The Last Talisman

by Licia Troisi

  “Don’t give up; we’ll find a way,” Sennar said. “We’re not going to sleep out here in the mud.”

  The sorcerer pushed onward, the luminous sphere lighting their way.

  For a long while, they wandered aimlessly, until Sennar pointed to a stone sticking up out of the mud, large enough to serve as a makeshift bed for the two of them. In the dark, curled up beneath their cloaks, they collapsed into a deep sleep.

  The next morning, Nihal’s forehead was bathed in sweat and her temples were scorching. Her wound didn’t seem to be getting any better.

  “It’s nothing, and besides, we’re close,” Nihal muttered.

  “You’re in no condition to travel, Nihal. You’ve already worn yourself out enough. We can tell Laio to take refuge in a nearby village until you’re rested.”

  Nihal shook her head. “I won’t feel rested until I’ve found the first stone. Then we can worry about taking care of my shoulder,” she said. She made to stand, but her legs shook beneath her.

  Sennar forced her to sit again. “At least let me carry you on my shoulders.”

  Nihal shook her head in refusal.

  “When are you going to admit that you can’t do everything on your own?” Sennar snapped. “Do you think I would have left the Council if I hadn’t been convinced you’d need my help?”

  Finally, Nihal gave in and climbed onto the sorcerer’s back.

  And so they proceeded all morning, Sennar plowing forward, up to his knees in mud. At long last, the fog thinned and a shape appeared on the horizon.

  At first, Nihal thought she was hallucinating, in the throes of a fever dream. She saw a structure emerging from the fog, but it looked as if it were suspended in mid-air, rippling like a mirage. The closer they came to it, the more she felt sure they were now close to their destination.

  “That must be it,” she said. “I think we’re there.”

  The structure didn’t seem so far off, but they had to walk for some time before reaching it. Little by little, they began to distinguish its outline. It was a square building the color of crystal-clear water and adorned with several spires.

  They arrived at the foot of the building and stopped. At the center of the façade was a door with a pointed arch. The walls resembled an enormous piece of needlepoint fabric, with light entering and exiting through its many fissures. But the most astounding thing about the sanctuary was the material from which it was made: water. Water rose from the swamp to form the walls, curling upward around the spires and then cascading down to form the door. Plain old river water suspended in mid-air to form a building.

  Nihal stretched out her hand toward the structure and her fingers passed through the watery wall. She pulled her hand back. It was wet.

  “Amazing,” Sennar gasped.

  Nihal looked up and noticed an inscription above the door, written in looping calligraphy: Aelon. “Let’s go in,” she said.

  She unsheathed her sword and stepped through the doorway. Sennar followed warily.

  The floor, too, was made of water and yet somehow held their weight.

  Inside, it was completely empty. From the outside, the building had seemed rather small, but once inside it was exactly the opposite. Before them lay a long corridor. The only sign of life was the noise of a brook echoing between the walls and the seemingly endless hallway stretched before them. It was so dark, they couldn’t see where it ended.

  Nihal became aware of a faint premonition of danger. She tightened her grip around her sword’s handle and glanced down at the medallion. The central stone glowed brightly in its niche.

  They could see nothing at the end of the hallway, where, in all probability, the aelon stone was kept. Nihal stepped foward. Sennar followed. All of a sudden, Nihal came to an abrupt stop.

  Sennar peered around him. “What is it?” he asked.

  Nihal made no response. She thought she’d heard a voice, or more precisely, a laugh.

  Sennar’s hand lit up, ready to cast a spell.

  “I thought I …” Nihal strained again to distinguish the sound, but heard only the gurgling water. “But it was nothing.”

  They resumed their journey. The sound of the brook gradually faded off until they could no longer hear it. Nihal had no idea how long they’d been traveling through the sanctuary. She stopped again and lowered her sword.

  It was then, all of a sudden, that a thousand faces surfaced from behind the watery walls and stretched themselves toward her and Sennar before transforming into the ethereal bodies of maidens. They resembled nymphs, apart from the sinister glow in their eyes. Sennar and Nihal clutched each other. Nihal raised her sword and began swinging freely at the creatures, but they were made of water and her blade passed through them to no effect.

  In that instant, they heard a strange commotion at their backs. Sword in hand, Nihal turned and noticed the watery shape of a woman as it began to form from the water: first a face, then two piercing eyes, shoulders, chest, and, at last, the full shape of her lower body.

  The woman continued to increase in size until her giant figure towered over Nihal and Sennar. She was glorious, gorgeous, her harmonious features pulsing with a terrifying energy.

  Nihal’s sword trembled in her hands.

  A narrow gap formed suddenly in the woman’s face and curved into an enigmatic smile, only to disappear a moment later. “Who are you?” the woman asked.

  Nihal’s lips moved automatically in response. “Sheireen,” she uttered, her voice quavering.

  “Sheireen tor anakte?”

  Her words perplexed Nihal. “I am Sheireen. I come in peace,” she answered.

  The woman was silent for a moment. “To whom are you consecrated?” she repeated, this time in a language Nihal could understand.

  “I am consecrated to Shevrar.”

  This apparently appeased the woman. “Shevrar, God of Flame and Fire, Creator of All; God of Heat, Destroyer of All. From him, all is born, to him all returns in death. In the furnaces of his chosen volcanoes the killing blades of war are forged, and yet, to those who revere him, the light of his fire brings life and warmth. Life and death are his alone, beginning and end.”

  Nihal listened without understanding.

  “And he?” the woman asked. “Who is this impure being at your side?”

  “Sennar,” the boy resounded. “A sorcerer in service of the Council.”

  As she examined him, two tendrils emerged from her garments, wound themselves around Sennar’s arms and held him. “You should not have come this far. Your impure feet are not worthy of touching the ground of my sanctuary.”

  Sennar struggled in vain to free himself from the watery chains.

  “Let him go! I’m the one who’s here for you. He’s only come to help,” Nihal shouted.

  For a moment the woman remained silent, eyeing Nihal intently. “I sense something dark in you, something that should not appear in one who has been consecrated.”

  Nihal was aware of her own impurity and of her intense hatred for the Tyrant. “I’m by no means perfect, and perhaps I’m unworthy of possessing your power,” she said, “but fate itself has rendered me the only one capable of gathering the stones. I come not for my own benefit, but for those who’ve died, for those who suffer. It is for them that I must complete this mission. It is their only hope, and I won’t deny it to them. I only pray that you will not do so, either.”

  Nihal felt the creature’s curious gaze penetrate her soul and hoped that the darkness buried within her would not be revealed.

  A conciliatory smile appeared on the woman’s watery lips. “So be it, Sheireen. I’ve heard your request and I’ve peered into your soul. I know you will use the stone wisely.”

  The woman loosened her tendrils and Sennar was free again. Then she raised a hand to her face, plucked an eye from one of her sockets, and handed it to Ni
hal. The half-elf seized the stone. It was smooth, a pale and brilliant blue. It seemed to contain the whirling currents of the Saar.

  “Sheireen, your journey has only begun. You have many miles to travel. Many encounters lie ahead of you. Not every guardian will receive you as favorably as I have. Some will stand in the way of your mission. You hold an immense power. Do not abuse it, or I will seek you out and end your life myself. May the road ahead of you be smooth and the longings of your heart be satisfied,” said the woman. “Do what you must.”

  Nihal clutched the stone between her fingers and placed it into its niche. “Rahhavni sektar aleero,” she murmured.

  The water forming the sanctuary began to swirl. The walls dissolved, the reliefs disappeared, and the woman herself was sucked up into the center of the vortex. Gallon upon gallon, the liquid mounted into a giant, menacing wave, until all at once it flowed into the stone.

  The half-elf squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them, she was surrounded only by fog and swamp.

  From behind her, she heard a sigh of relief, and turned to see Sennar’s smiling face.

  “That wasn’t so hard, after all,” said the sorcerer.

  Nihal nodded. “She must have understood our intentions. Now all we have to do is set out again.”

  In that instant, all strength fled from her limbs. She collapsed to her knees in the mud.

  “Are you alright?” asked Sennar.

  “It’s nothing. … Just a dizzy spell. …”

  The sorcerer quickly brought his hand to her forehead.

  “You’re boiling hot. Show me your wound,” he ordered.

  Before Nihal had time to react, he pulled back the bandages. The wound had reopened in several places, showing clear signs of an infection. Sennar tried to conceal his concern, but she sensed it.

  “We have to call Laio,” he said.

  Nihal could hardly think. Her eyes were burning. A feverish chill gripped her entire body. “There’s no use … he can’t reach us with Oarf,” she protested.

  Sennar threw his cloak around her to warm her up. “I’ll tell him how to get here. You’re in no condition to travel and there’s nothing I can do to help you. My magic can heal wounds, but curing an illness is beyond my power. Only priests are capable of such work. Laio’s knowledge of herbs may be more useful to you than I can be.”

  “But I …”

  “You just sit still and relax.”

  He forced her to lean back on the trunk of a nearby tree and rest. Then he whistled and a black crow descended from the sky. The sorcerer tore off a small bit of his tunic and used magic to inscribe a brief message for Laio. He wound the message around the bird’s talon and whispered something in its ear. The crow took flight. Sennar returned to Nihal, uncovered her wound, and began muttering a healing spell.

  Laio arrived a couple of hours later. Using magic, Sennar had lit a magic flare above their location and Laio found them without much difficulty. The real problem was getting everyone aboard Oarf. The dragon could not descend into the swamp without running the risk of getting stuck for eternity. Straining, Sennar lifted Nihal just high enough for Laio to grab hold of her and pull her up. Then he heaved himself onto Oarf with a bit of help from Laio.

  When Laio’s eyes rested on Nihal, worry filled his gaze. “What happened? Are you okay?”

  Nihal tried to respond, but fever and shivering got the better of her.

  “Her wound reopened,” Sennar answered for her. “It’s infected.”

  “Now what? I don’t have any herbs on hand, and I don’t know where to find them, and we’re in the middle of nowhere, and it’s cold out …”

  Before her eyes closed, Nihal saw Sennar take Laio by his frail shoulders. “First of all, relax. We need to find somewhere safe to land, preferably a village. The rest we can deal with later. For now, I can use magic, at least for the wound. Now let’s get moving,” she heard the sorcerer say.

  Then she collapsed from fever and exhaustion, just as her dragon spread his wings and took to the air.

  3

  Sennar’s Decision

  Oarf flew as fast as his wings would take him and soon they were beyond the edge of the swamp, soaring above the dense forest. It was snowing again and Sennar held Nihal close to shield her from the wind.

  There was no sign of a village anywhere. Beneath the dragon’s wings was only the blur of crowded treetops. They’d been flying for what seemed like forever, and still they hadn’t flown over a suitable place to land.

  Suddenly, Laio pointed to the horizon. “Sennar, what’s that down there?”

  Sennar turned his gaze. In the distance, barely visible, was a black line. Gradually, the image resolved and the truth was revealed in all its horror: It was the battlefront.

  “It can’t be …” Laio muttered.

  “Unfortunately, it is. We’ve been gone for two weeks now and things weren’t exactly going well when we left, as you must remember.”

  “But there’s no way they could have advanced that far!” Laio exclaimed.

  “We’re seeing it from a high altitude, so they’re not as close as they seem. But all the same, it’s a disaster.”

  Sennar quickly did the math in his head. The Tyrant must have conquered the entire southern region and some of the territory to the west, pushing forward along the banks of the Saar. Where could they land? Loos was far away, and Sennar did not know any other villages. There was nothing but the forest.

  “I think it’s best if we head to the north. That will put some distance between us and the battlefront,” the sorcerer said at last.

  “Are there any villages in that direction?” Laio asked.

  “No. The forest will have to do for now.”

  “There’s somewhere … in the forest.” Nihal strained to raise her voice.

  “What do you mean?” Sennar asked.

  “In the forest, there’s someone who can help us. I can tell you how to get there, but we have to arrive at night.”

  Nihal gave directions, a great exertion. They flew until the sun sank below the horizon and yet another bitter cold night descended upon the Land of Water. Only then did they land in a small clearing where Oarf had just enough room to touch down. A single immense stone stood at the center of the circular clearing.

  “Nihal, there’s nothing here …” said Sennar.

  “Just be patient.”

  They didn’t have to wait long. Gradually, beneath a thick layer of snow, the stone came to life. By the pale light of the moon, Sennar could make out the figure of an old man, his face shriveled with wrinkles, a long white beard hanging from his chin.

  The old man scrutinized his visitors one by one, taking his time, grinning at the look of bewilderment on their faces. At last, his eyes met with Nihal’s bright gaze. “I thought we might see one another again,” he said.

  “You haven’t changed, Megisto.” Nihal smiled. “My friends and I need shelter.”

  “My cave is much too big for one. I’d be happy to put you up.”

  He led them to his cavern. Sennar settled Nihal on the old man’s straw bedding. Her fever was high. She tossed in her sleep.

  Megisto set to work, heating water on the fire and gathering straw to make new beds. The chains binding his wrists and ankles clanked balefully behind him.

  Sennar looked on with awe. How could a man so old, weighed down by so much metal, move around with such ease? At long last, he tore his gaze from their mysterious host and tried to make himself useful to Nihal. Laio, however, dismissed him politely.

  “This is my area of expertise,” he said, grinning.

  With a careful eye, the squire took stock of Nihal’s condition. Then he turned to Megisto and inquired about several herbs Sennar had never heard of.

  “No, I don’t have them here, but I know where to find them. I can take you, if yo
u’d like,” the old man replied.

  Laio nodded. To his chagrin, Sennar was forced to admit that Laio had taken charge of the situation.

  “You’ll stay here and keep her company, won’t you?” Laio asked.

  “Of course,” the sorcerer mumbled.

  He and Nihal were soon alone in the silence of the cave. Sennar attempted to cure her with magic once again, but it was no use.

  Suddenly, Nihal opened her eyes, which were red and swollen.

  “How are you feeling?” Sennar asked immediately.

  “Don’t let me become one of them,” she garbled.

  “What do you mean?” the sorcerer asked, though he knew. He’d been unable to keep the thought from his own mind, as well. If Nihal were to die, she’d join the ranks of the Tyrant’s army of ghosts.

  “I’d rather you banish my spirit forever than let me become one of those ghosts.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Sennar exclaimed.

  “With your sorcery you can do that, can’t you? You have to find a way to make sure that when I die, I die for good. ”

  “You’re not going to die,” said Sennar, trying to convince himself, before all else.

  But Nihal was already deep asleep.

  Just then Laio and Megisto returned, their arms filled with herbs of every sort.

  Laio set to work, mashing the herbs into a paste and spreading it over Nihal’s wounded shoulder. He tended to her for the better part of the night, until her forehead cooled and Nihal slept peacefully.

  Megisto placed a hand on Sennar’s shoulder. “I think it’s time you and your friend get some sleep.” He prepared a chestnut soup and gave them each a slice of dark bread.

  Sipping his soup, Sennar couldn’t help but stare at Megisto. When they’d arrived, he had been too tired and too worried about Nihal to remember where he’d heard that name before, but soon enough he remembered. Shortly after Soana came back, Nihal had spoken to him of Megisto, of the lessons he’d given her in forbidden magic, which she’d used to defeat Dola. Sennar studied the old man. With his body in such a decrepit state, wracked by age and the weight of his heavy chains, it was impossible to picture him as one of the Tyrant’s most cruel accomplices.