The Last Talisman (16 page)

“Me?” the boy replied in bewilderment.

“Unless I'm cross-eyed, yes, you.”

The student Ido had chosen was among the most talented, a brawny and promising-looking fellow with brown hair and tan skin. Ido thought it wise to begin with one of the better students, at least to break the ice.

The boy took a fretful step forward. He looked pale despite his dark olive complexion.

Ido wasn't quite sure what to make of the situation. “On your guard,” he commanded.

Hesitant, the boy obeyed.

The dwarf launched into attack without delay, though his opponent seemed utterly out of sorts. Awkward movements, ill-timed and ill-aimed attacks, a grand display of terrible swordsmanship—after only a few lunges, Ido managed to disarm him.

“Is that it?” the dwarf exclaimed in disbelief.

The boy stood there in the center of the ring, arms at his side, a look of terror on his face. “I'm sorry … I …”

Ido could smell his fear from a mile away. He could even hear the heavy beating of his heart. “Okay then, let's pretend that never happened. It's just nerves. I understand …” In truth, he was somewhat out of his element, but to go on playing the role of rigid instructor would get him nowhere. “Before each one of you comes out here to face me looking paler than a ghost, let's make a few things clear. I'm not here to chew you up or humiliate you. Forget the little act you witnessed the other day. Obviously, I don't expect you to defeat me. And I'm not looking to defeat you either. Just relax and give it your best. Does that sound alright?”

From the group of eighty boys came a faint “yes.”

Ido huffed.
What kind of pitiful assignment have they given me?
“Alright, let's go. Grab your sword and come at me. I'm right here.”

The boy regained his courage, picked up his sword, and launched into attack. Ido made little effort in defending himself, blocking one strike after another with relative ease. After ten or so minutes of useless, spiritless sparring, he lowered his weapon.

“Was that so bad?” he asked, forcing a smile.

The boy seemed to appreciate the kind gesture and replied with his own timid smile, though when he uttered “no,” it sounded more like a sigh of relief than an answer to Ido's question.

“Excellent. Next.”

No one budged.

“Next, I said,” he repeated, this time with authority.

Immediately, a blonde boy stepped forward, skinny as a toothpick, but tenacious. Ido had already taken note of him during the first round of selections. He wasn't much of a swordsman, but he was a warrior at heart, and he burned with ardor and determination.

The boy gathered his focus and made ready for battle. Ido smiled—finally a kid who knew what he was doing. He began the duel with a renewed pleasure, proud of his role as teacher.

Nearly three days passed before the final round of cuts came to a conclusion, and Ido found himself standing before his unit of fresh recruits—one hundred and twenty boys in all, less than half of those who'd showed up on the first day.

When he saw the recruits before him for the first time, he felt his stomach knot up. In a matter of two weeks, he'd have to turn the whole lot of them into warriors, and the task seemed all but impossible. With Nihal alone it had taken months. In her case, of course, she'd been training to become a Dragon Knight, but she was undoubtedly a gifted student. Standing before him now was a group of mere adolescents, with only a limited propensity for handling weaponry.

Parsel seemed to be readings his thoughts. “We don't have to turn them into the strongest soldiers in the army,” he said, “just warriors capable enough to help the rest of the troops lead their attack.”

Ido heaved a sigh.

To finish the job, Ido insisted that the students be trained at a remove from the Academy, in an encampment near the Land of Water. Convincing Raven of the venture turned out to be a long and exhausting process.

The Supreme General raised a storming objection, grumbling and claiming that, in the end, these boys were students and they belonged at the Academy.

“The point is to turn these boys into warriors, and they need to familiarize themselves with certain environments. If we train them on the battlefront, they'll have a chance to breathe the air they'll be breathing in combat. That way it won't come as a complete surprise to them on their first day of battle,” Ido retorted.

“You're just looking for a way out of here,” Raven replied. “We all know you can't stand this place. You just can't wait to pick up and go. That's the only reason you're asking me this.”

“And the only reason you're denying me it is to trip me up for the thousandth time.”

Parsel was forced to intervene, and to Ido's surprise, he supported the notion. Only then, at last, was the dwarf given permission to leave the Academy.

As soon as he set foot outside the hulking gate, he felt like he could breathe again. And the sensation only intensified once they'd left Makrat. He coasted on back of Vesa while the caravan of students dragged along slowly below him. Little by little, as they distanced themselves from the capital, he felt his spirits reawaken. Suddenly, even his assignment seemed less of a burden.

They rested often, and Ido profited from the down time by giving brief lectures on strategy, reinforcing and building upon what the students had learned at the Academy. The dwarf knew that students had a habit of overlooking their strategy lessons, distracted by eagerness to pick up a sword.

Ido recounted his numerous battles to his band of recruits, describing troop formations and strategies employed. He even found it somewhat fun. It was like bringing the past back to life, and he took a curious pleasure in evoking his former endeavors. His students, meanwhile, hung on his every word, completely absorbed in listening. Now and then, they responded with a gasp of astonishment or a string of intrigued questions. And Ido began to enjoy the company of his new students.

The dwarf took great care with his descriptions of the enemy as well, giving specific depictions of their various weaponry and warriors. The students had heard of the Fammin and of the fire-breathing birds at the Academy, but only in passing. Normally, these were subjects covered in preparation for the first battlefield trial, which came at the conclusion of the initial phase of training.

However, their days of travel were not spent only absorbing lectures on strategy. Official training could begin at last. Nervously, Ido thought ahead to the battle that awaited them in the near future, often recalling the image of the Scarlet Knight, the thought of whom had nearly left his mind during his days at the Academy. More and more often he retreated into the woods on Vesa, where he pushed himself with additional training, though it was hardly necessary. The idea of defeating the red knight plagued his thoughts, as did the insult that worm had hurled at him in the midst of their first battle: “Coward.” The word hummed incessantly in his ears.

18

The Mistake

Nihal's joy at the sight of Laio turned quickly to worry. His face was strikingly pale, his arms bandaged, his tunic covered in blood.

“What happened to you?” she asked, stepping toward him.

Laio smiled. “It's a long story.”

Before all else, Nihal was eager to tie up the Fammin. She felt a strange stirring of emotions emanating from him, not unlike the sensation of anguish that had briefly settled in her mind only a few days before as she crept by the cells where the Fammin were being held captive. Only this time it was more intense. She couldn't figure out what exactly was causing it, or how a Fammin could seem so gentle, so deeply saddened.

They dined shortly after, and over the meal, Nihal and Sennar asked Laio to tell his story. With an air of dignity, and without sparing a single detail, the squire described his escape from the cell, his arrival at the mountain pass, the torture he'd suffered. As he spoke, Nihal carefully observed the expression on his face. She could tell how proud he was to at last have earned their admiration, and she noticed how frequently he turned toward Sennar, as if in hopes of his approval. At the end of his story, Laio spoke of Vraśta.

“I'd better take care of those wounds for you,” said Sennar, afterward.

Laio turned to him and held his gaze until he drew a smile from the sorcerer's lips. Then he addressed Nihal. “Are you angry?”

She hesitated a moment before she replied. “I don't know.”

“This wasn't just some spur-of-the-moment decision,” said Laio, and Nihal noticed that his voice was no longer so innocent and pure, but the voice of a man. “I wanted to take control of my own destiny, and that's why I did what I did. I know I can be of more use here with you than I can be at the base, or anywhere else for that matter.”

“But Laio … look at what you've done to yourself,” Nihal murmured.

“I paid the price for my choices. That's the way life goes,” he said. His lips curled into a smile and he walked off with Sennar.

Laio's wounds weren't particularly deep—apart from the gash in his shoulder, which risked infection—but they were numerous, and Sennar was exhausted by the time he finished treating them all. Once the task was complete, the squire drifted off into a peaceful sleep.

Sennar, meanwhile, rejoined Nihal, where she sat brooding by the fire.

“So what do you plan to do with the Fammin?” he asked.

“We have no choice but to kill it,” Nihal answered coldly.

“What about what Laio said; don't you trust him?”

“The Fammin are killing machines, nothing else.”

From the moment they'd left Seferdi, Nihal felt a yearning to kill, and now she had the chance to quench her thirst. She'd seen Laio's wretched condition while Sennar was treating him: Every inch of his skin was lacerated and seared by the hot iron brands. Of all war's horrors, torture was the one she could stand the least.

“Laio and the creature have become friends,” said Sennar. “If the Fammin was planning to kill him, he wouldn't have confessed the truth the way he did. I know you're still boiling after what we saw in Seferdi, but you should think this one through—”

Nihal cast him a scathing glance, silencing him on the spot. “The Fammin are our enemies, you know that as well as I do.”

“But this one saved our friend's life.”

“Exactly, so he could use him to track us down and kill us.”

“Then talk to him,” said Sennar. “Interrogate him, find out what he wants, then we'll decide what to do with him.”

Nihal tossed and turned, unable to sleep with the thought of that creature lying nearby, until at last she decided to speak with him then and there. With a kick, she woke him. Her hand gravitated instinctually to her sword, though she refrained from killing him on the spot. Something in his eyes held her back—a deep, pervasive sadness that kept her from drawing her sword and sweeping the blade across his neck. “We need to talk,” she said.

The Fammin stared back at her patiently.

Nihal sat. “Do you have a name?”

“Vraśta.”

The half-elf jumped. That word: She knew it from the forbidden spell she'd learned. Just hearing it gave her the chills.

“It's a word the Tyrant uses in his dark magic,” he explained. “All of the Fammin are given names like mine. That way, just by calling our names he casts a spell over us, which forces us to obey.”

“Is that what your commanders do when they give you orders?”

“Yes,” said Vraśta. “If it's just a routine order, a Fammin can refuse to obey, but when we're called by name, we have no choice.”

“You've come here to kill us, haven't you?” Nihal asked.

“I have no desire to harm Laio,” Vraśta replied.

“I know your kind well,” Nihal began. “Almost three years ago, two members of your esteemed species burst into my home and killed my father right there before my eyes. And they had a grand old time while they were at it. I know what it means to kill with pleasure, and I could see the pleasure in their eyes. That's the way you all are. You all love to spill blood.”

“I don't love anything. I'm happy when Laio is happy, that's all.”

“You were able to take advantage of Laio because he's naive, but it won't work on me. I'm a Dragon Knight and I have plenty of experience dealing with your sort.”

“Then why haven't you killed me?”

The question caught Nihal off guard. Faced with this creature, her own feelings seemed a mystery. She hated him, that was certain, but she also felt they were alike in some ways. Compared to the Fammin she was used to fighting on the battlefield, there was something different about him. “I'm not like you and your kind,” she let out at last. “I don't kill for pleasure.”

“You're a half-elf.” His response startled her. “I've heard of your people. Many men brag of your city's destruction.”

“Not men. Fammin were the ones who massacred my people.”

“No, you're wrong,” said Vraśta. “Many years have passed, but some of those who were there at the massacre are still alive, only now they're high-ranking generals. I've heard them speak of Seferdi. Countless cities in the Land of Days have been destroyed by Fammin, but Seferdi was razed to the ground by men alone.”

“That's a lie,” said Nihal.

“They brought a troop of Fammin along with them to scare the city into chaos, but for the most part they were men. Many of them sorcerers who'd been banished from the Land of Days by the last king of the half-elves and had come back seeking revenge. With their strongest warriors, they stormed the city and set about massacring its people. In the end, one of the most powerful sorcerers cast a spell over Seferdi, preserving the horror for all time, ensuring that the hanged corpses would dangle forever from their nooses.”

Nihal unsheathed her sword and pointed it at his throat. “Take it back!” she screamed. “Take back every single one of your lies!”

“It's the truth,” Vraśta replied calmly. Nihal could sense his fearlessness. “We are killers, yes, but men are the ones who order us to kill. Left to our own devices, we're useless. They say slaughter and we slaughter. They designed us to take pleasure in killing, but we don't. They give us orders and we have no choice but to obey.”

Nihal was trembling with anger, though she knew he was telling the truth. She'd run into traitors on the battlefield, and she'd heard their nauseating celebrations at the tavern only a few days before. She pressed the point of her sword to the Fammin's throat.

“If you truly knew the Fammin you wouldn't be so doubtful,” said Vraśta. “Among us exists a group that we call the Mistakes. Men aren't sure why, but the Mistakes are against killing. They speak of feelings; they say that to kill is not right.”

“There's no such thing,” Nihal exclaimed, but even as she spoke she began to doubt her words. If true, it would explain her sensation of anguish near the imprisoned Fammin, not to mention the deep emotions she perceived in Vraśta.

“The Mistakes claim to suffer whenever they kill. They don't want to, but they have to, because they've been commanded to do so by men. When a man calls us by name, what we want or what we feel no longer matters.” The Fammin paused for a moment in thought. “All I know is I have no desire to kill Laio.”

“Are there many of them, the Mistakes?” Nihal asked.

“Not yet, but their numbers are growing. The men hate them. They force them to fight, they summon them by name and order them to commit terrible acts, just for the pleasure of watching them suffer. Some of them, in the end, are put to death.”

“You're not one of them?” said Nihal.

“No,” Vraśta replied, though she could sense his hesitation.

He was a Mistake, Nihal could feel it, but she was reluctant to believe it, just as she was reluctant to trust in his story of Seferdi. The Fammin were monsters and she'd slayed thousands of them in battle. And yet she knew Vraśta was telling the truth. But if that was so, then what was good and what was evil? Were men the true monsters? Weren't those, like her, who killed by choice, far worse then those who killed because commanded to?

Vraśta stared deep into her eyes. “Kill me,” he said.

Nihal stood there, silent, dumbstruck.

“I don't want to harm Laio. He taught me what it means to be alive. He is my friend. He showed me what friendship is. But if someone commands me by name, I'll have no choice but to kill him, and you, too. And I don't want to do that. Kill me.”

Nihal gritted her teeth, trying to make a decision she wasn't ready to make. “Of course I'll kill you, there's no need to beg.”

She gripped her sword in both hands and raised it above her head, eyes fixed on the Fammin's throat. That's where she'd strike him. It'd all be over in a flash. To keep him in their company was too dangerous, and she had to end it now. Her sword trembled in her hands.

“Kill me,” Vraśta repeated. But this time his voice was human. It lacked that guttural, raucous tone that reminded her always of Livon's death. This was no assassin begging for his life to be taken; this was a prisoner. Nihal lowered her sword.

“No, I won't. Not now,” she said.

“But I'm a danger to you …” Vraśta protested.

“I won't allow you to kill me, or any of my friends,” said Nihal. “As long as I'm around, you won't be a threat.” With that, she turned and walked away, with the Fammin's suffering still heavy in her heart.

The following morning, Nihal filled the others in on her decision. “Vraśta will be coming with us, as a sort of prisoner. Sending him back is not an option; he'll give our position away, and if we kill him …” She paused, not wanting to admit that she'd lacked the courage to finish him off the night before. Seeing Laio's hopeful gaze, her spirits lifted. “If we kill him, they'll send others after us, and then we risk being discovered.”

Her explanation held no water, but no one objected.

“If needed, we can pretend he's transporting us as prisoners, as a means of crossing through enemy territory,” Nihal concluded. Rather than wait for a response, she stood and turned away, making sure to avoid the gaze of Vraśta, the only one among them who was truly unhappy with her decision. Before long, they were back on the road.

One day, shortly after their meeting with Laio, they crossed into the Land of Night. The swamp was bathed in a twilight glow when they entered, but utter darkness soon enveloped them. A strange darkness. There were no stars in the sky, only a pale radiance, as on the night of a full moon, though the moon was absent, too.

“We're here,” said Laio. Nihal glanced at him. “This is my land, the Land of Night.”

Laio had been carried away from the land of his birth when he was two years old and remembered little, having hardly formed a memory. His parents had stayed for as long as they could, doing their best to hide their opposition to the Tyrant's regime and to aid the local resistance. When the first rebels among their company were discovered, they decided it best to protect their child and leave. So they fled to the Land of Water, and his father built the dark, enormous home where Nihal had once stayed as a guest. Laio's mother died during her second pregnancy, and Laio and his father were left alone. Pewar spoke to his child often of their beloved homeland, shrouded in perennial darkness. Together with the memories of his father's stories, homesickness took root in Laio's heart, and he'd always dreamed of once again seeing his native land.

On the first evening, they set up camp in the swamp, protected by the surrounding darkness, and Nihal consulted the talisman. Its power, she noticed, had increased. Half of the stones were now lodged securely in their niches, and as a result, the directions she received were clearer than usual: She saw an image of clustered trees off to the south, their bare branches scraping the sky. A dying forest.

“My father was always talking about that place,” said Laio, after Nihal had shared her vision. “There's a large forest, the Forest of Mool. One of the most beautiful forests in the Overworld, though it's been in slow decline ever since the Tyrant came along.”

Turning southward, they pressed on, and after two days' travel, they grew accustomed to life without daylight. Maintaining their regular sleeping patterns proved nearly impossible, and they began resting whenever their legs grew tired. And if that weren't already enough, they couldn't keep their bearings. Sennar was forced to use magic to set them straight, which placed them at risk of being discovered by other sorcerers. On several occasions, they lost their way completely and ended up walking around in circles. Before long, their food supply dwindled, and they had to content themselves with what they could find along the path: roots and various herbs. Every now and then, Vraśta managed to hunt down a small animal.