Sennar's Mission

by Licia Troisi

  When the reconnaissance team came back with Nihal, covered in blood and unconscious, an astonished silence fell over the camp. Just behind them were four soldiers dragging a chained and wounded Dola.

  All that day, the encampment’s sorcerer stayed at Nihal’s side, and only when evening came did he dare claim that the worst had passed.

  Nihal would have no memory at all of her time in the infirmary. Not even dreams came to give her the semblance of being alive. She was as good as dead—darkness and nothingness, everywhere.

  Upon hearing that Nihal had been gravely injured, Ido mounted Vesa and came as fast as the wind. He and Laio attended to her dutifully, changing her pillow, watching over her night and day, waiting faithfully for the moment when she’d open her eyes.

  “He won’t stop asking for you, Ido.”

  “I know.”

  “But is it true? I mean, is it true that he …”

  “Quiet, Laio. Quiet.”

  Slowly, Nihal lifted her eyelids and two indistinct figures emerged from the dark.

  She could hear her name being called. “Nihal! Nihal, are you awake?” Laio … She opened and closed her eyes and the faces hovering over her were soon familiar. Laio’s hair was ruffled and he seemed tired. Ido was smiling. Nihal strained to return his smile, but wasn’t sure if she’d managed.

  “I’m proud of you,” Ido murmured.

  Suddenly everything came back to her.

  Yes, she too was proud.

  During her time in the infirmary, Nihal received an extraordinary number of visitors. Among the first to arrive was the general, who took it upon himself to grant her official recognition of her achievement. Then came one soldier after another, and Nihal was forced to tell and retell the story of how she’d defeated the Tyrant’s most feared warrior. Not that she wasn’t flattered by all the attention, but she felt ill at ease in her role as the latest heroine.

  Ido, on the other hand, came only rarely, and when he did, kept his visits brief. In some ways, Nihal was relieved. She could hardly fail to remember the sinister weapon she’d used to defeat Dola, or the dark intentions driving her. Of course, she hadn’t killed him. She’d kept her promise to Megisto. She’d achieved her goal. And now what?

  After ten days in bed, she was able to take her first steps with crutches. She left the tent and hobbled around the encampment.

  The intense summer sun stroked her skin. It felt like home again. She recognized that sun—the same sun that had watched over her during her rowdy childhood in Salazar.

  First things first, she wanted to visit Oarf. Her heart ached when she spotted him, curled up in a field at the edge of the encampment, the gash in his wing still raw.

  She limped toward him. “We did it, boy, we did it,” she said. She rubbed his snout and Oarf licked her hand.

  Later on, eating in the mess hall, Nihal overheard a strange conversation between two infantrymen sitting behind her.

  “He’s still asking?”

  “That’s all he does, is ask! And what do we know?”

  “It just seems impossible to me. I mean, we’re talking about Dola here. If it really were true, it’d be pretty serious.”

  “You never know. There’s still the fact that Ido’s never bothered to say a word about it. Now, if someone were to accuse me of being in cahoots with the enemy, I’d go out of my way to set things straight. …”

  Nihal swung her head around. “What are you two talking about?”

  “Nothing important. …” one of the infantrymen replied, embarrassed.

  “I want to know what you’re talking about!” Nihal repeated.

  “We were talking about Dola,” answered the other. “From the day he’s been here, he’s done nothing but ask about Ido. He wants to speak with him.”

  Nihal could feel her anger mounting. “Why?”

  “He says they’ve known each other forever … that they used to fight side by side,” the soldier went on.

  “It’s a lie!” Nihal shouted. A sharp pain in her chest stole her breath, but it didn’t stop her from grabbing her crutches and getting to her feet. “Where is that worm?”

  “On the western end of the camp, where we keep the prisoners. But the general gave me explicit orders not to …”

  The soldier’s words faded behind her. Nihal was already on her way, springing forward on her crutches.

  When she entered her tent, Laio was busy polishing her sword.

  “So, how are you hobbling along with those thingamajigs?” he asked, bearing a wide grin. When their eyes met, his smile vanished immediately. “What’s going on?”

  Nihal didn’t bother to answer. She grabbed the weapon from out of his hands and left.

  Laio ran out of the tent. “Nihal, wait!” He watched as she hurried away, then he shook his head and went back in, resigned.

  “Let me in,” Nihal ordered the guard. She was pale and sweat drenched. A red stain had seeped through the bandage wrapped around her chest.

  “I was given clear orders not to—”

  “Let me in,” she said again.

  “Fine, but I don’t know anything about this,” the soldier burbled. He shrugged his shoulders and opened the door to the wooden cage that functioned as a cell.

  When Nihal entered, she was barraged with the stale odor of mildew. The cell was dark, and the faint rays of sunlight filtering here and there through the wooden bars did little to help the situation. She took a few steps, tripped, and fell forward.

  The sound of laughter echoed among the walls. Slowly, the dwarf’s figure, muscular to the point of freakishness, emerged out of the darkness. His hands and feet were bound with heavy chains, his body ridden with gashes, and yet he seemed free of suffering. He fixed his weasel eyes scornfully upon Nihal.

  “Can’t stand on your own two feet, half-elf?”

  Nihal pointed her sword at him, incensed. “Quiet! I may not be able to stand, but you’re the one in chains.”

  “So fierce,” Dola snickered. “Maybe the Tyrant’s right to fear you.”

  “The Tyrant doesn’t know who I am.”

  “He doesn’t know who you are, but still, he fears you. Which is why he’s searching for you,” the dwarf whispered. “How long do you think you can hide, before he finds you? That you defeated me will mean nothing, not once the flames of hell have consumed you all. And then you can go join your ancestors. You’re finished, half-elf, all of you.”

  Nihal drew near to Dola, close enough for the blade of her sword to touch his chest. “What is it you’ve been saying about my teacher?”

  “Your teacher?” Dola said in disbelief. “So it was Ido who taught you. … I’m shocked; he never was a great warrior.”

  Anger blared in Nihal’s head. “How dare you threaten Ido’s honor, you slime.”

  Dola laughed with delight. “Honor? What honor? Ido is a traitor! He fought for years in the Tyrant’s army. He was with the Tyrant during the massacre of the half-elves.”

  “What are you saying?” Nihal shouted.

  “That your teacher took part in the extermination of your people, half-elf. Ask him yourself when you get the chance.”

  “Shut up! Shut up!” Nihal growled.

  She’d only just raised her sword when the door burst open and the cell was flooded with light. Nihal felt someone grab her by the wrist. Her sword slipped from her hand and clanged to the floor.

  “No one authorized you to enter this cell,” said the general. Four soldiers appeared behind him.

  Nihal felt her heart beating wildly in her chest. Her legs gave way. Her head spun. She leaned her back against the cell wall and slid down to the floor.

  The general gestured to one of the soldiers. “Send someone to call for her squire.”

  Laio arrived at a sprint and carried her away, far from the dark cell. He settled her down in the grass, in the shade of a tree.

  Nihal had no strength to resist. “It’s not true,” she muttered repeatedly, her vision clouding over. “What
he said isn’t true. …”

  Then she lowered her eyelids. When she opened them again, Ido was standing beside her, staring at her in silence.

  “Tell me he was lying, tell everyone he was lying. …” Nihal murmured.

  “We need to talk, Nihal,” the dwarf replied.

  23

  Ido of the Land of Fire

  Seated on a cot in Ido’s tent, Nihal regarded her teacher with a look of bewilderment. It felt like the world was crumbling beneath her feet.

  “Why didn’t you set things straight, Ido? Why didn’t you tell everyone that they’re all lies?” she asked, pleading with her teacher.

  Ido took a seat beside her and buried his face in his hands. For a while, he stared down at the floor, as if scanning the ground for courage, for words. At long last, he lifted his eyes to Nihal’s and held her gaze. “What Dola said is true.”

  Nothing. Blankness. Nihal felt nothing. What could she have felt? There was no emotion to express the astonishment, the anger, the pain. Blankness.

  “I come from the Land of Fire, Nihal, that much you know. What you don’t know is that I’m heir to the throne there.”

  Ido took a deep breath and made himself comfortable. Then he began his tale.

  When the Two Hundred Years War ended and Nammen, the king of the half-elves, became ruler of the Overworld, the Land of Fire was under the reign of Daeb, a king like any other king, no better, no worse.

  Nammen wished to overturn the political order brought about by years of constant warring. Therefore, he decided to restore the lands he’d conquered to their rightful populations, deposing the current kings and establishing a popular election for the ruler of each Land.

  Some Lands chose to reelect their current monarch, others voted in new kings. In the Land of Fire, however, the dwarves didn’t even have the chance to vote. At word of Nammen’s decision, a civil war broke out among the noble families, leading to the assassination of Daeb and the forced exile of his first-born son, Moli.

  Moli was young, but he swore he’d never forget what happened, promising to one day return and claim what was rightfully his.

  He settled in the Land of Rocks and married Nar, a native of the Land, also a dwarf, who bore him two sons: Ido and Dola.

  Moli loved his sons, but deep down his true allegiance was to revenge. One thought alone consumed his mind: to regain the crown and avenge his father. As young boys, Ido and Dola became efficient with the sword. When he wasn’t traveling about the Overworld seeking to forge alliances, Moli took care to train them personally. Ido was only a child, but his skill with weapons was immense. His father promised him that one day he would be king. He told him to hate those who’d stripped them of the throne, and Ido hated them. He told him that the enemy must be killed, and Ido nodded, convinced. As soon as he was of age, Ido was sent to the Academy of Dragon Knights, and it was there he came to know Vesa, there he became a true warrior.

  But Dola was different. He was puny, unfit for combat, often ill. What was more, he was the younger son, with no claim to the throne. The most that could be done was to ensure that he could hold his own in battle, for when the time came. Moli tormented him, forced him to train in rainstorms, did anything and everything he could to turn Dola into a warrior. Dola took to his training with all the passion of a young boy eager to please his father. He trained on his own, engaged his entire body and soul, withstood insults and curses.

  The turning point came just after Ido was inducted as a knight.

  Moli conspired with a young and highly ambitious sorcerer who agreed to aid him in his war to reclaim the throne usurped from Daeb. His trips to the Great Land became more frequent, and each time he returned he seemed pleased.

  One day, departing for the Land of Night, he asked Ido and Dola to make the voyage with him. They came to a remote palace, wedged between the mountains, impossible to find without knowing its precise location.

  There, Ido and Dola came to know this man in whom their father trusted so completely. Or, at least, they came to know his voice—the man himself remained concealed behind a dark curtain. An indistinguishable voice, ageless, inhuman.

  “These are my children, Lord,” Moli said, and Ido was struck by his father’s servile tone.

  “Which is the eldest?” asked the voice.

  Moli pushed Ido forward. “He is, my Lord.”

  “My Lord.” Those were the words Moli used. Ido didn’t understand. His father was a king and he himself a prince. How could anyone be their Lord? He felt ill at ease, and could feel the man’s gaze upon him, penetrating through the curtain.

  The voice asked if he was eager to reclaim his throne.

  Ido answered that he was. Of course he was.

  The man said no more.

  Then it was Dola’s turn. With him, the man spoke at length, and Ido thought he must have taken a liking to his younger brother.

  Two months after this encounter, Moli informed his sons that they’d be returning to the Land of Night to plan their attack on the Land of Fire. An army awaited them there.

  Ido and Dola stepped once again into the faceless man’s palace. An army, indeed, awaited them, a grand and multitudinous army. Ido could feel the blood racing in his veins. The glorious day had come! Finally, after two years of oppression and exile, they’d reclaim their rightful rule.

  Many other men were gathered in the company of the veiled man, men Ido had never seen before. It was the very day of the Tyrant’s ascent to power, and Ido was there to witness it. He had no interest whatsoever in the man’s schemes or the reasons behind them. All he wanted was his crown, and so he fought.

  It was his first experience of war. The campaign lasted three long and draining months. He was injured repeatedly, his life dangled by a thread, but nothing could stop him. He fought for his family, for his crown, and the dream of it blinded him. Dola, on the other hand, had only participated at the war’s outset. Then he began staying for longer and longer periods in the palace of the veiled man, the Tyrant, as he now insisted others call him.

  One July afternoon, Ido arrived within sight of Assa, the Land of Fire’s capital city. He’d traversed a country in ruins, and its people had greeted him as a savior. He was little more than a boy, and all those eager faces, all that gratitude, and the victory, too—all of it went to his head. He felt like a hero, and it was in this exalted mood that he reached the royal palace, already sacked and burned by Moli’s troops. The false king and all his family were gathered in the hall of the royal throne. The sovereign was begging for his life.

  Moli listened on in silence, smiling. Then he turned to Ido and handed him his sword. “You do the honors,” he said. Ido stepped forward and impaled him without pity. He’d killed before, but always on the battlefield. It pleased him to take this stranger’s life, pleased him to watch the desperation of his family. That day, Ido became a murderer.

  The following months were dedicated to revenge. Moli demanded that all those who’d supported the former king be killed or imprisoned, inaugurating his reign with a bloody display of power. Ido, meanwhile, dedicated himself to life’s finer pleasures. He became a layabout, passing his days at court and his nights making merry with women and drink, detaching himself completely from the outside world. His sole aim in life was to enjoy the crown his father had always promised him. Until the day he was summoned by Moli.

  “The Tyrant has asked that you come to him,” his father said gravely.

  “And why is that?” Ido challenged him. “I wouldn’t even consider it.”

  “You must remember, Ido, we owe him a debt. Your brother’s already with him in the Great Land. You’ll leave this very evening,” Moli commanded, ending the discussion.

  Arriving in the Great Land, Ido encountered drastic changes. Where once sat the Council palace, a tower of black crystal was now under construction. The Tyrant was building his Fortress. At the time, it was nothing more than a massive octagonal base, only four floors high, and even then it made for an im
posing sight. Its walls gleamed darkly and its high, circular windows seemed like giant sockets in a skull. Surrounding the tower’s several sides were hundreds of slaves, laboring night and day to construct the eight lower walls—the eight arms of the Tyrant’s force that would soon threaten each of the Free Lands.

  It was Dola who came to meet his brother and transport him to the great hall. Ido hardly recognized him. Dola was no longer the puny, fragile boy he’d once been. He seemed to have grown, to have become arrogant. He wore the clothes of a warrior.

  The Tyrant concealed himself, as always, behind a heavy black curtain. His voice boomed throughout the great hall as if it were emanating from beyond.

  “It’s time your father paid his debt. From now on, you and your brother will fight for me,” said the Tyrant.

  Ido tried to protest, but the Tyrant interrupted him immediately. “That’s my decision. And your father’s, as well, for our wills are one and the same, Ido. Never forget that.”

  And so Ido joined forces with the Tyrant. A declaration of allegiance was carved into his armor and into the handle of his sword. At first, the Tyrant lacked a proper army, and only a few men were under Ido’s command. Then the deposed kings, ousted by the decree of Nammen, began to furnish the Tyrant with men and arms.

  Ido was dispatched to fight on the front in the Land of Night. There he received his true schooling in the art of combat. The Tyrant made a warrior of him. And the more time passed, the deeper the spirit of war crept into his soul. He came to love battle as much as he loved himself. He craved the smell of dried blood on his skin in the evenings. He reveled in the fear of his enemies as he approached.