Chronicles of the Overworld Book 1 — Nihal of the Land of the Wind by Licia Troisi Page A

his own against the two creatures. She raced toward him.
    Livon pushed her away roughly. “Run away, Nihal! Get out of here!”
    It took a split second, just the blink of an eye. One of the Fammin passed his sword through Livon from one side to the other.
    Nihal saw her father fall to the ground like an empty sack.
    She saw his blood spread over the floor.
    She saw the demon pull its sword out of Livon’s body.
    She felt nothing. She simply looked at the scene, eyes wide, her arms and legs paralyzed.
    A savage rage engulfed her. With a yell, she threw herself upon her father’s killer and cut off its head with a single stroke of her blade.
    The other Fammin was still for a moment, but quickly recovered and raised its axe against Nihal. She felt the air moving as the blow came toward her. She leaped to the side and ducked behind the workbench, but the Fammin came toward her, growling and swinging its weapon. The workbench broke into pieces in an explosion of little bits of wood.
    The monster was hanging over her, but Nihal managed to grab the mallet she’d seen Livon use so many times. She bent down to grab it and swung it hard against the monster’s knees. They gave way. Only then did she throw herself on the monster, stabbing him so hard that a single thrust did the job.
    Then Nihal felt a strange sensation along her left side: a metallic chill, a warm wetness down her thigh. She looked down at herself. There was a deep wound; it was bleeding profusely. She looked at Livon. He lay on the ground, his eyes closed as if sleeping.
    To lie down next to him … to close her eyes, to rest. The idea began to take hold in her confused mind, but then a sharp, bloodcurdling cry from the street brought her back to her senses. She had to leave that place. She had to save herself.

    Think, Nihal. Breathe. A way out. All you need is a way out.
    The maintenance shaft. She had discovered it during her childhood games. It ran behind the shops, an old service tunnel, dark and airless, built in a gap in the outer wall.
    Nihal grabbed a big mallet from the forge. It took an enormous amount of strength for her to lift it, but when she banged it against the wall, putting her shoulder into the blow, the wall gave way. The shaft was still there. With some difficulty, she managed to slip inside it and begin to make her way down the stairs.
    It was dark. Nihal’s vision was blurred and her heart was racing. Blood continued to soak her leg. Every step required enormous willpower. Through the walls she could hear the cries of the soldiers, the heartrending cries of women, weeping children, the dull thud of bodies as they fell to the ground, the whistle of axes moving through the air.
    After a short distance, it was clear the stairway was in terrible condition. The pain in her side grew until it was almost unbearable. Nihal began to cry. She couldn’t stop weeping. She moved forward along the stairs no longer knowing where they led. The stairwell grew hotter as she went down.
    Nihal couldn’t tell where she was. At times, the stairs went upward while at others they were flat like a road, and sometimes they went down. She felt like she was suffocating. She was sorely tempted to drop to the ground and let them find her. It felt like she would die if she took another step. But she kept moving forward and dragged her left leg along.
    She had to move forward without stopping and without thinking. Livon had died to save her. She had to live.
    She didn’t know how long she’d been walking. Hours? A few minutes? When she felt a gust of fresh air on her face, she instinctively picked up her pace. There were more minutes of walking—or maybe it was a few hours. Then she finally found it.
    A crack in the outer wall, the way to salvation, the way to freedom. Nihal pulled herself over to it and stuck her head out. A river of sewage ran below her. She mustered her last remaining strength and scratched at the bricks with her hands until she’d made an