. Phos, hidden beneath Nihal’s cloak, guided them. The night was dark, the silence complete. Not even the trees rustled. They held their silence as a sign of mourning, and Nihal felt their sorrow pervade the atmosphere around them.

They traveled through the night. Sennar took the lead and Nihal and Soana followed side by side behind him. Every now and then, murmuring sounds would rise from the saddlebags and a little colored head would emerge. It was difficult to breathe inside the bags, so the wood sprites took turns coming up for air.

Soana walked with difficulty because she’d put all her energy into reciting spells for days. For Nihal, the horse’s trotting was like torture.

They headed for cover as day began to break. They’d decided it would be safer to travel by night and rest by day. They took turns standing guard so as to avoid being surprised in their sleep. They woke again at sunset and set off once more.

The next night, the Saar came into view. The river was so immense they could not see the far bank. The current roared like thunder. Only a few daring souls had ever managed to cross it, and even fewer of them had managed to do so unharmed. It looked like a dark and menacing being ready to devour anyone who dared approach.

The banks were almost entirely devoid of vegetation. No other form of life dared establish itself in the place where the Lord of Waters reigned. It was the same river that gave birth to the splendid canals of the Land of Water, but here it showed itself at its most wrathful state.

Phos took command. “We’re completely unprotected here. We must waste no time. If we move quickly, we can make our way through the barren plains of the Land of the Wind in a single night.”

The group prepared for a tough march.

After a long walk, they saw a flash where a tower had been set ablaze. Its outlines were visible through the flames. It was a tower city like Salazar, and like Salazar, it had fallen victim to the Tyrant.

They quickened their pace, fear in their hearts. A flaming city meant the enemy was near, and the first faint light of dawn was already coloring the plains.

They were exhausted. They needed to find some sort of shelter, but it seemed unlikely that there was anything for miles around. Finally, after the sun had already risen above the horizon, they noticed a farmhouse.

Sennar went ahead to scout things out. When he came back his face was clouded over.

“It’s not a good idea to stop. Let’s go.”

Nihal spurred on her horse.

“No, Nihal. Come back!”

But Nihal galloped toward the house without heeding Sennar’s cries.

The sight was bleak: abandoned farm implements, an untended garden, empty stalls in the barn. With great effort, Nihal dismounted and made her way to the entrance. It was half closed; it creaked when she pushed it.

It was dark inside and it smelled of death. A man hung from the ceiling while a girl and a woman lay in pools of blood on the floor.

Nihal froze. Once again she heard cries and weeping. History was repeating itself, one massacre after another. She cried out and collapsed to her knees.

“Come away from here. Don’t look.”

Soana had followed her.

“No! It’s right to look! We have to see what the Tyrant is doing to the world,” yelled Nihal with rage.

Soana took her by the arm and dragged her out of the house.

They buried the corpses, taking care to ensure the graves weren’t visible, and then they made ready to sleep in the barn. It wasn’t easy for any of them to fall asleep; the images of the dead would not leave them.

Despite Sennar’s protests, Nihal insisted on taking a turn standing watch. She sat with her sword on the threshold. She looked out over the fields the family had tended so laboriously and felt as though she might suffocate.

The day passed uneventfully.

Toward sunset, Nihal managed to fall asleep, her arms around her sword. For the first time since learning she was a half-elf, no nightmares disturbed her sleep. Instead, she dreamed that Fen came to take her away. Then, he gave her a long kiss before the waterfall at Galla and Astrea’s palace.

It’s all over, Nihal. I’m here now
, he said.

When she woke, she wondered how it was possible to dream such a lovely dream at such a terrible time. It had been ages since she’d last thought about the knight, but she realized her love had not faded. Who knew where he was, who he was fighting for, whether or not he was hurt …

They resumed their journey. They reached a little forest whose trees provided safety for the travelers. Some of the wood sprites came out of the saddlebags to stretch their crumpled wings.

Phos rejoiced when he saw that there were no traces of Fammin in the little thicket. “Maybe there’s still hope! Something has been spared from the destruction.”

Sennar took off his helmet and took in deep breaths of fresh air.