by Licia Troisi
Ido held the decrepit woman in a long, disdainful stare until a chill ran up his spine. Knowing the truth of her past, he saw Nihal’s mission in a new, sinister light. And even still, there was something that didn’t quite add up. Reis, he was certain, had yet to reveal the truth in its entirety. No, she’d never managed to escape from the Rock—and even if she had, it was only because the Tyrant had allowed her to. But why?
“You will share this with no one,” the old woman croaked. “What I’ve told you today never leaves these walls.”
“Of course,” the dwarf pledged, though his intentions were most certainly otherwise.
That night, during training in Makrat, Ido wasn’t his usual, focused self. Reis’s words played over and over in his head, her story of the young councilor gripped by evil. And he couldn’t stop thinking of Debar. A monster of his own making, in some ways. Ido had taught so much to that skilled young soldier. At last it was clear why the red knight’s technique in battle was so similar to his own. The more he thought about it, the more he boiled with rage.
In fact, Deinforo had taken the exact opposite path to his own, and this bound them by a strange affinity. There was something linking them, some magnetic force drawing them together. To have fought alongside one another and then to have made such diametrically different choices, to have maimed one another in battle. Maybe this was the explanation behind his obsession with the red knight.
An unexpected blow struck his side. The dwarf lost his balance and fell to the ground.
“There’s something off with you tonight,” said Parsel, as he helped him to his feet. “What the devil’s on your mind?”
The dwarf shook his head. “Nothing. Thoughts, that’s all.”
Ido confided in Soana, telling her all the details of Reis’s past. The sorceress listened with attention, though she betrayed no sign of surprise. “Did you know this already?” the dwarf asked.
“No, but I had my suspicions. Her ferocious hate for the Tyrant has always stood out to me. We all detest him, of course, but not with such personal intensity. Nor could I explain the extreme decay of her beauty—she can’t be more than ten or twenty years older than you.”
Ido shivered with repulsion. “I don’t know if we can trust her. … Nothing can change the fact that she once loved him,” he said. “And this whole story about fleeing from the dungeons … No one escapes the Rock; it’s impossible. The Tyrant must have let her go. But why?”
Soana shook her head. “Her hate is genuine. Reis isn’t one for faking it, and she’d never sell herself over to the enemy. The problem lies elsewhere. She’s blinded by her resentment, and will resort to any means necessary in order to defeat the Tyrant.”
Just then, Soana leaned in toward Ido. In a whisper, she revealed what the sorceress had done to Nihal, the nightmares she’d planted in her mind. The dwarf clenched his fists in anger.
“And that’s exactly what I’m talking about. I was against Nihal going to speak with her, and I was against her journey, but Reis had planned everything down to the last detail. There’s nothing we can do now but follow the path she’s chosen for us.”
“That witch,” Ido hissed.
“Whatever the case,” Soana continued, “she remains our last hope. Perhaps her hate will generate a great good.”
The weeks flew by, and soon enough came cold weather. Ido trained every day, rain or shine, and his senses grew sharper and sharper. He was fighting the way he used to; that much he realized the evening he first defeated Parsel, and now it was only on rare occasions that his teacher managed to best him. Ido felt ready at last. First, however, he needed to do something about his sword.
Without delay, he brought it to an armorer in Makrat, a man who seemed more brawn than brains. “If you ask me, it’s not worth fixing,” said the man, after giving the blade a careful look. “It’ll end up costing you more than buying a new one.”
“I don’t care how long it takes, and I’m prepared to pay whatever price you ask. Just make it new,” Ido replied.
The man might not have seemed very intelligent, but he was a brilliant weaponsmith. Within a week, Ido’s sword was like new.
Taking it in his hand, he too felt renewed. Right away he took the weapon to Soana, who placed the same enchantment over it that she’d placed on his last sword.
It was time, Ido knew, to face Raven again and regain his rightful place among the ranks.
Ido stepped through the Academy gates clad in full armor, sword at his side, and asked to see the General. When he entered the room, the guards were taken aback.
Strangely, Raven hadn’t insisted Ido wait this time, and he appeared before him dressed even more modestly than on their last few encounters. For the first time in his life, Ido bowed down and knelt before his superior at length, demonstrating his obedience.
Raven must have been shocked by the gesture, for Ido heard him stop dead in his tracks.
“Please, rise,” the Supreme General commanded at last, and Ido obeyed.
When the dwarf lifted his gaze, he saw Raven seated in his throne, as imperturbable as ever.
“Well then?”
Ido bowed his head. “I request to be reinstated to active duty.”
“If I’m not mistaken, I believe I’ve already demonstrated why that’s not possible.”
“Forget that spineless fool who showed up sniveling in your office,” said Ido, his head still bowed. “He’s dead and buried. I’ve been training, I’ve been working hard these past few months, and I feel I’m back at full strength. The mistake I made on the battlefield was unforgiveable, and the least I could have done was to request leave myself. I’m only grateful you’ve left the door open for me.”
“Do you think this false show of deference is going to make me change my mind?”
At last Ido lifted his chin and looked Raven in the eye. “My act of deference is anything but false, and you should know me well enough to recognize that. There’s no reason I’d stoop to such shameful behavior, and I’m certainly not doing so now.”
Raven and Ido held each other in a begrudging stare.
“I cannot rightly entrust you with your own regiment,” the Supreme General said, breaking the silence.
“I understand perfectly well.”
“This isn’t me being cruel—your error is no light matter.”
“All I ask is that you let me fight again. You know my strength as a warrior and you know just as well that the loss of an eye does not discount me as a soldier.”
“I disarmed you, right here in this room.”
“I’ve trained. You can speak with Parsel, who’s worked with me. Just give me another shot. I won’t disappoint you.”
Raven was silent for a few moments. “You’ll be deployed in the Land of the Sun, under the command of General Londal. This is a trial, Ido, and only a trial. If you don’t prove yourself, there will be no more chances.”
Ido bowed yet again. “My sincere thanks,” he muttered.
Raven stepped toward him. “I must admit, I do know how valuable you are to this army. And today you’ve given me further proof.”
Then he turned about face and left the room.
The battlefront before him. Vesa trembling beneath his legs. Sword in hand. Rather than the irksome rain that had greeted him on his last descent into battle, this time he was met by an impenetrable mist. Ido made no attempt to search for Deinforo. They’d cross paths eventually, of that much he was certain, and when the time came, he’d settle the score once and for all. He’d been assigned to the rear guard, but it made no difference. What was important was that he was out there, starting over, born again on the battlefield.
He closed his eyes and saw the faces of his men. They, too, were a part of him now, demanding he seek redress for their deaths, and he wasn’t going to let them down. His heart beat steadily, his senses sharpen
ed.
When the call to attack came, he was ready. Vesa unfurled his immense wings and Ido felt the rush of cold winter air. The first enemy appeared and the dwarf disposed of him easily. Then came a light hush, an imperceptible whisk of air. Ido flung himself around and struck the enemy approaching at his rear.
Yes, all was back to normal.
31
The Song of the Dead City
Nihal and Sennar stopped for a short rest and she checked the talisman for their next direction.
Each time Nihal pulled the amulet from her bodice, it seemed to burn even brighter, the colored stones glowing intensely and lighting up the dark night.
The power of the talisman was increasing; Nihal could feel it.
She pressed her eyelids shut and the vision came to her clearer than ever. What she saw left her speechless. There was a forest, or at least what appeared to be a forest at first glance. The plants, however, were not the usual green, but bore the color of dirt and rock. Nihal concentrated even harder. Could it be? Yes. A petrified forest—shrubs, trees, leaves, even the odd flower, all turned to stone.
When she lifted her eyelids, a shadow of the vision must have lingered, for Sennar was staring at her, dumbstruck.
“What did you see?” he asked.
“It was extraordinary,” she answered, describing the forest of stone. The direction couldn’t have been clearer. They were to head north.
Only by shade of night did they dare travel, and even then they risked running into the patrols of Fammin sent out to track them down. Word of their entrance into the occupied territories had apparently preceded them.
For the first two days, the landscape before them was all but identical to the barren plains they’d just crossed. There were no longer any towering volcanoes, but the earth was pocked with hundreds of inactive craters. The fire they’d left behind went on breathing its lethal breath, and the stifling air wafted ahead for miles.
On the third day, they noticed a dark line in the distance, cutting across the horizon. The image brought them back to the day of Salazar’s destruction, when the black army marched menacingly toward the tower. They feared they might be approaching an enemy base or a fortified valley. But as they neared the dark contour, they soon realized that what lay before them was far more powerful.
Mountains, rugged and black, rose imperially toward the heavens. Livon’s words from long ago rang again in Nihal’s mind. She remembered her father, bent over a black sheet of rock, working intently. As usual, she had stood by his side, following the motions of his expert hands.
“This is black crystal, the hardest material on earth. This stuff is what the Rock itself was constructed with,” Livon said. The black block rested on an anvil, and he went on hammering away with a heavy mallet as he spoke. “A dwarf I know smuggled it in for me. Black crystal is found only in the Land of Rocks.”
With each hammer stroke, a thousand sparks shot outward from the anvil. “The mountains there are enormous, Nihal. They are immense and black and glint in the sun. And it’s the black crystal, scattered among the less precious rocks, that gives the mountains their color.”
“Have you ever seen them?”
“When I was young. Back then, the Tyrant had yet to conquer the Land of Rocks, and I went out there to gather black crystal for my teacher. The mountains are gigantic, a black wall against the sky. The sight leaves you breathless. Who knows, maybe one day you’ll have a chance to see them, too.
At last, the day had come. She was seeing them with her own eyes. There they were, lacquered black against the gray dawn sky, glimmering faintly in the early light.
As they approached the foot of the mountains, they soon discovered that even here, in the midst of nature’s glory, the Tyrant’s influence had taken hold. Several tunnels had been dug into the base of the mountain. Out of them issued lines of shackled dwarves dragging carts full of black crystal. Here, as in the Land of Fire, the people had been cast into slavery and were forced to spend their days extracting the precious crystal used to forge the enemy’s weapons.
Nihal and Sennar continued their approach, keeping as far from the mines as possible. The enemy, they knew, was still on their trail. More than once they’d been forced to change course or duck into hiding as a patrol of Fammin and dwarves passed by.
Gradually, as they advanced, they realized the full extent of the destruction, understood how ruthlessly the mountains had been mined. Their insides hollowed out, they were nothing now but empty shells of rock on the verge of caving in.
As they passed through a debris-filled dumping zone piled with mining scraps, they noticed something strange. Among the ashes and stone blocks they saw the ruins of what seemed to have once been a city, complete with fragments of paved roads, doors, and the occasional section of wall still standing, all made entirely of rock.
In the end, they decided their best hope would be to scale the mountains. The slopes leading down toward the valley were all being mined for black crystal and were therefore swarming with enemies. After they’d climbed the first few ridges, solitude became their sole companion. The voices, the bustle, the cries and moans rising up from the mines gave way to the mountain’s stark tranquility. At last, they could travel in daylight.
Their tour through the mountains dragged on. They were careful to move at low altitudes but far from the more heavily mined slopes. It was precisely this caution that led them one day, unawares, to the hidden gem of that land.
They were wending their way through a perilous passage, only a few yards wide, that had been carved out between two mountains. Strewn about the ground lay heaps of craggy rock that had fallen from the cliffs looming above them. Suddenly, the passage opened out into a valley. A crystalline waterfall flowed through it. High mountains encircled the clearing. Nihal and Sennar lifted their eyes, and they understood the strange ruins they’d noticed in the scrap heap at the foot of the mountain.
Spectacular cities were perched on each mountain peak. The buildings, however, hadn’t been constructed atop the peaks. The peaks themselves had been carved to create dwellings.
In times of peace, it was clear, the dwarves had lived atop the mountains in cities as hard and eternal as rock. Now, however, a palpable silence predominated, testifying mutely to suffering and abandonment. Many of the cities, in fact, were rife with signs of deterioration and neglect. The houses highest up were crumbling and eroding, and the points of the decorative spires had dulled, smoothed over by the incessant wind.
Sennar remembered having noted similar structures in the Vaneries, but he hadn’t understood their origin. Now he saw that it was this magnificent model they’d been copying all along, the centuries-long labor of a hardworking people.
Neither Sennar nor Nihal could resist further exploration. Dizzy with wonder, they ascended the nearest peak and visited one of the sculpted cities. They found a maze of winding roads, houses piled atop one another, many with their doors hanging wide open. All was still, motionless. Not only had the city been abandoned: it seemed fossilized, as if some sorcerer had preserved it with an enchantment. A slow, sorrowful rain began to fall, dense and ceaseless, and soon the dust of the streets turned to mud. The entire city, in fact—already eroding from the wind—seemed to be dissolving into murky water. Undeterred, Nihal and Sennar went on exploring.
There were no signs of an intrusion, as in Seferdi. All was in order, untouched, without a drop of blood on the ground. It hadn’t been the wrath of men to undo the glory of these cities, but the silent, endless labor of time. In every corner, Sennar and Nihal saw evidence of the builders’ ingenuity. There were thermal baths and a strange heating system, with shallow cavities running along the city walls through which the heat could flow. The dwarves, now slaves in the mines, must have once been a rich and joyous people.
Nihal and Sennar went on wandering through the city streets while the rain, a prelude to the c
oming autumn, washed the stone before their eyes. They climbed until they reached the royal palace, utterly desolate. Only the patter of rain against stone broke the eerie silence. And just as eerie, if not more so, was the sight awaiting them at the next street corner.
An old woman sat on a chair in the rain. She rocked back and forth, singing a tune, completely oblivious. She was tiny and clad in a stained and torn dress of green wool. Nihal drew nearer, but the old woman went on singing, taking no notice, her long yellow hair soaking up the rain. She had the appearance of an old, tattered doll.
Nihal touched her ever so lightly on the shoulder. The old woman started, screwing up her empty eyes.
“Is it lunch time already?” she asked, smiling wide. “The market closed early today, didn’t it?” She went back to her singing.
“Are you alone here?” Sennar asked.
“Oh, no. I’m not alone. My dear ones are inside, my family. …”
Nihal glanced in the house and saw only a junk-filled hovel, rank and dark. Not a soul in sight.
“The seasons aren’t what they used to be,” the old woman sighed. “That must be why the market closed early.”
“There’s no one in the house,” Nihal whispered to Sennar.
