Blue energy gathered together in his hands. The accumulation grew until it had created two large spheres of radiant energy in each hand. The spheres became hyperactive, as though unable to contain their momentum. When this energy was about to overflow, Elgahar directed it forward, creating two powerful streams of blinding energy. The beams traveled instantly toward the gates, crashing loudly against their substance.
The assistant mages set their spell in motion, using all their strength to generate one that would allow them to transfer their life force to Elgahar, who had now made himself into the instrument of destruction. The two pupils quickly drank a purple potion to restore their mana.
The mage began to shimmer, a thread of electricity flickered around his body. His eyes shone with a brilliant blue and from his mouth shone the same energy.
“Aaah!” he shouted with a glare of fury. The two streams of energy shooting from his hands became an unstoppable flow. The gates, from one moment to the next, bent and broke in half. Elgahar collapsed and the shimmering faded. He went to his satchel and took a sip from his purple potion.
When the gates split apart, the entrance to Árath was left unprotected. A cloud of dust emerged as if someone were exhaling after a long sigh.
When the cloud of dust dispersed, several bodies were left lying on the ground. It was clear that someone inside had given the order to protect the gates at all costs. Already, a host of orcs was marching over the fallen in defense of the castle.
Nobody moved. A black spiral of energy came out through the gates and with it, there emerged a dragon with three heads created from evil spirits in defense of Árath.
A hundred thousand sighs filled the icy atmosphere with steam. Urine flowed in gushes while others vomited from the smell of foul mud that rose from the depths of the underground castle.
Leandro shouted, “Now, Elgahar!”
The mage was still on his knees, drained.
“Ítalshin, help me,” he said to one of his assistant mages. They helped him to his feet and he drank the purple potion in a gulp. He entered his mind’s eye once again. He was exhausted, but he had to act quickly to avoid losing his control over the situation. If that beast escaped and attacked from the skies, it would be impossible to bring it down.
The titanic enemy emerged from its hiding place in front of a battalion of nervous orcs. The shadow dragon’s three heads snapped at the air, feinting and terrifying the attackers.
“Uroquiel, do it now,” Elgahar said. Uroquiel and Ítalshin turned to look nervously. They were nowhere near as exhausted as their master, but they knew they had to act swiftly. The dragon was already coming out of the entrance to Árath. The assistant mages placed their hands on Elgahar’s shoulders and renewed the spell of transmission of energy. This time, they would give it everything they had.
Elgahar felt the flow of energy. Within his mind’s eye, he studied the shadow dragon, unraveling the spell that had created it. When he understood, he put his hands to the ground and began to mumble words that nobody understood. The other mages’ faces were pale. The earth shook so violently that pebbles were dislodged from the cliff and rolled down like dust.
The dragon began to lose vitality. Its three heads fell to the ground all at once, killing several orcs under their weight. The shadows that formed the body of the beast faded away and soon, the spirits trapped in the spell that had created the dragon were freed.
Elgahar opened his eyes and smiled. He was still pale and in a cold sweat, but destroying the evil ones who had created the spell had been easier than he had expected. Ítalshin and Uroquiel were dizzy but smiling. Their master, the great Elgahar, had succeeded.
The orcs that were still lined up in formation in front of Árath were anxious but kept in their places by their captain, who was barking orders. Reinforcements arrived from the depths of the castle and the defense was strengthened.
The mage pointed towards Árath. The signal.
Leandro turned to Chirllrp, the captain in charge of the thousands of insects.
Chirllrp gave a call in the guttural language of Gardak. At once, a thousand insects began their descent down the cliff, moving like a menacing wave toward Árath. The orcs defending the entrance trembled. Their captain was the first to break ranks and flee but was caught, like his battalion, by a sharp spear that left him pinned to the ground.
The insects’ advance was unstoppable. Like an avalanche, they overwhelmed the orcs and like a river demolishing a forest within a valley, they entered Árath. The stream of insects moved in synchrony thanks to their antennae, which allowed them to communicate effectively without words.
In amazement, Khad’Un, Merkas, Amon Ras, and Balthazar watched the coffee-colored wave melting into the shadows. In half an hour or so, ten thousand insects had gone into the castle; cries of pain and suffering came from the depths.
Several soldiers of Árath fled out of the main entrance, only to be caught by the soldiers’ arrows or a well-aimed spear.
“What on earth did you do, Elgahar?” Leandro asked the mage once he had returned to the ranks.
The other two mages listened eagerly, hoping to learn as much as they could from their master.
“A spell is the result of a complex combination of thoughts,” the young man replied. “It sets out to manipulate the elements, and these—just as in a cookery recipe—must be combined correctly to generate a magical spell. If a spell is the result of thoughts, then if you manage to understand the sequence of thoughts—or the recipe—that created the spell, you can intercept it.
“It’s a basic principle that hasn’t been explored. Rummbold Fagraz was incredible and he described and figured out the process to manipulate the elements, but nobody paid attention to the sequence of thoughts that lead to the creation of a spell. That is where I’ve specialized, Leandro.
“When I understood the origin of the spell created by the sáffurtan and the dethis, I managed to intercept it. With an additional spell, I pulled down the foundations of Árath and much of its lower levels crumbled. Many died under the collapse. Trapped within their underground castle, it was easy to defeat them.”
Elgahar smiled to himself.
“An impressive victory,” said the historian of the mission, Valdur Hervix. He wore a brown toga, typical among the historians. All wars had to be documented and this one was no exception. Several of Valdur’s students had taken on the job of writing down in prose what he dictated. Hence, the story was a sequence of poetic tales and what these reflected was not necessarily the truth, but an interpretation of it. For this reason, it was always important to choose a historian who favored the crown. What people would learn in future generations was dependent on a single man’s version of a story, and truth and fiction would eventually blend into a confusing story called history.
Chapter VI — Old Friendships
“A delicious offering by a superlative cook,” Mérdmerén exclaimed. “I don’t know how you do it, Baron, but you never cease to surprise me. You should let me hire him every once in a while. I swear I’d pay him well.” He raised his wooden cup, filled with red wine from his cellar.
The room, as usual, was a small one. A bubble of amber light surrounded the round table in the center, and on it, a northern-style turkey in a sauce was begging to be eaten. In front of Mérdmerén sat the thief chosen to represent the Faceless Baron, who remained hidden. The thief was eating as if there was no tomorrow and was already drunk.
“The cook is paid the best salary of all: a better tomorrow,” the Baron said. “Money, Mérdmerén, is a medium of exchange. On its own, it’s worth nothing at all.”
The Lion’s Fist washed the food down with wine and swallowed. After a month of almost daily meetings with the Baron, the leader of the Dungeon of Thieves had shown that he could give good advice about the political intricacies which would soon envelop the world of the Meridian.
“The messenger birds have landed,” the sovereign said, changing the subject. “Árath has been sack
ed, its slaves freed, and its nooks and crannies cleaned out by the insects of Gardak. We can go on to the next stage.”
“Excellent!” came the voice from the shadows. “With the defeat of Árath, the portal created by Elgahar and Balthazar can be used to begin the migration of the Gardakians to Mandrake. Queen Meromérila, a most beautiful woman, has assured us that the Dakatak could live very happily in Árath. It appears that these insects flourish in shade and an underground castle would suit them very well. She says they don’t eat meat but a fungus they harvest from the walls. This particular fungus grows on the walls because they daub them with their saliva and in that dampness, it produces this fungus they call gasha. This is all rather wonderful.”
“You know quite a lot about the Dakatak culture and the Mílikin,” Mérdmerén said.
“As you know, cultures are my thing,” the Baron explained. “I’m good at learning their details. For example, Mílikin are very much like humans in every way. Look at Queen Meromérila. She’s like any other young woman of any city in the Empire, except for her purple eyes. The Dakatak, on the other hand, are giant insects that fascinate me. They’re much more complex than they seem. Because of their guttural language, they appear dim and shallow. But those insects have great wisdom within them. One day, they’ll learn our language and then we’ll realize how wise they are.”
Mérdmerén was recovering from a fit of depression after giving away his daughter to Lombardo. It had hurt a lot more than he could have imagined, particularly seeing her so happy. He recalled his better days when he had married Maria de los Santos. His wedding had not been as showy a ceremony as his daughter’s, but he was happy when he had married.
May you not lose your way as I did, he wished his daughter with a thought. But he knew it would never happen. Not with someone like Lombardo, who seemed to be as stubborn as a rock.
“It’s surprising to see how quickly a man adapts to a new situation,” the Baron said philosophically.
“You’ve been thoughtful these past few meetings,” Mérdmerén said without mockery. It was true. The feeling was infectious. Now he felt more philosophical than ever. He had even assured Gáramond that he would soon give the go-ahead for a school devoted to philosophy and thought.
“For the first time in history, several nations and foreign cultures are united in a prosperous relationship. It’s all thanks to being united to fight under the same flag to defend our world. I told you, Mérdmerén. With you as the king, things would be better. Soon, the cultures of other planets will visit us and, hopefully, contribute a fair number of soldiers.”
Mérdmerén downed the contents of his glass and helped himself to more wine. He said, “Other worlds, other species, other people, other cultures… Strange, isn’t it? If it weren’t for the emergency we’re living through, I don’t believe anybody would have accepted beings from other nations and worlds so easily. But as long as we’re afraid of what we’ve called Armageddon, we’re more inclined to tolerate the differences between cultures.”
“The true challenge will be establishing long-lasting links with the empires of other planets. You need to be prepared to deal with all kinds of creatures. From the Dakatak to beings even weirder that I can’t even begin to imagine, like a talking pig or a bull walking on two legs and meditating on nature. We’re living through strange times, Mérdmerén. It’s been our fate to be the leaders of a conflict that would drive most people crazy. It’s not simply chance, my friend, that you and I are in the vanguard of the changes which are on their way.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“In the universe, according to Balthazar, everything’s possible. Beings as unlikely as dragons exist and if these magical beasts exist, what others might we find?”
“Might we find? You mean you’d come on expeditions to other worlds?”
“No. But one of my favorites will go in my place. Your esquire.”
“Turi the Esquire. Previously known as the Crafty. A very skillful lad with a cunning mind and the soul of a giant who could become so much more. He’s hungry to travel to other worlds and get to know other cultures. I saw the look in his eyes when we were in Moragald’Burg and Grizna.”
“Then it’s decided,” the Baron said. “The plan is clear, and we’re about to take the next step. So let’s get down to it.”
“Right.”
“This game of ours is a delicate one. We move the pieces on the board to checkmate the God of Chaos. Once he’s cornered, he’ll have no option but to defend the most important piece in the game.”
“I hope he doesn’t turn the game around and checkmate us,” the king said.
“Don’t you worry about that, Mérdmerén.”
“Why not? The last thing I want to do is die.”
“What’s the worst kind of enemy?” the Baron asked from the shadows.
“The one who knows your game.”
“No, my good friend. It’s the one who has nothing to lose and because of that, there’s nothing that he won’t do, no matter how farfetched, to survive. The hour has come. You’re wanted in the palace.”
“Balthazar’s plan?” asked Mérdmerén.
“Exactly. It must be carried out to the letter. It’s a little unlikely, but I think it’ll end up adding extra value to our cause. The masterplan consists of getting hold of allies across all the worlds. The secondary plan is Balthazar’s. If it bears fruit, it might tilt the scales in our favor.”
As usual, the Faceless Baron and his presence simply vanished. A black hood covered the king’s head and the next thing he knew, he was smelling the scents of the palace.
Chapter VII — A Fragile Candle
The recognizable landscape of the Imperial City, magnificent Háztatlon, did not succeed in exciting Luchy. The girl’s eyes were lost in emptiness. Although there was much to see, her sight was turned towards what was to come.
Children ran barefoot on the cobbled streets, the soles of their feet peeling and raw. A group of minstrels was singing about the loss of eternal love, several voices joining to provide a chorus which the people were enjoying. On another street, a juggler played with five apples to his audience’s delight and then asked them for coins.
A young man was dragging himself along the cobbles with a leg amputated by a band of criminals; a greengrocer was offering eggplants for sale; a butcher was beheading a hen; a little boy was asking his mother for money; a legless girl was demanding attention from the wealthy in exchange for something to eat; a wealthy woman was buying furniture. There was everything to be seen. But nothing seemed to move the girl.
The driver was stopped in front of the wall which would give him access to the citadel—the Imperial Palace.
“Papers,” a voice demanded. The driver took his hat off to expose his half-bald head to the afternoon sun and wearily handed the papers to the guards.
Here, the snow was not a problem. It was certainly cold. But the Northerners knew how to look after themselves during the winter, which was something they were used to. Various public servants were scattering sea salt on to the streets to melt the snow and make it easier to sweep away.
The captain at the post was dressed in white gold armor with a long spear, identifying him as one of the Imperial Guards.
“Only two passengers?” he asked.
“Only two, as you can see,” Gerardo said.
The soldier gave him a stony stare. “They can come out here. We’ll escort the young lady and her guardian.”
“No, sir. I’m afraid that won’t be possible. Read the letter. It clearly says that the young lady must be transported and handed over by none other than myself, directly into the hands of the king’s esquire.”
The soldier read the letter again, the afternoon sun shining on his armor. Luchy noticed that he was not at all concerned about the cold; he did not seem to be wearing anything to warm himself. Perhaps the armor itself included some material that kept the soldiers warm enough.
The guard mutte
red something to himself. “Notify the king’s esquire!” he said. “Special passenger on board!” Without another word, he gestured angrily for the gate to be opened.
The rusty wheels moaned as the immense gate slid to one side. The wall protecting the citadel was brand new, recently erected by a proud people after the resounding defeat of Némaldon during the Battle of Háztatlon.
Several soldiers at the sentry post gave Luchy a long stare. Those emerald eyes could not go unnoticed, but every man who set eyes on such beauty reached the same conclusion: the little princess was sad, her eyes fixed on an eternal love which perhaps would never again come to pass.
The carriage turned in a semicircle to bring the passengers close to the palace’s main entrance.
The rebuilt structure was beautiful, with large columns guarding the doors. They were the color of marble like the rest of the structure.
The butler opened the carriage door and allowed Luchy to descend. He was not expecting anyone as big as Mojak to come out after her, his tremendous size barely finding room inside. Macadamio, his straight grey hair swept backward and his long nose and gaze petulant, had to step back and raise his eyes to meet the great Wild Man’s gaze. He was about to say something but felt as though his tongue had been cut out.
“Don Macadamio?” came a voice behind the butler. A smiling face emerged from inside the palace door and greeted Luchy with a graceful movement. He had practiced bowing more than once.
“Greetings, Doña Luciella,” the lad said enthusiastically. “Welcome to the palace. King Mérdmerén de los Reyes has been waiting for you.”
Necromancer’s Sorrow: (Series Finale) Page 4