Authors: Licia Troisi
Sennar observed the array of troops, infantrymen, basic soldiers, warriors, all standing motionless, an expression of stupor on their faces as they listened to the cries and shouts of their companions in battle. All together, they made up less than half of the entire army, but they had to give it a shot. He climbed atop one of the weapons transport wagons to get a view of the entire gathering and helped Soana up after him.
“Listen here!” he shouted, the clamor of battle drowning out his voice. “Listen here! We must fight back!”
“They’re slaughtering us out there!” someone yelled from the crowd, and several others echoed his cry.
“I need you to trust in me! We’re going to apply an enchantment to your weapons,” Sennar urged. “All you have to do is raise up your swords!”
Among the forest of armor and helmets, a black crystal blade and a long, thin sword were the only two to rise in the air. No one else budged.
Sennar recognized the voice of Ido. “Your friends are dying out there on the battlefield, dammit! There’s no time. Raise your bloody weapons!”
A few soldiers did as told and little by little the plateau was covered in blades and lances, arrows and axes.
Sennar and Soana opened their palms toward the sky and began to recite the spell. A ray of crimson light poured forth from their wrists, beaming upward at first, then cascading in hundreds of streams upon the army below, flooding into their weapons.
When the troops were free to move again, Sennar leaned on the wagon for support, completely spent. Beside him, Soana slid down to the wooden floor.
Nihal took to the air on Oarf and rallied her men to battle. The attack began, their swords raining down on the enemy. And this time their blows were landing, the ghosts dissolving like smoke before their eyes. And yet the struggle was no less terrifying. Picking her way through the ranks of the dead, Nihal found herself face-to-face with several comrades. After looking into their eyes, after meeting their familiar gazes, to attack them was nearly impossible. Gripped with frustration, she went on hovering above her soldiers, circling and circling, until her eyes fell upon the vermilion knight soaring on his black dragon in the distance. He would make for a fine first kill.
She sped after him, her eyes fixed on his fire-red armor, not bothering to ask herself why he was retreating so far from the battle.
In one quick motion, the black dragon halted and spun around to face Oarf. Nihal was just about to lunge in with her first attack when another winged creature, as grey as the grey-armored warrior astride its back, swooped in to block her path. Something about the knight’s posture, about the distinct gleam of his eyes from beneath his helmet, awoke in Nihal a pang of recognition. A chill ran up her spine.
“He, not I, is your enemy,” the scarlet warrior announced, and his dragon reared back and darted off into the clouds.
“Wait!” she shouted, launching after him, but again the grey knight stood in her way, this time wounding her right arm.
Nihal quickly backed away and passed her sword to her left hand. Above her, the scarlet knight circled, observing the scene.
The grey dragon stretched its jaws open in a mute roar, beating its heavy wings. Nihal lifted her visor to get a better look at the knight and was suddenly struck with vertigo.
No, It can’t be. Gaart is dead. He died trying to save his knight.
“Who are you?” Nihal shouted to the warrior, but he ignored her words, drawing ever nearer. “Who are you? Reveal yourself!”
The enemy’s sharp blade pierced her leg, but Nihal felt no pain. She was stupefied, insensible.
It’s not him. It can’t be him.
Then, with a nod from the scarlet warrior, the grey knight removed his helmet. There was no longer any room for doubt. His dark curls were the color of ash now, his brash smile gone from his lips, leaving only an expressionless grimace, but the man before her was Fen: her teacher, her friend, her love.
Nihal was paralyzed.
How many times had she wished she could see him again? How often had it felt like she could hear his laughter? And now here he was. All consciousness had faded from behind his green eyes, and even still, it was him.
Fen came barreling at Nihal again, and plunged his sword into her shoulder, the very sword she’d sparred with in countless training sessions.
Nihal sensed the sharp pain, could feel the blood rushing from the wound, but she could do nothing. “Fen,” she pleaded.
The face of the spectral knight remained indifferent, his lips sealed.
“Fen … It’s me, Fen …” Nihal murmured.
Again he struck her, this time on the hip, piercing through her armor.
“Is this what you’ve chosen, Knight? To die without a fight?” the red warrior taunted from above.
The grey knight’s blade clashed repeatedly against Nihal’s armor, though she merely sat there, receiving each blow without protest.
Suddenly, she noticed Oarf carrying her away from the battle.
In the midst of their retreat, however, a wall of flames shot forth and blocked the way: the black dragon. “Kill or be killed, Knight,” the scarlet warrior howled.
Strike him, Nihal.
Nihal shook her head. “I can’t …”
You don’t want to die.
Another torrent of flames engulfed Oarf’s chest, and the dragon’s painful roar quaked through Nihal’s body. Why, why was
this
the test she had to suffer?
“Nihal, dammit! You have to fight!” a voice called out. Ido’s voice. A flash of reality.
Nihal shook herself from her stupor, and there before her was Ido, barreling toward the black dragon, his sword drawn.
Anger mounted like a tidal wave within her. A surge of fury and despair. Nihal gripped her sword and launched herself at Fen.
It was desperation alone that drove her on. She struck him at random, doing all she could to avoid the frigid gaze of the man she once loved.
“It’s me, Fen,” she repeated, but Fen went on attacking, blocking, attacking, blocking, steady and imperturbable.
He wasn’t acting willfully. It was as if his hand were moving of its own accord. Or so she wanted to believe. Cringing, she thrust her black crystal sword into Fen’s stomach, and its pointed tip pierced the knight straight through to the other side. For an instant, Nihal locked eyes with the ghost. But there was nothing there to see. Fen vanished into smoke, just as he had that night when the fires of the funeral pyre consumed his body.
The troops of the Free Lands were forced to retreat. Thanks to the magic of Sennar and Soana, they were able to limit the number of casualties, though they’d by no means come away with a victory. At the end of the day, the evidence of their defeat was clear: a large part of the southern steppe, linking the Land of the Wind to the Land of Water, was now under the Tyrant’s control.
All those who’d survived the battle took refuge in Laodamea. In the main square, a military hospital was set up to care for the wounded, and in the surrounding streets they established a makeshift encampment. The citizens of the capital came to the aid of the soldiers, doing whatever they could to help. The innkeepers turned their bars into small mess halls; the women saw to it that no soldier was without water and firewood, clean clothes and warmth; many of the city’s inhabitants offered their hospitality. Galla, the king of the Land of Water, opened up his palace doors to the generals and knights.
The army’s morale was destroyed, the situation all but hopeless. The Land of Water was surrounded by enemy troops, their encampments only a few miles off. If it were to fall, the number of remaining Free Lands would be down to two: the Land of the Sea and the Land of the Sun.
Nihal was transported to the royal palace. The wound to her shoulder was no doubt grave, though more troubling was the blank look in her eyes—she seemed to have fallen into a trance. Even in the safety of her own room, far from the cries of the wounded and downcast soldiers, she went on staring into empty space.
Laio held her hand and spoke softly to her, hoping to reassure her, but she gave no reaction.
Sennar stepped forward and gave her a light shove. “First of all, we need to take care of that wound,” he said. “Nihal?” Sennar called. “Nihal, say something.”
But Nihal remained silent. Sennar wiped the dirt from her face with a wet rag. Then, with the help of Laio, he removed her breastplate and examined her wounded shoulder. He began to recite a healing spell.
Laio stayed by his knight’s side, watching over her as she turned in her sleep, while Sennar passed the remainder of the evening tending to other wounded soldiers alongside Ganna and Soana.
At dawn, returning to the royal palace, they ran into Ido.
“That battle was the last straw, Sennar. …” said the dwarf.
“I know. But at least for the time being it seems the Tyrant has stopped. We’re safe for now.”
“Not for long,” Ido replied.
The following day, the enemy troops made no movement whatsoever: no sign of attack, no sign of retreat.
The military commanders sought to reorganize the remaining troops, but the knowledge that the Tyrant could reanimate the spirits of those fallen in battle left them with no margin of hope for victory.
They were trapped. Of course, the sorcerers on the Council could unite and continue enchanting the army’s weaponry. But with every battle the number of their soldiers would decrease, and the number of enemy troops would increase. How long could they hold out?
A special hearing of the Council, in the presence of the king Galla, was called for the following evening. All Dragon Knights were invited to participate.
Silence reigned in the royal palace. After the death of Astrea, the courtesans hardly showed their faces and the servants flitted along the halls like shadows. Galla’s suffering permeated the entire palace.
Sennar stepped out of his room and entered a long corridor. The sound of a hoarse voice calling his name startled him and he spun around.
Nihal was walking toward him, her shoulder wrapped in a thick white bandage and her face frighteningly pale. She looked like a ghost.
“What are you doing out of bed?” the sorcerer asked, pacing in her direction.
“I’m coming to the meeting,” Nihal replied.
“You can’t, Nihal. You’re weak, your wound is still—”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Sennar studied her. Nihal’s face lacked all expression. In her eyes was neither sadness nor suffering. She merely stood before him, as still and cold as a stone.
Sennar took her hand in his and pressed it. “I know what happened to you during yesterday’s battle. One day this will all be over, Nihal.”
“I don’t know if I believe that anymore,” she muttered.
“But you must, Nihal. Hope is the only thing we have left.”
The large oval room was strangely dark, as if the black night beyond the city walls had crept into the palace by some secret passageway. One chandelier shed its weak light on their taut faces, aggrieved with injury, weary with uncertainty and exhaustion.
In the subterranean room were gathered eight councilors, the Dragon Knights, the general, King Galla, and Soana.
“Our troops are worn down, and the enemy far outnumbers us,” said the general, his voice drained. “It will be at least ten days before reinforcements arrive from the Land of the Sun. I’m not going to lie to you—there’s no way out of this mess.”
Galla was a young man with delicate features, blond hair, and deep blue eyes. His marriage to Astrea had been the first mixed marriage in the region, inaugurating a new era in relations between men and nymphs. He turned his troubled face toward Sennar. “When will the troops arrive from Zalenia?”
“We expect them to arrive toward the end of the month, Your Majesty. It’s a long voyage—”
Galla shrugged his shoulders. He was visibly distraught over the loss of his wife and worried for the fate of his Land. “I want to be frank with you, Councilors. The Land of Water is no longer capable of offering you any protection. Our people are not prepared for battle. The nymphs are most certainly not warriors, and our men have never been trained to fight. Our fate now rests in the hands of the enemy, I fear.”
“Your Majesty, General …” Sennar pleaded. “We’ve bolstered all our weaponry with the enchantment. We can fight back now. I know that’s not much, but at least it’s something. We can’t let ourselves be discouraged.”
Theris, the nymph representing the Land of Water, was next to speak up. “What you say is courageous, Sennar. But we can’t delude ourselves any longer. After forty years of war we don’t have the strength left to face this new attack.”
From the corner where she sat, Nihal listened. She listened and she knew that the time for hesitation was over. And yet, even had she wanted to stand and speak, her legs would not have obeyed.
The councilor Sate, a dwarf from the Land of the Sun, cut in: “The Council must be preserved at all costs, Sennar. And everyone who opposes the Tyrant along with it. For which reason I believe we have no choice but to flee. The Land of Water, at this point, has already been lost.”
Galla shot him a cold stare. “Astrea died protecting this Land and now you’re proposing we just run off. No, Councilor. My place is here, among my people. My destiny is the destiny of the Land of Water.”
“We understand your reasoning, Your Majesty,” one of the knights replied, “but the preservation of the Council is fundamental. It’s above all thanks to the Council that we’ve survived in these years of warring. For it to fall would mean the fall of the Free Lands. Sate is right. The Council must flee the region. The army, however, will remain here, at your side.”
“Even if that’s the right decision,” Ido cut in, “that doesn’t change the fact that we’re surrounded by hundreds of damned ghosts out there right now.”
Dagon rose to his feet. “There has to be a way, Ido. An ancient ritual used only a handful of times. Combining the magic of all the councilors, it’s possible to recite a spell that will transport us to a remote location.”
“My queen is dead, Dagon,” said Theris. “I’m staying right here. I couldn’t do otherwise.”