Chronicles of the Overworld Book 1 — Nihal of the Land of the Wind (18 page)

Nihal insisted, “All right, then. Let’s fight. That way you can see my skill level and place me in the right group.”

Her hand was on her sword, but Parsel blocked her. He was beginning to get irritated with her. “Listen, girl, it’s hard enough having a woman here as it is. You’d do well to step down off your high horse and do as I say.”

Nihal conceded.

She spent the entire morning listening to things she already knew and practicing like a novice, besting each kid she was partnered with.

She thought about how she’d imagined life at the Academy. When she compared her dreams to reality , she was overcome with sadness.

That day was just the first in a long series of sad, lonely days that arrived along with winter in the Land of the Sun.

Familiarity did not alter the other cadets’ attitude toward Nihal. She was a woman, she looked strange, and now they were all coming to fear her, too.

The more time passed, the more clear it became that Nihal possessed great skill. At the same time, the story of how she’d gained entry to the Academy reached the ears of those who hadn’t been there to see it for themselves.

A rumor began to circulate that Nihal was some kind of witch, the descendant of an evil race with a propensity for war and mayhem. Some even insinuated that she was a spy sent by the Tyrant himself to destroy the Academy from within. Consequentially, the other cadets kept their distance from her. In the halls, they would part ways to let her pass. Hostile murmurs and reproachful gazes accompanied her wherever she went.

One incident in particular did much to foster their fears.

Frequently, groups of boys hovered outside her room to play some prank or another, but they always fled the moment they heard her move inside.

One night, immersed in her usual fitful sleep, Nihal didn’t notice that someone had managed to get into her room. In her sleep, the screaming faces in her dreams felt so close that she thought she would suffocate.

And then someone touched her.

Malerba was bending over her, a beastly smile on his face. He was stroking her arm and mumbling a prayer.

Nihal screamed, grabbed her sword, and held it to his throat.

The servant burst into tears and begged Nihal for forgiveness, but she was furious. She dragged him out of the room. A group of sleepy boys gathered in the hall at the sound of her yells. They retreated when they saw her fury and the sword in her hand.

“Take a good hard look, you jerks! This is what happens to anyone who tries to hurt me.”

Then she drew her blade across crying Malerba’s neck. It was just a scratch, but that night saw the end of the forays to her room.

Despite this, there was no real improvement in Nihal’s nights.

All the hatred and isolation Nihal was subjected to made her dreams even more severe. There was not a single night when the faces of the half-elves did not torment her. When she woke, terrified, the sight of her room made her even more distraught. She felt like she was inside a coffin. She would sit up, wrap her arms round her knees, look out at the sliver of sky visible through the tiny window, and do her best not to cry.

Every night it was the same routine.

Nihal became increasingly obsessed with avenging her father and her people. The sorrow she felt deep inside hardened her. The cadets’ hatred of her had upset her at first, but she grew comfortable with it as time went on—she even liked it a little, relishing the fact that they feared her.

Sennar did not keep his promise to visit her the first month, nor the second, nor the third.

Nihal needed desperately to speak with him, to hear him tell her once more that everything was all right, that the night would pass. But all she got was a brief message carried by the little hawk. It read, “I’m dead tired and I never get a break, but I’m doing fine. I haven’t forgotten you.”

Nihal grew sullen and reserved. She threw herself fully into her training. Her fighting style grew increasingly angry and violent, her skills merciless and quick.

Parsel, the weapons master, recognized Nihal’s potential, and it bothered him to see her wasting her time with a bunch of kids who didn’t even know how to handle a weapon.

One day he took her aside. “I see how you move, how you fight. You’re good, Nihal,” he told her.

She looked at him suspiciously; she didn’t know if she could trust him. His words could mean a lot or nothing at all.

“Have you seen real combat?”

Nihal told him about her lessons from Livon and Fen and about the three Fammin she’d killed—two in Salazar, the other along the border with the Land of the Sun.

“I thought as much. So, you weren’t talking nonsense the first day after all.”

Parsel smiled and Nihal, who always maintained an air of pride and composure, lowered her eyes.

Parsel thought it was time to teach Nihal something new.

“I’ve asked Raven to let you begin learning other fighting techniques, but I’ve had no reply,” he said.

Nihal sighed. She imagined the door to her prison opening a tiny bit and then slamming back shut.

“That man hates me,” she said.

“Don’t say that. You didn’t know him in his fighting days. He was an incredible warrior. Now, power’s made him a little flabby, but believe me, deep down inside he’s still a valiant warrior. He knows a fighter when he sees one. He’ll change his mind about you as soon as you have a chance to show him what you can do on the battlefield. War is completely different from what goes on in here.”

When Parsel offered to teach her to use a lance outside the regular lesson time, Nihal felt freed from captivity. They practiced almost every evening and, at long last, she was able to use her talents to the full. Using the lance was exciting. She learned to fight hand to hand and to attack from horseback. Altogether, having a chance to learn something new made her feel like she was alive again.

Parsel, for his part, had taken her situation to heart. He admired her dedication and her tenacity. Her talent amazed him more with each passing day.

He sensed a deep sadness in her; something unusual in someone so young. Although he had never had a family nor been in love, he felt a protective, almost paternal instinct toward Nihal.

They developed a strong bond through fighting; they spoke with their weapons. Nihal was closed, guarded. She would only let her feelings come out in combat, and Parsel learned to recognize his pupil’s frame of mind in her movements. He did his best to break through the barrier of resentment she’d built up around herself.

They were never really friends, though. Nihal only confided in Parsel once, one evening when she told him about her fear of Malerba and about the time she’d awakened to find him in her room.

Parsel listened, then shook his head. “You should give him a chance. What he went through was terrible.”

Nihal’s ears perked up.

“He’s a dwarf,” Parcel explained. “We don’t know what land he’s from. We found him a few years ago rotting away in a prison when we took one of the Tyrant’s cities in the Land of Days. Malerba had wounds all over his body and he bore signs of torture. There were a lot of other dwarves with him, male and female, all more dead than alive. We brought them back with us, hoping to save them, but there wasn’t anything more we could do. He was the only one to survive. He cared for his cellmates so loyally, showed such sorrow when they died; we thought they might have been members of his family. At the time, we didn’t know about the horrors the Tyrant inflicts upon the people he conquers. Later, after we’d seen a lot of similar cases, we understood. The Fammin aren’t what we might call a natural race. They’re beings the Tyrant created using magic, and he wants to create more of these obedient followers. To do that, he conducts experiments on prisoners. Malerba is the living proof. The record of abuse on his body is a testimony to the Tyrant’s attempts to transform the dwarves into perfect warriors. We have no idea how many victims his experiments have involved, nor how many of them are already dead. Perhaps entire races.”

Nihal shivered.

“It could be that you remind Malerba of someone. There was a young girl in the cell with him. Who knows—maybe she was his daughter.” Parsel looked over at her. “He doesn’t want to hurt you. Try to be tolerant. Life has already dealt him a lot of blows.”

Knowing what Malerba had been through didn’t stop Nihal from fearing him, but she was at least able to look at him differently. She forced herself to suppress her aversion and tried to treat him with kindness by thanking him for his services and responding to his ugly smiles. After a time, she began to glimpse a feeble light of gratitude. She realized that they were not so different: they were both outcasts, feared, hated, and alone.

Five months after she had arrived at the Academy, Nihal was summoned to an audience with Raven. She made her way to the Great Hall where the Supreme General was waiting for her on his throne.

“I’m told you’re talented and are making rapid progress, little girl,” he lilted.

Nihal couldn’t believe her ears.

“Your weapons master has asked more than once for permission to move you up to advanced training. The moment has arrived. You may begin learning to use other weapons. You are dismissed.”

Raven left the room, his long cloak dragging behind him. Nihal was stunned, but happy.

In her new group, Nihal was immediately at ease.

Her new classmates were just as arrogant as the others, but she was finally able to use her abilities to the fullest. Her lance training with Parsel made her eager to try new weapons. The training sessions flew by, and Nihal was excited to be learning so many new things.

She learned the usefulness of a dagger in hand-to-hand combat and got a thorough sense for all she might manage with a lance. Despite her small size, she gave the mace and the axe a try, as well.

She didn’t do so well with the mace. Just lifting the heavy weapon was difficult enough, let alone aiming and landing blows, but she really liked the axe. In many ways, it reminded her of the sword. It was a powerful and simple weapon, perfect for conveying her wrath.

They trained with a whip, as well, like the one Thoren had used when he’d nearly killed her. She realized how difficult it was to handle.

Last but not least came archery training.

Put simply, it was a struggle. Nihal loved the fury of battle and hand-to-hand combat, the sweat and exertion. The bow and arrow, however, require composure and concentration, not her strong points.

“That’s exactly why you have to learn to use it,” Parsel said, when she complained.

After considerable practice, Nihal improved at handling the new weapon. Brute strength was unnecessary, and once she learned to aim it, she actually started to like it. Few others in her group learned to aim as quickly, or as well, as she did. In short order, Nihal began to practice shooting while in motion.

But the sword was still her favorite weapon. She was better at fencing than at anything else, and it was only when wielding her black blade that she felt truly comfortable.

It wasn’t long before Nihal surpassed her comrades-in-arms. Her peers began to admire her skill. Now they viewed her with both wariness and respect.

Her colleagues were all seventeen—older than she was—except for a small boy with grey eyes, chubby cheeks, and a head full of blond curls.

Nihal hardly noticed him. She’d long since given up trying to socialize, but he sought her out one day in the dining hall.

Nihal was eating alone as usual when she heard a small voice say, “Excuse me. Is this seat taken?”

Nihal was so surprised, she turned to make sure she had heard him correctly.
Who on earth is this?
She wondered.

“I’ll just take this seat, then, if no one’s sitting here.”

Nihal stared at him in disbelief, her spoon held in midair.

The boy sat down and started eating his soup. He tore up his bread and cleared his throat. He started speaking quickly, “You’re Nihal, the half-elf, right? I’ve been watching you since you got here. Or at least since they put you on our team. Well, actually, if you want the whole truth, I saw you when you went up against those ten guys. It was amazing how you fought! No one fights like you. I swear it was like I was hypnotized. And what a sword! What’s it made of? I can’t believe it doesn’t break. Oh, I’m such a dope—I haven’t even introduced myself. I’m Laio, from the Land of Night.”

He held out his hand. Nihal took it, though she hadn’t even had a chance to respond.

Laio kept talking non-stop. He showered Nihal with compliments, told her stories about his life, and now and then asked questions to which Nihal barely managed a “yes” or “no” answer. He was as enthusiastic as a child. Nihal was amazed.

Laio was fifteen and had been at the Academy for a year and a half. He told said he had never really seen his native land, because his family left when he was just a couple of years old, but he knew all about its history.

During the Two Hundred Years War, a sorcerer came up with an idea; he cast a spell to keep his land shrouded in darkness so the enemy armies would struggle to attack. He also gave the inhabitants of the land the ability to see in the dark. Unfortunately, the sorcerer died before the war ended, and nobody was able to reverse the spell.

“Because it wasn’t a normal spell, it was a seal!” Laio explained excitedly. “Do you know what a seal is? It’s an irrevocable hex, an eternal spell. Well, it’s only irrevocable if the sorcerer who cast it dies. He’s the only one who can undo it. That’s how it works.”

At the end of this river of words, Laio heaved a satisfied sigh. That’s when Nihal burst out laughing, shyly at first, and then louder and louder. Her laughter infected Laio, as well, and soon they both had tears of laughter in their eyes.

Their friendship was born in that moment.

Laio stuck by Nihal’s side constantly. Nihal did not feel worthy of such adoration and did nothing to encourage it, but she could not deny the fact that she liked it. Of all her peers, Laio was the first who was not afraid of her, who did not hate her, and who did not hold her in contempt. Their relationship was nothing like the profound bond that linked her to Sennar, but Laio’s open manner and the exaggerated admiration he felt for her warmed her heart.