Sennar's Mission

  Once she’d dropped him off, she reared back and took to the air again, only to plunge down toward another horde of Fammin.

  She had no choice but to fight from just inches above the ground, though she could feel how much effort it was for Oarf to hover there. The entire encampment was up in flames. There was nothing left to do but fight with all her might.

  She didn’t know how long she had been fighting when all of a sudden she was gripped with agony and a chorus of wailing voices filled her head. The desperate wailing reverberated in her brain. It was the same sensation that had overtaken her the day of Salazar’s destruction. And it was just then, surrounded by the hiss of flames, her temples pulsing, her vision blurred, that she lifted her head and saw him.

  He was just above her, glowing in the bleak light of the moon, a colossal dragon, blacker than the night sky. Floating there in mid-air, its enormous, membranous wings stretched wide, the dragon was staring directly at her with a clear, emotionless gaze, and her blood froze in her veins. Its eyes, as red as hot coals, gleamed with a sinister light. A man was sitting on its back, completely immobile. It was impossible to distinguish his features. He seemed giant beyond proportion, and as black as the beast beneath him. Oarf, who feared nothing and no one in the sky, Oarf the fierce and mighty veteran, trembled before his presence.

  For a brief moment, they held each other’s gaze, though to Nihal it seemed an eternity. She was paralyzed, unable to move a muscle. Then, in the midst of the immense blackness, a bright strip of red appeared as the dragon opened its scarlet mouth and spit fire into the darkness. In the flash of light, Nihal saw the man’s eyes, tiny and gleaming, the eyes of a weasel, unfaltering. The wailing in her mind overtook her, drowning out all sound. After that, she saw only a burst of red sweep over her as she plunged into a bottomless abyss. The voices gave way to a more violent shout, a howl like a roaring laugh of victory, of defiance.

  When Nihal came back to her senses, she was lying on the ground, shielded beneath Oarf’s wing. She felt groggy; there was a sharp pain in her arm.

  “Nihal, what happened to you? Are you injured?”

  She stared vacantly up at Ido, unable to respond.

  “Oarf, get her somewhere safe,” the dwarf said, as he heaved her onto the dragon’s back.

  Nihal held on with all her strength, struggling to recover her thoughts. Just as Oarf took off, she saw the black dragon descending like death over the encampment, destroying everything in its path. Once again, her head filled with the unbearable clamor of crying voices. And then she remembered. She understood. Salazar at dusk, the plains gleaming orange in the fading sunlight, the Tyrant’s army in the distance. High above there had been an ominous figure, its massive wings beating. The very same dragon she’d just faced.

  It took an entire night of ceaseless battle to repel the attack. Retreat was an alien concept to the Fammin, so there was no choice but to slaughter the beasts, one by one. The warrior on the black dragon flew off just before dawn, when it became clear that they would not be able to seize the camp.

  The first rays of sun flooded the encampment with merciless light. Not a single structure was left standing. They’d held their ground, but that was all. The camp was lost.

  Ido was weaving his way through the ashes, exhausted, when Nihal saw him. He’d been the soul of the army’s resistance, fighting without respite, indifferent to injury, heat, flames, death. And now he was wiped. One more step forward and he’d have collapsed.

  Nihal landed her dragon and ran to him. “Ido, are you okay?” she asked with alarm as she took stock of the dwarf’s many wounds.

  “Not quite, I’m afraid. But I’m no worse than I look, either,” he answered, his voice hoarse. He gave her a once-over and his eyes stopped on the substantial burn mark on her arm. “You’ve been wounded.”

  “It’s nothing,” she replied. “We have to clear out of here now.”

  Ido shook his head. “No, there might be someone still alive in there, in the midst of this mess. It’s my duty to find him,” he murmured. “We have to try and—”

  Nihal cut him off. “Come, Ido. Come with me.”

  The survivors—nearly a hundred of them, just more than half of the camp’s original inhabitants—gathered together in a clearing not far from the ruined encampment. They’d been defeated on every front. The camp was unsalvageable, and the number of wounded staggering.

  “Nihal, do you want to explain to me what happened to you up there?” asked Ido, once he’d gained hold of himself.

  She cringed as the agonizing sensation she’d suffered in the presence of the black dragon filled her memory.

  “Well then?” the dwarf insisted.

  “I recognized that warrior.”

  An obscure shadow swept across Ido’s eyes. “Which warrior?”

  “The one riding the black dragon. I know him, Ido. When the Tyrant’s armies attacked Salazar, I was up in the tower with Sennar, watching from a terrace. I saw the Fammins’ lances glittering in the dark. I saw the army approaching. And that man was leading them.”

  Ido remained silent.

  “Last night, when I found myself face-to-face with him, I lost all sense of my surroundings. That’s what left me so vulnerable. That’s what allowed his dragon to catch me off guard.”

  “Dola,” Ido muttered. “The man from last night, his name is Dola.”

  Nihal looked Ido in the eye. “Sennar told me about him. Dola … He’s the one who destroyed my village. He’s the one responsible for my father’s death.”

  For a moment, Ido held her gaze, then abruptly turned his head and closed his eyes.

  They transferred to an encampment a few miles away, still along the border, but farther west. If one listened carefully, it was possible to hear the waters of the Saar in the distance. Once there, Ido and Nihal took their first moment’s rest since the day of the attack. Each, in different ways, had worked to alleviate the situation. They’d refused to let themselves be discouraged. Rather, they had inspired courage in everyone around them, helping the generals to reestablish order among the ranks.

  Nihal could tell that Ido was proud of her response to the difficult situation. In her firm actions, in her steady determination, the dwarf had recognized a changed person, a mature and trustworthy warrior. But that wasn’t the way she felt. Her encounter with Dola had shaken her, rousing a storm of unbearable memories.

  “I can’t get the thought of that warrior out of my head, the day they attacked Salazar,” she began one evening, as she and Ido contemplated the summer sky. “I remember it all so vividly, the way he hovered there on his black dragon, his army like pitch over the countryside.” She turned toward Ido. “Do you know what he did to the people of my city? He trapped them in a tower, set it on fire, and left them there to burn alive. Men, women, children.”

  Ido drew calmly on his pipe and expelled a dense cloud of smoke. “They’re all that way, the Tyrant’s generals.”

  Nihal gazed up at the stars, her mind straining. “We have to hunt him down. I’d like to ask the general to organize a special operation.”

  Ido remained silent for a moment before expelling another cloud of smoke. “A miserable idea, if you ask me.”

  “Why?”

  “Do you really think our little deployment is capable of facing a warrior like Dola? Take a look around, Nihal. They’ve decimated us. We’re at the end of our strength. This is no time for heroic gestures. Dola is a powerful warrior. He controls the Land of the Wind. And he’s ruthless.”

  “Ido, that man killed my father, massacred my friends, razed my village to the ground!” Without noticing, Nihal had raised her voice. “He needs to be stopped. And I’m going to be the one to do it!”

  Ido took the pipe from his mouth and gave her a long, searching look. “Who’s words are these, Nihal?” he asked finally.

  She gazed back at him, confused. “Mine … these are my words.”

  “But which part of you?” the dwarf insisted, pressin
g his words upon her.

  Nihal could feel her cheeks burning. “I know what you’re getting at, but you’re wrong.”

  “That’s not the way it seems, not from the way you’re talking,” Ido answered.

  “This isn’t about revenge,” she murmured.

  Ido replaced the pipe in his mouth. “No? Then what’s it about?”

  “It’s about justice.”

  “Listen to me, Nihal. If they ever do arrange an attack against Dola, and I assure you they won’t, you can set out with all the greatest intentions in the world, convinced it’s just another basic war mission, but when you find yourself face-to-face with that man—” Ido let the words trail off and shook his head. “Don’t test yourself like that, Nihal. Don’t do it.”

  After that evening, Nihal decided not to bring it up anymore with Ido, nor did she dare confront the general about organizing any suicidal missions, but in her heart and in her mind the image of Dola remained. The memory of that immense black creature, of those red eyes fixed on her from the depths of hell, had become part of her. Those same eyes that might have settled on Livon’s lifeless body, spread out in a pool of blood in his welding shop, those same eyes that had passed over the friends and neighbors Nihal had known— before the flames wiped them out of existence. Anger rose in her throat. She wanted to scream. To do something, anything. She knew Ido was right. To go chasing after that man would be playing with fire. And she knew her thirst for revenge had not been quenched, that an excuse like this could send her into a rage again. After all, it was revenge she wanted, wasn’t it? Did she not want redress for the deaths of all those whose blood Dola had shed? No, that’s not it. Dola is an enemy and I’m a Dragon Knight. That’s why I’m doing this. And that’s the only reason.

  Her resolve grew quickly. She, a native of Salazar, would stop Dola. Her city, destroyed by the Tyrant, would have its revenge on the very man who’d reduced it to ashes. And with Dola out of the picture, it would be far easier for the armies of the Free Lands to reclaim the Land of the Wind.

  She was galvanized by the idea and determined to carry out her plans. For the first time in what seemed like forever, she felt charged with an important mission. This must be what it feels like to commit to an ideal, to have a true direction in life, she told herself.

  Once she’d found justification for her decision, she relinquished all doubt. No more questioning herself, she resolved, because deep down she knew what answers she’d find, and they weren’t what she wanted to hear.

  After that dreadful night when the camp was obliterated there was a period of relative calm. The wounded got back on their feet, the soldiers who’d survived were absorbed by whichever regimen had taken them in, the generals worked on developing new strategies.

  Nihal’s chance to face Dola came after nearly a month of inactivity. Those in command had decided on attacking an enemy encampment to the west. If they could manage to capture the enemy’s stronghold, they could use it as a base to begin reclaiming territory farther inland.

  Meetings were held to coordinate the strike one week before the first attack, and all Dragon Knights participated in the discussion.

  For the first time, Nihal made a personal contribution. She’d never taken an interest in strategy. In her days at the Academy, the theory courses had bored her to death. And yet, even though she’d been out on the battlefields for only a year, she’d been engaged in combat almost continuously and had gained her fair share of experience. When she spoke up with her opinion on how to best distribute troops for the attack, she was braced for outright refusal.

  Instead, after considering her proposal carefully, the general praised her idea. “You and Ido will have the troops on the western flank at your disposal, one hundred men each. When we give the sign to retreat, that’s when you’ll attack, closing in from the sides,” he concluded.

  Astonished, Ido took his pipe from his mouth. “And pigs fly,” he whispered to Nihal, champing back down on his pipe with an air of satisfaction.

  Nihal could hardly hold back her smile. Her joy was twofold: she’d be in charge of one hundred soldiers, and, more importantly, she could finally get her hands on Dola.

  The morning of the battle, Nihal’s heart was in tumult. As she walked across the steppe, out in front of her soldiers, Oarf trailing behind her, she tried in vain to calm her nerves. Up until then, she’d always been able to keep herself in check. Detachment, prudence, self-control—Ido had instilled in her his own tenets as a warrior. That morning, however, she could hardly go a full minute without losing her focus. From the moment she woke, she hadn’t been able to stop thinking of Sennar. Every time something important was on the line, every time she felt herself at a turning point, she wondered how he’d have acted in the same situation. And now that he’d left on his voyage, she wondered, too, if she’d ever see him again.

  Ido, meanwhile, was the picture of tranquility. From his perch on Vesa’s back, he puffed away on his pipe while his dragon paced stolidly across the steppe.

  The dwarf glanced down at Nihal just as she wiped the sweat off her brow. Her face was pale. “Everything okay down there?”

  “Of course. It’s just this heat. …”

  “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you so flustered.”

  She looked up at him, forcing herself to smile. “This is the first time I’ve had to lead a group of soldiers,” she replied, but Ido’s gaze was unflinching. Nihal wanted to know how he managed to stay so calm. Just like Sennar …

  “It’s just another battle,” said the dwarf.

  Once again, Nihal curled her lips into that torturous, forced smile, the same smile she always relied on when she had something to hide from her teacher.

  When they drew within sight of the targeted encampment—a strip of ocher yellow along the horizon—the static in Nihal’s head faded and her heart beat wildly. They came to a halt on a hilltop, where they waited. At their feet lay a gathering of dull brown tents, at least fifty of them in concentric circles that extended over half a mile. Even from high up on the hill, the stink of the beasts living there caught at Nihal’s throat. At the encampment’s center stood a dark, wooden structure. Dola. That’s Dola’s hut, Nihal told herself, and her heart raced even faster.

  The battle commenced. As the infantrymen barreled down the hill, striding across the open plain toward the encampment, Nihal unsheathed her sword. The blade flashed, blinding in the brilliant light of the summer sun. She climbed aboard Oarf and soon Vesa was flying alongside them. Ido, too, clutched his sword. More than once, Nihal had wondered where he’d come across such a weapon. Strange symbols were carved into the handle, some scraped off, others deeply incised: runes, perhaps, in some mysterious language.

  “We’ll strike at the first sign of retreat,” Ido called out to his soldiers.

  Nihal tightened her grip on her sword.

  Then came the moment. The two units, led by the dwarf and the half-elf, sped howling down the hill. All went according to plan: busy fighting below on the plains, the Tyrant’s soldiers were not expecting a second wave of attack. The front lines broached the heart of the enemy encampment without much difficulty.

  Astride Oarf, Nihal fought with her usual brute force, striking anyone and everyone in her way, all the while keeping a watchful eye. There appeared to be no trace of the black dragon anywhere, and it struck Nihal as strange that Dola would not be there to support his soldiers at such a key moment. There were several men and just as many dwarves among his ranks. They’d sold themselves to the Tyrant and were fighting against their own Lands. But why? Nihal wondered. What was it about that man that was so compelling?

  She forced herself to focus on the battle, leading the group of soldiers she’d been entrusted with, though she couldn’t keep her eyes from straying in search of Dola.

  Suddenly, a stream of fire forked down from the sky and engulfed a group of tents in the distance, devouring everyone below—soldiers from the Army of the Free Lands, Fammin—turning t
o ashes all it touched.

  The black beast emerged from the wall of flames, demon-like, and with a few powerful wing flaps, propelled itself up into the sky. Nihal’s heart ceased. Dola had made his entrance into the battle armed with a long lance and covered from head to toe in dark armor, leaving no part of his body exposed. The dragon’s low roar filled the air, and though the sun was still shining, a dark shadow suddenly cloaked the encampment.

  Nihal spurred her dragon, a cacophony of voices raging in her head. “Dola!” she shouted at the top of her lungs, charging forward with her sword.

  The first strike missed the mark. Dola had dodged her with ease. Nihal retreated momentarily, sweat cascading down her cheeks, fury welling up in her chest. She reared Oarf back and changed directions. Now she was face-to-face with the enemy. He wore a horrifying mask, black as night, the two glimmering dots of his unreadable eyes scanning her.

  It seemed to Nihal as if Dola were laughing. Yes, he was laughing at her, at her sword, at her dragon, at her city. A cry of fury rose up in her throat. She lunged at him, and this time it was his black dragon who did the laughing, opening his volcanic mouth and hurling a stream of blood-red flames at her. Oarf dodged the surge of fire with one quick torquing motion and Nihal was back on the offensive. Once again, the warrior eluded her blade with ease. From beneath his mask came a sarcastic chuckle.

  “Don’t laugh at me!” Nihal shouted, and she charged murderously at Dola, brandishing her sword. In her fury she lost control. Stay calm. Stay calm, dammit! One after another, her lunging attacks failed, while each of her enemy’s clanging strikes nearly knocked her from Oarf’s back. The force he possessed was unlike anything Nihal had ever faced, a force so immense she had to wield her sword with both hands to counter it. But there was something strange about his body. His arms, his legs—they weren’t normal.