Authors: Licia Troisi
Nihal allowed herself to be led as if she were blind, until gradually her eyes adjusted to the darkness and she began to distinguish the profiles of the objects around her.
They passed through a series of long corridors, connected by spacious rooms, all of them sparsely furnished: a table at the center, a large chest against the wall, hardly anything else. Each room was equipped with a fireplace so large Nihal could have walked into it. Mounted swords, lances, and weapons of all sorts crowded the walls.
All was locked in perfect silence, broken only by the echo of their footsteps on the stone floor. It smelled of trapped air. They seemed to have descended into the bowels of the earth. Nihal began to feel oppressed by the place.
At last they came to an enormous door and the servant departed. Laio took a deep breath and lifted the heavy knocker.
The room they entered was far larger than the ones they had passed through previously, and far better lit. At its center stood an endlessly long table. Seated at the head was Pewar.
In many ways, he resembled his son, with his blond curly hair and clear grey eyes, but his face lacked Laio’s liveliness. His features were sharp, his gaze the stern gaze of a disciplinarian. Though he sat in the comfort of his own home, he was dressed in the uniform worn by generals during war council, his sword resting at his side.
He didn’t bother to stand. It was Laio who stepped forward in order to greet him with a respectful bow. Pewar returned the greeting by placing a hand stiffly on his son’s shoulder. “I expected you to arrive several days ago.”
“My companion and I encountered some trouble during the journey.” Laio’s voice trembled.
The man turned his gaze to Nihal and gave her a once over. The half-elf bowed her head.
“Is she the one responsible for your taking up residence at that base?” he asked.
“She’s the one who saved my life when I was attacked in the forest. I was wounded, so she brought me back to the base. It’s thanks to her, too, that I’m here now. She rescued me from a band of thieves,” Laio let out in a single breath.
Pewar inspected Nihal at length, and she held his gaze. “There’ll be time for us to speak later. For now, leave me alone with my son. A servant will lead you to the appropriate room.”
Stealthily a servant appeared behind her, and Nihal had no choice but to follow.
In the dark dampness of her room, Nihal waited for what seemed like an eternity. She began to feel suffocated by the surrounding gloom, and forced herself to stare at the one flame flickering in the corner.
Finally, she heard a knock and Laio entered, a look of despair on his face. His eyes were glazed over.
It didn’t take much for Nihal to understand. “I guess it didn’t go so well, huh?”
Laio only shook his head.
“You knew it wouldn’t be easy.”
“He didn’t even seem happy to know I was alive, that I was safe,” he muttered, clenching his fists. “For all he cares, I might as well be dead. At least then I wouldn’t have dishonored the family name.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Laio. Of course he’s glad to see you. …” Nihal consoled him.
“Do you know what he said to me?” Laio interrupted. “That only the sons of nobodies become squires. That it’s petty, undignified work. That I belong to a family of great warriors and I can’t disappoint my glorious ancestors.” Nihal saw his eyes well up with tears of anger. “But who cares? That’s not my life. I didn’t go through everything I’ve gone through just to turn back now. This time I won’t give in. This time I’m taking my own advice.”
For the entire day, Pewar did not deign to call upon Nihal. It seemed as if all the high-ups at the Academy were the same way. Raven, too, delighted in forcing others to wait an unreasonable amount of time before summoning them.
Inflated egos,
Nihal vented to herself.
The house remained as quiet as a cemetery until the dinner bell rang. They ate in the same room where Laio and his father had spoken earlier: a meager soup, rye bread, and water.
We eat better at the base mess hall
, Nihal thought.
For nearly the entire meal, Pewar avoided eye contact with his two guests. The liveliest noise in the room was the clinking of spoons against bowls.
Only toward the end of dinner did the general see fit to address Nihal. “Laio told me of your run-in in the forest. I’m grateful for the service you’ve rendered me in saving my son,” he said, without a touch of humor.
“Laio is a friend. There’s no need to thank me,” Nihal replied politely.
“The recognition and praise of courage are the cornerstones of our armed forces,” Pewar countered. “As compensation, I’d like you to choose one of the weapons from the wall of the main room. I’ll bring you there myself after dinner.”
Nihal attempted to decline his offer. “Please, don’t embarrass me,” she murmured.
“I insist. If you refuse, I’ll be offended.”
A man used to having his word obeyed. Laio wasn’t kidding.
“As you wish, then. I’d be honored to accept your gift.”
She suppressed her vexation. She was here to help Laio, not quarrel with his father. Though she’d have been just as happy
not
having to suck up to yet another general in addition to that dandy Raven.
At the end of dinner, as promised, Pewar personally accompanied Nihal to the grand room he’d mentioned. Weapons of every class covered the walls: crossbows, swords, hatchets, daggers, maces. Nihal had no doubt that Laio’s father knew how to handle each and every one of them perfectly.
In the end, she chose a simple, unremarkable dagger and Pewar demonstrated his approval—a clear sign that the whole, useless ceremony was a mere formality.
“It’s getting late. You must be tired out from your journey,” the general said after she’d made her selection.
Nihal did the math in her head. Late! The sun had only set two hours ago.
“Everyone to their rooms,” he concluded. Pewar nodded stiffly at the two and took his leave.
Nihal was swept out of the room by the same tight-lipped servant as usual, and Laio made for his old room with all the joy of a lamb heading into a wolves’ den.
The sun had hardly risen when Laio came to wake Nihal.
She rubbed her eyes. “Does everyone from the Land of Night get up so early?”
Pewar was already waiting for them in the dining room, seated at the far end of the long table. He was impeccably dressed, just like the previous day, wearing an identical uniform. It seemed as if he’d never gone to bed.
On the table were three bowls of goat’s milk and more of the standard rye bread. Noting a tray of tiny, sour apples, Nihal had to wonder where they’d managed to find such pitiful fruit in a place as florid as the Land of Water.
This guy’s really brought the battlefield back home with him.
They ate in silence. Afterward, Pewar stood. “At mid-morning you’ll be fighting a duel, Laio. Be ready within precisely two hours,” he said sternly.
Laio lifted his head from his empty bowl. “What duel?” he asked, bewildered.
“The first of many,” Pewar affirmed. “Based on what you’ve told me, you haven’t wielded a sword in several months. It’s time you get back in the habit. Your training begins today.” Then the general directed himself toward Nihal. “As for you, you may return to your base. Consider yourself dismissed from this house as of tomorrow morning.”
“I have no intention of fighting,” said Laio.
“You have two hours. Not a minute more or less,” Pewar repeated, and left the table.
“I do not want to fight!” Laio shouted, but his father was already halfway out the door.
Nihal could feel the blood coursing in her temples. Despite all her efforts to keep calm, she shot to her feet. “Did you hear your son?”
Laio looked at her, his eyes begging her to stop, but Nihal ignored him.
Pewar paused in the doorway and turned slowly. “I am your superior, and you are in my house. Who authorized you to stand and speak to me?”
Nihal’s heart drummed in her chest, her hands bone white from gripping the table’s edge. “Your son does not want to fight.”
“Nihal …” Laio muttered.
Pewar fixed her in a cold stare. “I want you out of this house by nightfall,” he announced, and slammed the door behind him.
“You promised you’d keep quiet, for heaven’s sake,” Laio scowled at her.
“I know, but he …”
“This is my battle, do you understand? Mine!”
Nihal could feel her blood cool. “I only wanted to …”
“Swear to me you won’t do it again. Swear it.”
Nihal nodded, dismayed. She was silent for a moment, cursing her hot temper.
“Will you go?” Laio asked her then.
“I don’t have much of a choice.”
The arena where the duel would be held was the only well-lit area in Pewar’s house. It was a square courtyard exactly at the property’s center, as bare and practical as everything else—a dirt surface encircled by a portico which shaded a heavy, wooden chair from the scorching sun. There sat Pewar in triumph.
Nihal sat in a corner, in the shade, hoping to pass unnoticed. After her scene at the table, Pewar would not have approved of her presence, but she knew she had to be there. In that dusty arena, Laio would be fighting for his future.
His challenger was a boy barely bigger then he was, though he carried himself with the air of a true warrior. He was probably an enlisted man, forced by the general to take part in this farce.
Soon, Laio appeared. He looked awkward in his warrior’s getup, a rawhide vest and a pair of leather boots that reached his mid-thigh. He held a long sword with an elaborately carved handle. Nihal recognized it immediately from the wall where she’d chosen her dagger.
Laio was squinting, his forehead wrinkled. His father must have thought he was concentrating, but Nihal knew that expression well—he was saddened at having to take up a sword and fight, at having to relive the terror of battle, at being in the one place where he truly didn’t belong.
He stepped forward, readying himself, and his challenger acknowledged him by lifting his sword. Laio made no motion in response, but instead turned to his father. “You won’t win me over this way.”
“Be quiet and fight,” Pewar replied, clearly annoyed.
“For the last time, I don’t want to fight.”
Pewar’s thundering response cracked the tension in the arena: “Raise your guard and fight like a man!”
Laio didn’t budge.
“Attack him,” Pewar commanded the soldier.
“But general … his guard is down. …”
“Does anyone around here obey my orders any more? Attack him, I said!”
The young man bolted upright. Then he came at Laio with his blade raised high.
Laio refused to budge and the soldier was forced to cease mid-attack.
“Who told you to stop?” Pewar leaped to his feet.
The soldier was confused. “But sir, he’s your son. I can’t just attack him.”
“If he doesn’t have the courage to fight back, then he’s not my son,” Pewar seethed. “Recommence.”
Nihal clenched her fists in the corner.
It’s not my place to interfere. Laio knows what he’s doing. This is his battle,
she repeated to herself, though she could feel a blind rage welling up within her.
The soldier reassumed his attack and sliced Laio’s left arm, opening up a small red gash.
Laio howled. Quickly, he blocked the boy’s next strike and threw himself aggressively into battle.
This wasn’t the Laio that Nihal knew. His strikes were precise and powerful—he was fighting like a real soldier.
Their swords crossed and clashed in an arabesque of blocks and attacks. Neither one of them seemed to have the advantage. Twice the soldier was able to land a blow, though these left nothing more than a light scratch. Laio, too, succeeded in striking his adversary once or twice, doing little harm. The two were locked in an even match.
From his seat, Pewar looked on with satisfaction. Nihal could see the joy on his face at the sight of blood and combat. It was an emotion she knew all too well, and she recognized it now in that heartless man’s gaze.
It’s not the battle Pewar loves, but the kill.
Laio went on fighting, his lunging attacks ever more aggressive, his blows ever more fierce. As rage gradually took hold of his mind, his body came alive again, recalling all the training he’d received at the Academy. He attacked at close distance, constantly altering the rhythm of his strikes, forcing the young soldier to back away in retreat. Recognizing his opponent’s disadvantage, Laio struck the soldier with a decisive blow to the side, slicing his leg open. The boy cried out and fell to the earth, blood staining the dirt at his side.
Suddenly, Laio halted and stood there in the center of the arena, the sword dangling in his hand. The general’s applause echoed across the battlefield.
“Bravo! Bravo!” Pewar approached his son and laid a hand on his shoulder. “You see, you do know how to fight. You’re stronger than you thought. Now then, kill him!”
The felled soldier was unable to move, the wound too deep. His eyes opened wide with terror. “General …” he murmured.
Laio ducked out of his father’s grasp and looked at him, horrified. “What are you saying?”
“That you must finish him,” Pewar replied calmly.
“But he’s already defeated! The fight is over. You can’t expect me to …”
Pewar shook his head. “Have you ever wondered why you’re so afraid of battle? After all, it’s clear you know how to fight. Have you never once asked yourself?”
Laio had no answer to give his father. His neurons wouldn’t fire. All he could hear was the boy’s panicked breathing, his hands scraping the dirt as he attempted to crawl away.
“You’re afraid of killing, Laio. It’s a fear we all suffer.” Suddenly Pewar’s tone softened, and he spoke with a chilling nonchalance. “But it’s a fear we must all combat. I, too, struggled with this fear, but it fled the moment I drove my blade through the chest of my first enemy. And now you must do the same. Slay this pathetic worm. Only then will you be a true warrior. It’s all that separates you from your destiny: the destruction of your opponent.”