Chronicles of the Overworld Book 1 — Nihal of the Land of the Wind (2 page)

At the edge of the garden Nihal turned to her friend. “You go home. I’ll deal with him.”

Barod didn’t wait for a second offer.

Nihal waited for the farmer, an innocent expression on her face. Anger came spurting out of the toothless old man’s very wrinkles.

“I already told your father that if I found you down here again he’d have to pay for the damage. Three heads of lettuce ruined today, yesterday the zucchini—to say nothing of all the apples you’ve stolen!”

Nihal rearranged her face into a more repentant expression. “This time I’m not up to anything, Baar, I swear! It’s just that my friend fell from that window up there. See? I came down to help him.”

“Somehow you always have to come help your friends when they fall into my garden. If you kids can’t keep from toppling over, you should stay away from the windows!”

Nihal nodded, contrite. “You’re right. I’m sorry. It will never happen again.”

She gave Baar such an angelic look that the farmer fell for it hook, line, and sinker. “All right, all right. Get out of here. But you can tell Livon I’ll be bringing my sickles by soon for a sharpening.”

“Of course!”

The girl blew a kiss into the air and raced off as fast as she could.

Livon lived among the shops, just above the stables and the main entrance to Salazar. The main gate was a heavy wooden double-paneled door more than ten cubits high, with enormous hinges and thick iron studs running down its sides. The worn wood still bore traces of the bas-reliefs carved centuries ago. It was difficult to make anything out apart from a few dragons and knights.

As was the case for many merchants and artisans, Livon’s home and workshop were one and the same, which allowed him to save on time and rent money. The only downside was the mess, which was made worse by the lack of an adult female presence. Livon was an armorer and the house was full to the brim with tools, weapons, chunks of metal, and pieces of coal.

Nihal threw the door open. “I’m home!” she called. “And I’m starving!”

Her words were swallowed by the noise of the workshop. Livon was banging on a piece of red-hot metal with a giant hammer. A fleeting shower of sparks fell from the steel onto the floor. He was a big, soot-covered man with a jet-black mane of hair. Only his eyes stood out of his face, which looked like a lump of coal.

“
Pop!
” Nihal called with all her strength.

“Oh, there you are!” Livon rubbed the sweat from his forehead. “You were late, so I kept on at this job due tomorrow.”

“You mean you haven’t made anything for lunch?” she whined, irritated.

“We agreed that once a week it would be your turn to cook.”

“Yeah, but I’m so tired!”

“Hmm, say no more. I bet you were off playing those crazy war games, again.”

He was met with silence.

“Over in the abandoned houses, I’d say.”

More silence. “And perhaps you ended up in Baar’s garden. For the umpteenth time.”

The silence held and Nihal opened the cupboard to grab an apple. “Never mind. I’ll just eat this,” she said, merrily.

“Dammit, Nihal! How many times have I told you not to play in the central garden? I’ve got to deal with a daily stream of people complaining about your ruckus, demanding free repair work!”

Nihal sat down. “It’s just that when you’re in the heat of battle …”

Livon snorted impatiently and set to slicing some vegetables. “I don’t want to hear this nonsense. If you want to play, go ahead and play. But stop bothering people!”

Nihal rolled her eyes. “Quit nagging me, old man.” Livon was always going on about the same old things.

He shot her an irritated glance. “Would you consider calling me ‘Dad’ now and then?”

Nihal smiled wryly. “Aw, come on, Dad. I know you’re glad I’m so good with my sword.”

Livon grudgingly set down a plate of raw vegetables.

“Is this lunch?” Nihal asked.

“This is what young ladies get when they insist on acting like tomboys. If you’d respected our agreement and made lunch yourself, we’d have something hot to eat.”

He sat and began eating, pondering as he chewed. “And no, I’m not glad.”

Nihal chuckled to herself. Livon held out for a few more minutes and then burst into laughter.

“Okay, you’re right. I love you just the way you are, but … You’re thirteen! For goodness’ sake, women have to get married sooner or later!”

“Who said? If you think I’m going to close myself in the house and knit socks, you’ve got another thing coming. I want to be a warrior!”

“There’s no such thing as a woman warrior,” said Livon, his voice betraying ill-concealed pride.

“Then that means I’ll have to be the first.”

Livon smiled and ruffled his daughter’s hair. “You’re such a rascal. Sometimes I think you really could have done with a mother.”

“It’s not your fault Mom died,” Nihal told him.

“No,” said Livon, his cheeks turning red. “No, it’s not.”

The story of Livon’s wife was a mystery. Nihal noticed early on that everyone in Salazar had a mother and a father, except for her. She had asked Livon questions as a child, but never obtained a straight answer. Her mother was dead, she knew, but he would never say how it had happened. And what did she look like? Was she beautiful?
She looked like you, the same purple eyes, and the same blue hair.
Livon avoided answering every time Nihal brought up the subject. Over time, she had learned to avoid it as well.

“You always said you wanted me to grow up to be a strong person, to go after what I want. That’s what I’m trying to do.”

Livon was tenderhearted where his daughter was concerned. Her words brought tears to his eyes.

“Come here,” he said, and he hugged her so tight it hurt.

“Pop! You’re suffocating me!”

Nihal tried to wriggle out of his grasp, but in truth she relished her father’s embrace more than she wanted to admit.

They spent the afternoon as usual: forging weapons.

Livon was not just the best armorer in the known world—and in the unknown world, too. He was an artist. His swords were amazing weapons of breathtaking magnificence, weapons that had the gift of adapting to their owners and enhancing their abilities.

The lances he made had points like thorns; his blades were like razors. The graceful ornamentation he added also served a purpose. He had a gift for uniting function with elegance. He treated his weapons as if they were his children and loved them as such. He loved his work because it allowed him to express his creative gifts, which seemed unlimited. And he got a thrill out of testing his technical ability.

Every new weapon was a challenge to his skill as a craftsman, and so it was his habit to undertake daring experiments involving new materials. He sought increasingly complex forms and combined them with ever-more complicated technical solutions.

He was so renowned that he never lacked for work, and for as long as Nihal could remember, partly out of necessity and partly because they enjoyed it, he’d had her help him. He would impart pearls of warrior wisdom as she handed him a mallet or the bellows.

“A weapon is no mere object,” he would tell her. “The warrior’s sword is like one of his limbs, his faithful and inseparable companion. He would never trade it for any other sword in the world. And for the armorer, a sword’s like a child. Just as nature gives life to the creatures of this world, an armorer forges the blade from fire and iron.”

Was it any surprise that Nihal grew up to be such a rebel when she had a father who lived for his swords and associated with soldiers, knights, and adventurers? Nope.

They were working on a sword when Nihal brought up a timeworn question. “Pop?”

“Mmmm?” Livon brought his mallet down upon the blade.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you …”

There was another blow from Livon’s mallet.

“When are you going to give me a real sword?”

Livon’s mallet stopped in midair. He sighed, and then resumed casting blows against the steel. “Hold those tongs still.”

“Don’t change the subject,” Nihal replied.

“You’re too young.”

“Oh, really? But I’m not too young to start looking for a husband?”

Livon set down the mallet and collapsed into a chair. “Nihal, we’ve already discussed this. Swords are not playthings!”

“I know that, and I also know how to use one a heck of a lot better than the boys in this city.”

Livon sighed. He had often thought about giving Nihal one of his swords, but the fear that she’d hurt herself had always held him back. Still, he knew Nihal could do amazing things with her wooden sword, and that she’d shown understanding of the potential danger.

Sensing her father’s indecision, Nihal egged on. “So, Pop? What do you say?”

Livon looked around. “Let’s see.” He stood and went toward the wall where he stored his best works, the ones he created for himself. He took down a dagger and showed it to Nihal. “I made this a couple of months ago.”

It was a beautiful weapon. The hilt was forged in the shape of a tree trunk, with roots on one end and two twisted branches stretched toward the outside. The other branches wrapped themselves further along and then melded into the blade.

Nihal’s eyes shone. “Is it mine?”

“It’s yours if you can beat me. But if I win, you’ll do the cooking and cleaning up for a month.”

“All right, but I’m still a little girl, aren’t I? You’re always saying so. So to make things fair, let’s say you can’t move more than an arm’s length to your left or right.”

Livon chuckled. “That sounds fair.”

“Then it’s a deal. Grab me a sword.”

“Not on your life! We’ll both use wood.”

They took up positions in the center of the room, Nihal with her wooden sword, Livon with a stick.

“Ready?”

“Ready!”

The contest began.

Nihal didn’t have a lot of endurance, and her technique was anything but flawless, but her intuition and imagination more than made up for it. She parried and sidestepped every thrust, choosing the best moments to attack and jumping to the left and right with great agility. Her advantage lay entirely in her ability to move quickly, and she knew it.

Livon felt a sudden surge of pride for the tomboy with blue hair. The wooden pole slipped from his grasp and banged into a bunch of lances standing up in a corner.

Nihal pointed her sword at his throat. “What are you doing, Pop? Forgetting the basics? Letting a little girl get the better of you like that …”

Livon pushed aside the wooden sword, grabbed the dagger, and handed the new weapon to his daughter. “Here. You earned it.”

Nihal turned the dagger over in her hands, weighing it and testing her finger against the blade, trying to hide the fact that she was overcome with joy. Her first weapon!

“But remember, don’t ever lord it over a vanquished enemy. It’s in very poor taste.”

Nihal looked at her father with knowing eyes. “Thanks, Pop.”

She was shrewd enough to know when someone allowed her to win.

Nihal had been hanging out with a gang of hooligan boys ever since she was little. True, the others had their misgivings at first, partly because she was a girl and partly because of her strange looks. But it didn’t take her long to win their acceptance.

A couple of duels made it clear that no one in the group had anything to teach her about fighting, even if she was a girl.

Once she became a full-fledged member, the boys grew to like her more and more. They idolized her after she beat their leader, Barod, in a sword fight. That was when she took over command.

But though Nihal was rarely alone, there were times when she felt lonely. At those times, she’d climb to the top of Salazar and take in the view from the large rooftop terrace, where her eyes could roam over the endless fields. The only man-made structures visible were the Tyrant’s Fortress and the faint silhouettes of other cities.

When she sat gazing at that spectacle, Nihal felt a calm descend upon her. For a moment, her warrior nature was still. It was strange—only when sky and fields were ablaze in the light of sunset could she quiet her mind, and in those moments she could hear murmurings come up from the depths of her soul, a whisper in a language she did not understand.

The other kids admired Nihal even more after she won Livon’s dagger. She strode about with it hanging from her hip, feeling as strong as a knight. On more than one occasion, she offered it to anyone who could beat her. As it was, she could still boast that she’d never lost a battle.

One morning during the fall of Nihal’s thirteenth year, Barod came looking for her because a kid had shown up, wanting to challenge her for the dagger. That was enough for Nihal. She headed to the roof of Salazar, where all the duels were held.

When she saw the challenger, she almost burst out laughing. He was tall and thin, with long, disheveled red hair. He looked to be a couple years older than she was. She could see in a glance that strength was definitely not his trump card, and neither was agility, given the bulky tunic he wore. How could anyone fight in a getup like that?

His intelligence might be his only secret weapon. Nihal caught a glimpse of it in his light-blue eyes, but it didn’t worry her. She’d beaten her fair share of crafty challengers.

“Are you the one who sent for me?”

“In the flesh.”

“And you want to challenge me?”

“Yes.”

“You’re a man of few words. I’ve never seen you here before. Where are you from?”

“I came here from the edge of the Forest, but I’m from of the Land of the Sea. And to answer your next question, my name is Sennar.”

Nihal couldn’t understand why this kid was so cocky. He knew her by reputation, or else he wouldn’t have come to challenge her. Was he underestimating her?

“Who told you about me, and why do you want to challenge me?”

“Everyone’s been talking about the unbeatable demon with pointed ears and blue hair. So, what happened? Did you forget you’re a girl?”

Nihal clenched her fists. She knew it would be counterproductive to lose her temper before the duel, which was precisely what Sennar was aiming for with his mocking tone and that derisive smile on his face.