Authors: Licia Troisi
“As a demonstration of my mercy, I offer you one last chance to reconsider your request. Are you certain you’d like to proceed?” he asked in a grave tone.
Varen took a moment to respond and Sennar held his breath. “Yes, my lord,” he said finally, his voice subdued.
“So be it.” Nereo signaled his spokesman, who stood waiting at his side, and the audience was informed of the situation.
“Hear, hear! Today our most splendid sovereign will grant a hearing to One from Above, the councilor Sennar. If our lord is convinced by the motives that have carried the councilor this far, his request will be henceforth carried out. If not, the councilor will be duly decapitated for having violated the law forbidding all foreign inhabitants from entering Zalenia. Likewise, Count Varen of Sakana county will be executed for having endangered His Majesty Nereo.”
The king nodded and his guards allowed Sennar to approach the throne.
Nereo, from the height of his perch, did not bother to lower his gaze toward the speaker. “You may speak, man from Above,” he said, with an air of challenge.
Sennar could sense the hostility of his onlookers, but he gathered his courage and spoke: “Your Highness, I am a councilor—”
“Raise your voice. I cannot hear you,” the king interrupted.
Sennar knew he’d have to show this young boy what he was made of. “I am Sennar, member of the Council of Sorcerers. In the Overworld, councilors stand as political authorities, each representing a Land. I come to you from the Land of the Wind, though I speak on behalf of all my people at the Council’s official request. I come with the hope that our world may no longer suffer in isolation. I know well the history of your people, I know of your refuge from the world above, of how you came here to construct a new kingdom, a kingdom free of war. And now I see that you’ve succeeded,” he lied. The king held him in his arrogant gaze. “However, in one regard you were mistaken. Our world was not a hopeless case. Through will and persistence, we too succeeded in finding peace. For many years, we lived in harmony. We, too, dreamed of a future in which the word
war
no longer existed. And that dream would have come true, had not, once again, someone interrupted our progress with violence. Fifty years ago, a man, a sorcerer, began his conquest of our world, adding one Land after another to his territories, and he now stands as the uncontested ruler of five of our eight Lands.” A hush fell over the crowd, everyone hanging on the sorcerer’s words. “No one has ever seen him. All memory of his name has been lost. Yet through his actions, he has earned the title of Tyrant. His intentions, too, remain unclear, though he continues in his struggle against the Free Lands. He’s created a monstrous race of creatures, the Fammin, to kill and spread terror.”
The king let out a snide, ironic laugh. “Of course. Another war,” he said, clearly amused. His attendants approved with irritating chuckles.
Sennar shook his head. “Not by our own will, Sire.”
“If one does not want war, one avoids it.” said Nereo, with a satisfied grin.
“Ours is the war of a single man against the freedom of the entire Overworld. It is an invasion, an invasion by a man who wishes to—” Sennar broke off abruptly, filled with a creeping unease. “He pulled a surprise attack, Your Majesty,” he went on. “He’s massacred rulers, sent his troops against unarmed citizens. He wanted this war and now he has it. The Tyrant exterminated an entire people. The half-elves. Do you remember them? In a single night, he slaughtered more than half of them, only to hunt down every remaining survivor, killing women, children, warriors, young and old.” The smile faded from Nereo’s lips and a strange silence took hold of the audience. Sennar struggled to remember just how Nihal had described those massacres to him—he wanted to bring them to life again, those terrifying images that haunted her memory, to assail the king with the full horror of the Overworld’s suffering. “Nothing remains of them, hardly even a memory. Only a few know that they once walked among us. And yet, they too shared your dream. They too wanted peace. They were your brothers.”
The silence thickened. Sennar’s words had hit the mark.
“Why even trouble us with this story?” Nereo asked, irritated.
The foreboding sensation persisted. Little by little, the sorcerer sought to loosen his chains.
“I was sent by the Council to request reinforcements. Our troops are at the end of their strength. We’re on the verge of crumbling. The Overworld will become one immense desert, populated by the Tyrant’s slaves. And don’t believe that Zalenia is free of the Tyrant’s wrath. Once he’s done conquering our world, he’ll turn his attention to yours.”
Sennar’s perception of the disturbance intensified. Whoever he was, he was there among the crowd.
Nereo’s demeanor seemed to change. He looked on more attentively, less eager to mock. Sennar’s mention of the half-elves appeared to have made an impression. “I’m disgusted by the horrifying acts of this man, even if they don’t quite surprise me, worthy as they are of your people’s legacy of warring. But we are a long way from the surface here. The rift between our worlds is ancient and deep-seated. Why should this concern us?”
Doubt tinged the king’s haughty tone. Despite his cold and disdainful manner, Sennar could tell he was anything but a fool, that he loved his land wholeheartedly. It was time, Sennar decided, to deal the final blow. “The war may very well have reached you already, Your Majesty,” he said, enunciating clearly, “without you even noticing. The Tyrant may well be plotting against you as we speak, his plans on the verge of completion.”
Cold sweat beaded on Sennar’s forehead. He engaged his senses with every ounce of concentration.
He’s here. I can feel it. He’s preparing for an attack.
Sennar’s eyes roved intently over the crowd.
Nereo fidgeted on his throne. “If there’s even the slightest possibility that what you say is true, I have no choice but to take it into consideration. We will arrange a private hearing. …”
It was then that the vivid sensation of danger pierced through Sennar like the blade of a sword. He turned and saw him, on the lowest set of bleachers, a man cloaked in black who rose to his feet and extended a hand toward the king. There was no time to think. Sennar leaped forward and began uttering a defense spell. The attack was aimed directly at the king, but Sennar did not err. A stream of green light died when it crashed into the pale silver force field.
For a moment, time stood still. The crowd, the king, the guards, Varen, Sennar himself, lying on the ground—all were hushed, frozen. Sennar felt a terrible pain in his leg. He’d been hit. He tried to stand as another beam of light crashed into the barrier. Before collapsing again, Sennar saw the Tyrant’s agent making his escape, disappearing among the petrified members of the audience. Hysterical cries rose from the bleachers as people began to flee, pushed aside by the guards as they chased their prey.
Sennar stood and took off running. With every footfall, a shock of pain coursed up his leg and stole his breath, but he refused to stop. The dark sorcerer bolted forward, his cloak flying behind him, making quick work of one guard after another as they tried to stop him.
Sennar was limping by now, risking collapse with every step, but still he kept fast on the dark sorcerer’s heels. He could see the wretch in front of him, encircled in a strange, crimson-colored dome. Sennar had never encountered such a force field, but he decided to try his luck anyway. He judged the distance between himself and his enemy—just right. He extended his hand and shouted a spell at the top of his lungs.
The barrier shattered into hundreds of crimson shards and the man fell to the pavement.
Sennar grabbed one of the fallen guard’s swords from the ground and approached the man, dragging his wounded leg along behind him. An immobilization enchantment was an amateur spell. It wouldn’t last long on a true sorcerer. He’d need to strip him of his powers as quickly as possible. But when he finally reached his enemy and pulled back his hood, Sennar reeled with dizziness.
“If you don’t die, you meet again, isn’t that so, Councilor?”
Lying at his feet was a boy no more than twenty years old, with a tuft of jet-black hair that fell over his forehead and two green, derisive eyes.
Sennar had met him in Makrat, while completing his training to become a councilor with Flogisto. They’d even spoken once or twice. Rodhan was his name. A promising young sorcerer from the Land of the Sun. One of the enemy.
“Good job, Sennar,” Rodhan sneered. “Who would have thought? The Tyrant wouldn’t have bet half a dinar on a runt like you, and now look how you’ve proved yourself. And compliments on that little speech of yours. You’re quite a talker. I just hope you know that neither you nor anyone else will ever stop My Lord.”
Sennar was panting and his leg continued to throb. “You did your training with Flogisto, my teacher. … Why?”
“Because the Tyrant is a great man. Because you all are nothing but ants to him.” The boy turned toward the mute crowd that stood watching them. “And the same goes for all of you! Now the Tyrant knows exactly where you are. Never forget it!”
The enchantment was wearing off. Soon Rodhan would be capable of striking back. As Sennar gripped the sword’s handle, he felt a pang of regret.
Rodhan noticed his hesitation. “I suggest you kill me now, or I’ll be the one doing the killing,” he whispered with an extravagant smile, so strange and out of place.
Sennar tightened his grip, still hesitant. He’d never killed before. Then he heard feet shuffling behind him and a whistling above his head.
A moment later, Rodhan was staked to the ground, a lance through his chest, a senseless grin frozen on his lips.
Sennar spun around.
A soldier stood over him. “War is war,” he said grimly.
The traps had served their purpose. There was no trace of the thieves. Nevertheless, Nihal and Laio kept a sharp lookout, and decided to alter their course for the remainder of the journey, taking a longer route.
Gradually, their fear began to subside and Laio recounted his days as a prisoner to Nihal.
“They didn’t treat me all that bad. They kept me tied up, but most of the time they just ignored me. Whatever they were eating, I ate the same. No, being there wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was thinking you were dead, Nihal,” he said, looking her in the eye.
“Don’t worry, it was hard for me, too, thinking about what they might do to you,” Nihal said, unabashed by her honesty.
Those few days she had spent in waiting, terrified of what might happen to Laio, had shown Nihal just how much she needed him. Ido was her teacher, but now with Sennar so far off, Laio was the one true friend she had.
The constant babble of rushing creeks was a reminder to Nihal and Laio that they had crossed into the Land of Water.
When they arrived within view of Laodamea, the capital city, they were four days behind schedule. Before them stretched the city in its full splendor. The sight of it shook Nihal, awakening painful memories. Here, she had sparred with Fen. Here she had fallen in love.
“So where, exactly, is your father’s house?” she asked Laio, hoping to chase away the memory.
“Outside the city,” Laio answered bleakly. Nihal gave a sigh of relief.
Soon the city walls gave way to a lavish, wooded landscape, alive with cheerful birdsong. No place in the entire Overworld boasted such a brilliant green as the Land of Water. The leaves swaying on the trees were fat and shiny, the grass below thick and floral, nature itself rich and generous.
Nihal knew this Land well, but it never failed to astonish her. She looked around constantly as she walked, now and then casting a sidelong glance at Laio, who kept his head down, as focused as a warrior before battle.
“When we get there, I don’t want any help from you,” Laio remarked suddenly.
“I know,” Nihal answered, “I’m you’re escort, that’s all.”
“He’s going to tick you off. It’s his specialty. But you have to promise me you won’t let him provoke you.”
“I won’t.”
For a while they heard only the rustle of their footsteps among the ferns.
“In any case,” Laio muttered awkwardly, “thanks for being here.”
Nihal smiled.
The forest darkened. The thick treetops wove into one another, blocking out the sunlight. There was no longer grass below their feet, but dry, rotting leaves. It was still daytime, but they moved in shadow. Even the air temperature had dropped, Nihal noted, as she wrapped herself tighter in her cloak.
The house emerged suddenly from out of the dense forest growth.
It was a large dwelling, completely surrounded by vegetation. Despite the structure’s ample dimensions, it was free of adornment or any excessive display of wealth. It was a sober, Spartan dwelling.
This Pewar must be a soldier to the marrow of his bones,
Nihal thought to herself.
Withdrawn and silent, Laio led her through the winding forest and up to the doorway.
As they drew nearer, Nihal was able to observe the structure more carefully. Its windows were all barred shut. If not for the fresh coat of paint on the walls and the brand-new wooden shutters, she’d have taken the place to be abandoned.
Laio gave a timid knock and the heavy door opened.
“Welcome back, sir. We’ve been expecting you. Please, follow me,” said a stiff servant.
Laio entered, head lowered, and Nihal followed suit. All of a sudden, they were immersed in utter darkness. Apart from the dim light of a few flickering torches along the walls, the interior of the house was a sea of black.
Laio navigated his way deftly. Meanwhile, Nihal could barely distinguish the furniture arrangement and ended up banging against a cupboard.
“Give me your hand. I’ll show you the way,” Laio said.
Nihal gladly obeyed.
“It’s not unusual for my people, so far away from their Land, to keep their houses like this. People of the Land of Night aren’t so fond of brightness. In my family, the windows are always shut. Except at night, naturally. My father claims it’s a good way to keep in touch with his roots.”