The Last Talisman (12 page)

“The rooms are above the bar,” said Sennar. “Let's eat. Then we can go right upstairs. We'll leave at dawn. We'll pull back the curtains so we're sure to wake.”

A server carried over a thin broth, just the sort of slop you'd serve to a bunch of mercenary soldiers. Mysterious filaments floated on the surface of the soup. To top it all off, they were given two ample mugs of beer and a hunk of rye bread.

Chaos and good cheer reigned in the tavern. At one table, group of soldiers did nothing but toast and laugh as they hoisted foaming mugs in the air. Apparently, they were celebrating something.

Nihal was repulsed by the whole lot of them. Traitors, that was what they were: a filthy bunch of traitors huddled together in a shady tavern. She wished she were on the battlefield. But she was in enemy territory, and she had to make the best of it. She drank her soup as quickly as possible.

Just then, one of the soldiers rose to his feet, mug in hand. “Here, here! Listen up,” he slurred. “Anyone who doesn't celebrate with us tonight be damned! Including you two over there, you two in the corner!” he said in the direction of Nihal and Sennar.

“Don't let me do anything stupid,” Nihal whispered.

Sennar took her at her word and surreptitiously rested a hand on her shoulder.

“Tonight is a night for celebrating! Our troops have conquered two more cities in the Land of Water. It won't be long before the entire land is ours! To the Tyrant! May he soon rule the entire Overworld!”

Everyone gave a shout and raised their glasses. Not even Sennar could refrain, and warily raised his own. Nihal, meanwhile, went on slurping her soup.

“What's your problem?” came a voice. “What's there to be so down about?”

When Nihal lifted her gaze, she found herself face-to-face with a ruddy soldier. He stank of alcohol and his skin was as sun-worn as a farmer's. His lips curled in a mocking smile. Nihal wanted to slap the stupid grin right off his face. She tucked her head back under her hood and turned away.

“My friend here's not really a talker,” Sennar broke in quickly.

“I can see that for myself,” the man spluttered, the beer sloshing in his pitcher. Some of it spilled onto the floor. He pulled up a chair and sat next to them. Without paying the slightest attention to Sennar's uneasy gaze, he once again pressed his face up against Nihal's. “So, my friend? What's eating you?”

“He's mute,” Sennar answered. “And deaf,” he added.

Nihal went on slurping.

“What a shame,” the man muttered. “Such a grand celebration and he can't even enjoy it.”

There was a moment of awkward silence. Rather than walk away, the man offered his hand to Sennar. “Avaler, commander of the troops stationed in Tanner, at the border with the Land of the Sun.”

Nihal's heart skipped a beat. She'd heard the name of that village before. It was near Eleusi's home.

“Varen, of the Land of Fire,” Sennar intoned, not bothering to shake the man's hand. “Arms merchant. And this here is Livon, my apprentice.”

“Well, well! You're young to have an apprentice.”

“In truth, this is my first time here selling my merchandise. Until last year, I was working for a dwarf.”

Beneath the table, Sennar stretched a hand toward Nihal's. She grasped it and felt how cold it was. She looked up and saw sweat beading on his forehead.

“They say the dwarves are the finest armorers,” the man said.

“Indeed, I had one hell of a teacher.” Sennar tightened his grip around Nihal's hand.

“You're both very fortunate. These days the war's really plowing ahead. Of course, Dola was a great loss, but at the end of the day, we have plenty of top-notch warriors and things are back on track.”

Sennar turned toward his plate and resumed eating.

“Where are you headed?” Avaler inquired.

“To visit my teacher's old client. I've been told he lives near the ruins of Seferdi, but I'm not quite sure which road to take.”

“There are no cities on the way to Seferdi,” the commander replied, a hint of grim suspicion in his voice.

Nihal held her breath. This time, Sennar had dared too much.

“Ah, of course! You must mean the base in Rothaur,” Avaler exclaimed after a moment.

“That's the one. You took the words right out of my mouth,” Sennar warbled.

“I hadn't thought of Rothaur. It's not exactly close to Seferdi. It's the last fortress before you hit the swamps. It's easy to get there. From here, just head west. When you reach Messar, head south for a couple of miles. The road is well kept and there are plenty of villages. At a healthy pace, it shouldn't take you more than four days.”

Plenty of villages … Just what we need, more company.

The soldier went on babbling, unruffled. “My father was there for the sack of Seferdi.”

Nihal shuddered and Sennar squeezed her hand.

“Really?” the sorcerer asked in a neutral tone, returning to his food.

“You bet! My father was one of the first to join the Tyrant's ranks. He saw it all clearly from the get-go. My old man.”

Nihal let her spoon fall with a clash into her empty bowl and Sennar made to stand.

“Where are you going?” Avaler asked. “The night is young. We have to celebrate.” He forced Sennar back into his seat and refilled their glasses with beer from his own pitcher. “This round's on me. In honor of my old man.” He guzzled down his own glass and resumed speaking. “My father loved to tell me the story of Seferdi's destruction. It was the first time Fammin took the battlefield, those rascals. Back then, though, there weren't so many of them, and besides, they're really just dumb beasts. Without someone telling them what to do, they're useless. My father wasn't the sort to mess around with. When I was little, he used to tell me about how white and grand the city was. They went in at night. Half of them went after the half-elves. The other half sacked the royal palace. They slaughtered half the city's population in a single night. The king was the first one they killed.”

He poured more beer into his tankard and drank. “Ugly-looking things, the half-elves. And full of themselves, too. My father couldn't stand them. Me neither, obviously. Before that crook Nammen came around, my people in the Land of Night were on the verge of winning the Two Hundred Years War. And besides, they were all a bunch of damned wizards, always reading other people's thoughts and performing all kinds of strange rituals against the gods. They got what they deserved.”

Nihal shot to her feet and Sennar followed.

Avaler stood, too, and placed himself directly in front of Nihal, blocking her way. “Well I'll be damned! I told you it was too soon to leave!”

Sennar stepped between them. “Let it go. He can't hear you. And actually, he's right. It's getting late, and we've been traveling all day. Believe me, it was a real pleasure getting to know you, but we really have to go. I'm falling over with exhaustion.” Sennar proceeded to fake an epic yawn, nearly dislocating his jaw in the process.

“Do what you want …” Avaler burbled.

Nihal shot off toward the stairs. Sennar raced after her, grabbing her by the arm.

“Relax!” he muttered beneath his breath.

As soon as they set foot in the room, Nihal threw her cloak to the floor. “That dirty, slimy …” she murmured, gritting her teeth. “I thought the Fammin were the only ones who took part in the massacre. … When all the while … Those monsters!”

She drew her sword and slammed the blade against one of the bedside tables. The wood splintered into a thousand pieces.

They took off before sunrise. By the time they left the city, it was raining, a slow, incessant rain, like tears of resignation.

They were only forced to stop at an inn one other time. The city was identical to the one where they'd stayed before, although a bit smaller. They arrived after midnight, when the tavern was mostly empty. They ate in silence, and didn't speak as they went up to their room. Once again, they woke at dawn to resume their journey.

The evening of the following day, they noticed the air was beginning to take on a rank odor, a stench they both knew well, the same scent that lingered above the swamps in the Land of Water. Long ago, Nihal remembered, there had been a forest where they were now, the Bersith Forest. From the looks of it, the woods had been struck by some dark malady, perhaps brought in by the sewer sludge from nearby Fammin villages, which had poisoned the waterways running through it. What once had been a forest was now a putrid swamp.

“We're getting close,” Nihal murmured, as shadows lengthened like the evening's first long footsteps over the swamp.

Gradually, the ground beneath them became softer and Nihal saw that the despicable cities they'd left behind had vanished from the horizon. Before them lay only the dark sponge of swamp, soaked with rotten water.

Confused images flashed through Nihal's mind, accompanied by the dull chatter of spirits. The sunlight playing on the branches of centuries-old trees. A glowing, splendorous city, filled with marble sculptures. A royal palace of the purest white and with an immense crystal tower looking down on the city from above. Now, though, there was no white gleam to illuminate the night sky. And yet, they had reached Seferdi. Nihal was certain.

Nihal stopped abruptly.

“What?” Sennar asked.

“It's behind that hill,” Nihal murmured.

“You don't have to do this,” said Sennar, drawing nearer to her. “We can skirt around it and head through the swamp.”

Nihal said nothing and advanced toward the hill. As she approached, she could see the city's outline.

In place of the high, white city walls that Nihal had witnessed in the visions of recent days, there lay a mess of yellowing ruins, a crumbling brick wall with heaps of rubble at its base. Above, where the tallest buildings had once stood out against the sky, there was a gaping emptiness bathed in the gloom of the moon's pale light.

Nihal moved slowly through the ghostly silence and to reach the ruined wall. Here was the city gate, an extraordinarily tall and narrow pointed archway. A pair of lion statues sat upon its architrave as if to protect the city. On the ground before them lay a portion of a wooden door adorned with metal inlays. Rust had eaten away at the iron studs and the wood was worn to the bone. Nihal kneeled and saw the faded carvings of a bas-relief, now almost indistinguishable. A crack ran down the center of the door, most likely a mark left by the battering ram that had brought it crashing down on a night just like this one, so many years earlier. Increadiblty, yhe other half of the door hung off its hinges, remaining just so for so many years.

Nihal rose, somewhat overwhelmed, and walked past the lions, who seemed to study her with their eyeless gazes. As she set foot into the city, it felt like she had crossed into another world.

15

Laio and Vraśta

At first, Laio wasn't sure whether or not he'd woken. When he opened his eyes, he saw only darkness. Before long, however, the weight of the chains around his wrists and ankles, along with the sharp pain in his shoulder, brought him back to reality.

He struggled to move his head to see where he was, remembered what had happened the night before, and realized he'd been taken prisoner. His eyes filled with tears as they had a few days earlier in the cell back at the base. Not only had he failed to make his way to Nihal, he'd gone and gotten himself captured.

He tried moving in order to get a sense of how big the cell was, but his chains weighed him down and his shoulder ached. He could hear the sound of other chains clinking in the cells around him, the shouts of men, deep-throated groans, and laughter. It was a universe of gloomy echoes that frightened and confused him.

He couldn't have said with any certainty how much time had passed, but at a certain point, a small window opened in front of him, probably a little hatch in the door. The light, though faint, was blinding. When his eyes had at last adjusted, he saw that the cell was tiny. There was hardly enough space even for his small body.

The savage, hideous face of a Fammin appeared on the other side of the hatch. Laio was paralyzed at the sight of its yellow fangs, its tiny pig eyes, and its grotesque claws.

“What do you all want from me? What do you want to do to me?” Laio shouted in terror.

The Fammin came in and Laio noticed the creature was carrying a plate—dinner, probably, or lunch. He had no clue what time of day it was.

Without hesitation, the Fammin entered and set the plate on the ground. It cast a strange glance at Laio, an inquisitive glance, a glance that didn't seem to fit at all with the rest of its face. The creature's eyes were glazed with sadness. It was an almost human gaze.

The Fammin left without a word and closed the door. However, he left the hatch halfway open, enough to let a faint light in to illuminate the cell.

Laio's second encounter with a Fammin was not so reassuring. Two days later, the door was flung open and one of the beasts entered in a rush. This Fammin was taller than the one who normally brought Laio his lunch, and the rough fur covering his arms was much darker. And then his eyes … There was something sinister about his eyes. Laio had never imagined that the Fammin could look so different.

The beast unfastened Laio's chains and dragged him across the ground to another room, where another man and a few Fammin were already waiting. Laio realized what was about to happen and he trembled. He swore to himself that he'd stay strong, that this was the moment when he'd have to prove what he was worth. And yet his legs were already quivering.

The man began by asking questions, to which Laio responded with stubborn silence. The man's voice grew more menacing, but still, Laio kept his lips sealed. There was no choice but to take full responsibility for his foolishness. Never, never would he reveal Nihal and Sennar's whereabouts.

They stripped his shirt and spent the rest of the day lashing him until the blood ran from his bare back. Laio howled, he cried, he sank into bitter despair, and yet he held his tongue and swore he knew nothing. The pain was unbearable, far worse than his wounded shoulder, but he held out.

Now and then, the Fammin would cease lashing Laio so that the man could ask more questions before once again raising his whip and bringing it down with more fury, until Laio was swallowed up by darkness and believed he would soon die.

He woke up in his cell. His back burned as if he'd been seared with a branding iron. His only consolation was that he'd managed to keep quiet. But how much longer could he hold out?

Laio received the same treatment for two more days, and for two more days he spoke not a word. He howled and bit his lip until the blood ran down his chin in order to keep from revealing what he knew. When they carried him back to his cell he was always unconscious, but they did send someone in to tend to his wounds. They couldn't allow him to perish before he revealed to them why he'd been found behind enemy lines.

Before long, Laio's mind grew numb. All awareness, even of his own body, slipped away, and he lay semiconscious on the floor of his cell.

But then something happened on the third night. At first, when the Fammin bearing his dinner opened the cell, Laio didn't even notice. A pale light crept under his sinking eyelids and he felt a presence at his side. When he opened his eyes, he saw the Fammin staring down at him.

“Why do you refuse to speak?” the creature asked, his voice a guttural grunt.

Laio made no reply.

“They're killing you. Why won't you just tell them what you know?” the Fammin continued. “There's no reason to die like this. You die when you're ordered to die, when you have no other choice.” The creature paused in thought. “Are you under strict orders to keep from talking?”

This time Laio opened his eyes and lifted his gaze, not sure what this strange beast could want from him.

“Are you under strict orders?” the Fammin repeated.

Laio shook his head no, before letting his chin sink to his chest.

“Then why won't you speak?”

“I have nothing … nothing to say. …”

“Either you're a spy or you're looking for something. That's what the commander says,” the Fammin insisted.

“He's wrong,” Laio moaned.

“Why won't you speak?” the creature repeated.

“Some things you do … because you want to do them. So I'll die … because I've decided that's what's right.”

“I don't understand,” the Fammin replied. He eyed the boy in astonishment, then seized a filthy-looking vial and began spreading its contents over Laio's wounded back. A cool, soothing sensation filled Laio, and his pain began to diminish.

“What about you? Why are you doing this?” Laio asked the Fammin.

“Before you tell them the truth, you're not allowed to die. That's what the boss says. So I'm treating your wounds,” the creature answered.

“Some things you do because you know they're right.”

“What does that mean, ‘right'?”

“I don't know … something that brings about good.”

The beast regarded him with curiosity, and Laio wondered again how a Fammin could hold such an expression in its eyes.

“What's your name?” Laio asked.

“Vraśta.”

The word reminded him of something. “Thank you,” he muttered.

On the fourth day, they brought out the red-hot branding irons. The man went on with his interrogations, ordering the Fammin to singe Laio's skin in between questions. The boy screamed, even begged for mercy, but he kept his lips sealed.

“You can't go on like this forever, you realize that?” the man said all of a sudden, drawing his face close to Laio's. “I'll never tire of torturing you, and I'll never let you die, not until you tell me what I want to hear. This could go on for years.”

Laio was silent. No longer was he intimidated by such threats.

The man smiled. “I know your kind, you fools from the Free Lands. When you keep your mouths shut, it's only ever to protect someone else. Well, boy, you won't succeed in protecting anyone. If there's someone sneaking around this land, I'll find him. Maybe I already have. You're suffering in vain, boy. You're no hero; you're just a bloody piece of meat in my hands.”

Laio felt nothing—no fear, no hate for his persecutor—nothing. Life was pain, food, water, and nothing else. He no longer had the strength to think, nor the desire to go on living. All that mattered to him was keeping silent.

Each evening, Vraśta saw to his wounds. Laio began to crave the feeling of coolness and relief that the healing cream brought to his lacerated skin. He began to feel fond of that monstrous being. As the creature's coarse hands ran over his back, Laio could sense in them a tenderness and a true pity, and he began to believe that the Fammin was no longer helping him out of a mere sense of duty.

The monster continued asking questions.

“Are all humans free to do as they please?”

“Those who are strong enough, yes,” Laio replied, thinking of Nihal.

“Are all humans like you?”

“No, fortunately.”

“Why are you trembling?”

“I'm trembling out of fear.”

“What is fear?”

“It's that feeling that grips you in battle, when you're fighting.”

“When I fight, I think of nothing but my duty to kill.”

“You don't fear death?”

“Why should I? To live or to die, it's the same,” Vraśta answered.

“Do you enjoy killing?” Laio asked.

“I'm not sure. There aren't things I enjoy and things I don't enjoy. There are only orders.” He paused to think for a moment. “Some of us, the Mistakes, don't like to kill. They don't want to. They follow orders like all the rest of us, but they're not as bloodthirsty as we are. If the commanders find them out, they kill them. And when they're killed they cry, though they say that it's better to die than to live.”

“Everyone has different likes and dislikes. Don't you enjoy treating my back with cream? It sure seems like it to me.”

“I don't know. Maybe.”

“I'm doing this for the sake of someone else,” Laio told the Fammin one evening, in the delirium of his fever. “The man torturing me is right, this is something you do only when you want to protect someone.”

“Who are you doing it for?” Vraśta asked.

“For a friend, for the person I care about most in this world.”

“What is a friend?”

“Someone you couldn't live without, someone you care for and enjoy being around,” said Laio, moaning in his delirium.

“You are my friend,” Vraśta replied.

All that night, the Fammin stayed beside him, though he hadn't been ordered to. More than once, Laio uttered the names of Nihal and Sennar, his voice carrying beyond the cell to ears it never should have reached.

The following morning, Vraśta was summoned by his leader. “I want you to help the boy escape.”

Vraśta made no attempt to find the logic behind his boss's command—it was an order, and a Fammin never questions an order.

“You'll tell him that you'd like to accompany him to find his friends. You'll serve as his guide, and once you've found them, you will kill them.”

The Fammin remained silent, troubled for the first time by doubt. He felt no desire to kill Laio. Laio was his friend, and friends did good things for each other. They certainly didn't kill one another.

“What in the world's the problem?” the man asked, scrutinizing the creature. “What, now you don't feel like killing either? Don't tell me you've become a Mistake.”

“I'll do as you command,” Vraśta responded. It was an order, and that was final.

The man leaned back in his seat. “Make him believe you want to help him. He's a sap and he'll fall for it. Don't kill him until you've found his friends. Then you can slaughter them all any way you please.”

Vraśta's stomach tightened with a strange feeling of discomfort, though he confirmed only that he'd do as he'd been ordered.

When Vraśta entered Laio's cell a short while later, his stomach was troubled by the same, awkward feeling. He opened the door and found the boy chained to the wall by his arms, his chin sagging to his chest. They'd tortured him yet again. It was late at night. The commander had ordered him to go in after sunset and lead him out cautiously, to create the illusion that all was being done in secret.

Vraśta leaned toward Laio and shook him. Laio opened his eyes and his expression brightened at the sight of the Fammin.

“Are you here to treat me?”

The discomfort in Vraśta's stomach rose into his throat, blocking his words. It was a discomfort he'd never felt before, and the Fammin wondered what it might be. Nonetheless, he carried out his duty and spoke to Laio in just the manner his boss had ordered.

“I'm going to get you out of here,” he said, meanwhile unlocking the chains that bound Laio to the wall. The boy stared at him in shock.

“Did they order you to do this?” he asked.

Vraśta was speechless. “No, I'm doing it because I want to,” he said at last. In a certain sense, he wasn't lying. He wanted to help Laio, for them to stop torturing him, and taking him away from there would mean the end of his suffering.

“They'll kill you for what you're doing,” said Laio. He wriggled his arm free from the creature's grip. “Let me go. I won't let you do this.”

Laio's reaction took the Fammin by surprise. The commander hadn't foreseen such behavior. “But, I'll come with you and take you to your friends. They won't harm me.”

Finally, at Vraśta's insistence, Laio gave in. Vraśta unchained him, hid him in a sack that he hoisted over his shoulders, and made for the prison's exit. He acted just as the commander had instructed, moving furtively, feigning caution. But all his attention to detail was unnecessary, for atop his shoulders the boy had already drifted trustingly to sleep.

The next morning, Laio woke to find he was lying beneath a tree, an acid sunlight burning down upon him. His entire body ached and his back was on fire. He lifted his arms and, to his surprise, discovered that they were almost completely covered in bandages. Evidently, Vraśta had taken the liberty of tending the rest of his wounds. When he turned, he saw the Fammin lying beside him, staring back. He smiled kindly at the creature.

“If you'd like, I can take you to your friends,” said Vraśta.

“They left two days before me. I don't really know where they are, to tell you the truth, and I don't know how we'll ever find them,” Laio replied.

“I can track them down with my sense of smell, if you have something of theirs, or something they touched more than once.”