Mórgomiel passed through Eorta’s atmosphere, basking in the pleasant wind of the planet. Here, it was that he kept his most valued prisoner locked up in the Interim. He had hidden her in the dimension of spirits so that mortals could have no access to her, much less attempt to rescue her. Mórgomiel remembered having destroyed the Morelia Abyss thousands of years before during the Times of Chaos. He had killed all of her species, the temporalis. The oracle had always been destined to serve Mórgomiel but after his defeat during the Times of Chaos, the Mirror of the Black Queen of the Morelia Abyss had been lost. And now, he had found it. Thanks to it, he had been able to defeat Alac once again. He had forced her to betray the God of Light and what satisfaction that had given him! He had relished the pain in Alac’s face when he realized he had been betrayed.
When he landed in the Palace of the Kings of the Évulathan Empire, King Évulath the Brave came out to meet him and knelt before his master.
The king was an Ámaranth, tall beings with square heads, three vertical eyes, and black skin. They were two-armed bipeds, very strong, malleable, and obedient.
Mórgomiel dismounted from Górgometh’s back. “Give me the good news.”
Évulath trembled at the sound of Górgometh’s hiss, and then he became aware of the black dragon scrutinizing him with an evil smile. Everybody knew how ruthless the Dragon of Chaos was and that Mórgomiel rarely stopped him from doing what he wished. If the dragon wanted to torture him, whether by gutting him with his claws or with a riddle or a mental trick, Mórgomiel would not stop him. The dragon was unpredictable and his malice was sometimes greater than his master’s. He had witnessed soldiers fall at the sight of Górgometh’s cruelty. Torture gave him pleasure and entertainment. Worst of all, Górgometh lost interest.
When the dragon took off with a bound, Évulath was able to breathe again.
The news is good, milord, the king said telepathically, as was his way of communication. The sáffurtans have found the favorites and brought them as you ordered, my lord.
“Let them bring them here and we’ll sacrifice them,” the God of Chaos announced. “Wrath the Godslayer is hungry.”
When he took his seat on the throne, that majestic chair of stone was immediately enveloped in spirals of smoke. Mórgomiel had no throne of his own or for his use alone; his throne was all the thrones. Every one of the empires in every one of the planets under his command was his to take whenever he desired.
The sáffurtan came in through the main door of the palace, followed by the Ámaranth troop who had come to guard the prisoners. The evil sorcerer was wrapped in his red cloak, his face invisible under its shadow. Within was a skull controlling the Black Arts at will.
“The prisoners, my Lord of Chaos, at your service,” the sáffurtan said with a hiss.
“Only a hundred?” Mórgomiel said without apparent interest. “I thought there would be more.”
“There were. Several made trouble and had to be eliminated. Others were destroyed during the fall of Árath.”
The fury of the God of Chaos echoed through the palace foundations.
“The fall of Árath!?” he croaked.
The sáffurtan fell to his knees, begging forgiveness and mercy even though he had had nothing to do with the fall of Árath.
“That’s right, milord. Humans proliferate in the Meridian and they celebrated Némaldon’s defeat. There were very powerful spells, milord, cast by powerful beings who made us think that the terrible Strangelus Üdessa may have come back from the ruins.”
“No problem, my dear creature from hell. Árath was one of the millions of dwellings I own around the universe. It poses no threat.” Mórgomiel studied the favorites in front of him. There were a hundred assassins of the Brotherhood of the Crows in chains, the ancient hit-men of the dethis. “Leave us,” he ordered the sáffurtan. The sorcerer left in a hurry, followed by the squad of Ámaranth.
The prisoners were humans who had once followed Elkam’s commands, but Elkam was dead. They had never followed anybody else, least of all a god. As mere humans, they had no idea of who Mórgomiel was or that he was the creator of the dethis, including Legionaer.
“My children, today you rise in the world. You served one of my sons, Elkam, as professional hit-men, using the Black Arts for your benefit. As far as is known, I am the Black Arts. You manipulate what originates in me. I am Mórgomiel, the God of Chaos, creator of shadows, conqueror of the universe. With this sword—” he summoned Wrath the Godslayer in his hand. “—I have mutilated dragons and gods. Wrath the Godslayer is her name and she has a hunger for destruction.”
Mórgomiel walked among the assassins, studying the cowed gaze of those who wear simple black tunics. The assassins looked nervous, not knowing what they were in the presence of.
“I need you more than ever now,” Mórgomiel said as he studied his subjects. “I need your services as hitmen. But as mere humans, you are nothing. You can’t do anything. Today, I will raise you to a higher rank, and from you, will create a hundred vorwraiths. You will be as powerful as the wraiths, shriveled-up souls with power, but you will be able to keep control over your bodies, just as you did when you were assassins of the Brotherhood of the Crows. As my vorwraiths, you will have the privilege of being my servants and dying in my name, and you will also gain the power to travel between worlds by using the portals I have created throughout the universe. That is to say, you will be able to enter and leave the dimension of the Interim at will.”
“We will do nothing that is not commanded by our master, Elkam!” one of the prisoners howled.
“Anyone who opposes me, I will consider an enemy. And my enemies suffer.” Mórgomiel went up to the one who had spoken and plunged Wrath into his chest. The sword gleamed brightly as it devoured the human’s soul. In a few seconds, his body had been turned into dust. Nobody moved, but the restlessness was obvious.
“With what aim, my lord?” asked one of the bravest, a man with black skin who was as strong as he was bold.
“A sensible question at last. Your mission will be that of eliminating insurgents. Conquering the universe is no easy task, least of all when I have more than a hundred thousand million beings under my command. There are always rebels in every world and there are always those who will do good and defend the God of Light, even though he has been eliminated, by no less than myself,” Mórgomiel declared proudly.
Pride? What is this mundane feeling? Mórgomiel thought. It must have been Argbralius who had felt such emotion, one unworthy of a god.
The same soldier knelt. “It will be an honor to serve you, my lord of shadows,” he said. The other assassins turned to look, gathering courage. They all knelt.
“So be it.”
This said, Mórgomiel began a powerful spell. In his left hand, there appeared a spiral of energy that began to spread throughout the hall. It began as a thread of smoke that soon took on a life of its own and then, as if it were a snake eager to give a lethal bite, the thread stabbed each soldier’s chest. The shadow grew, and suddenly a blanket of electricity ran through the bodies of those assassins. The spell only lasted for a few seconds, but its effects would take several days to be apparent. To create a vorwraith, the chosen soul had to be poisoned. It would take days to be transformed. Slowly, the tangible body would lose substance until at last, it had turned into a specter.
Mórgomiel smiled to himself. “Go now, my creatures. Go and wreak havoc. Kill. Strengthen your poisoned souls with torture, madness, and sorrow.” With this, the assassins left the hall, their eyes shining red—a sign that their souls were beginning to change.
“Bring the sacrifices!” cried the God of Chaos.
At once, an Ámaranth squad brought fifty peasants of their species in chains.
Mórgomiel seated himself on his throne and said, “Pass me the first one.”
A soldier pushed the peasant until he was standing before the God of Chaos. The telepathic noise of pleading was deafening, but he paid no attention to it
. Abruptly he plunged Wrath the Godslayer into the peasant’s chest and the sword began to swallow his soul.
When the first sacrifice had turned to dust he called, “Next.”
Chapter IX — The Interworld Assembly
“It was absolutely necessary,” the Baron said from the shadows. The thief in front of him was sober and serious and had eaten and drunk next to nothing.
Mérdmerén, on the other side of the round table, did not know whether the thief had chosen not to get drunk to pay close attention or whether the Baron had instructed him to listen in on the exchange.
“And you needed to do it in one stroke,” the Baron continued. “The Council of Kings had to be disbanded. The dukes had to be sent back to their castles to increase the size of their armies. And yes, opposition by the nobles will continue. That’s why it’s important to watch them and make sure they do not cook up a revolution. That’s why my spies have infiltrated every one of the great cities.”
Mérdmerén had not liked disbanding the Council of Kings. Several of those dukes had been his friends. When he dismissed them, they had looked at him as if they meant to kill him. Many had lost their privileges in a range of different businesses, others had simply lost their position and felt humiliated. But it needed to be done or so at least the Baron had told him. What he needed was to create a new council, a new body of leaders.
The Mandrake Empire was no longer a self-sufficient monarchy, concerned with its own benefit; now it had to get involved in the affairs of other nations. It needed to coordinate itself with other cultures and particularly with those of other worlds. For that, it had to make room for the representatives and leaders of the cultures it would come to share the world with.
“Our world will be the core of military development against Mórgomiel. The Interworld Assembly will deal with the different leaders while the immigrants from other planets arrive in our world. For the moment, we can count on Meromérila, the leader of Gardak. From other nations, we already have the sovereigns of Doolm-Ondor, Moragald’Burg, Grizna, and the Divine Providence.”
Mérdmerén swallowed the piece of bread he had been chewing. Most of the time, he did not even bother to follow the Faceless Baron’s instructions. But at times, today for example, he felt that he was the subject and the Baron the monarch. The control the Baron exercised upon the Empire was as subtle as the invisible strings a puppeteer uses to move the puppets’ limbs. But when his manipulation became obvious, Mérdmerén was stung.
“Gáramond’s preparing to open a language school where, with Jochopepa’s help, he’s developing a method of speeding up the learning of other languages. If the Empire’s going to be the central government of the Meridian, we need to think of a system that’ll allow the immigrants to learn Mandrakian, which will be the official language. There’s something that bothers me, however.” Mérdmerén swallowed another piece of bread. “Can you imagine what it’s going to cost to keep the peace among so many people? And who knows how many other species Balthazar will find in his quest to establish contact with other worlds? Hey, suppose it turns out that the talking pigs have the flying pigmies for breakfast? And if the two-legged horses like to eat the grass that the insects of some other planet make their houses out of? You realize this might end in disaster?”
“I completely understand what you’re saying, Mérdmerén. That’s why setting Mandrakian as the official language is necessary, to avoid any problems of communication. I can assure you, everybody will be so focused on getting ready for Mórgomiel’s arrival that our differences won’t be a problem. They will be one after the war when we win. So, I believe that although your worries are valid, they are unnecessary.”
Mérdmerén sighed wearily. He would be the one—not the Baron—who would have to deal directly with the leaders of other cultures and species. Everything sounds good in theory, but in practice, it is a different matter.
“The difficulties are only just beginning, my dear Lion’s Fist. There are so many pieces moving at the same time that even the tiniest mistake could cause a catastrophe.”
“It’s a complex layout on the board, I can see that,” Mérdmerén said. “But I think that—”
The Faceless Baron cut him off. “It bothers you to feel like a pawn on the board while I’m the one who moves the pieces.”
Mérdmerén took another bite of the bread with duck liver pâté. He did not even know why considering he was not hungry. “That’s exactly it. I don’t like to feel like a pawn that’s being manipulated.”
“We’re all pieces on the same board, fighting against the same enemy, Mérdmerén. You may feel that I’m moving them as I wish, but you must realize you’re wrong. The advantage I have is that I can see some events from afar. In other words, you can’t understand the battlefield properly if you’re immersed in it, but you can when you watch it from a distance.”
Mérdmerén leaned back in his seat and sighed. “Forgive me, my friend. Sometimes, all that’s about to happen troubles me. Sometimes I’d like to be a long away from all this. Although I know it’s impossible, because it’s the whole universe that’s at risk.”
“Believe me, Mérdmerén. We all feel like that. The challenges have barely begun. Armageddon is coming to life as the seconds go by. Mórgomiel is getting ready and there is no doubt that he’ll soon unleash his terror.”
The Baron paused, then added, “Mérdmerén, I want you to meet Isidro, one of my most prestigious thieves.” He presented the thief to Mérdmerén.
So I was right, he thought. This isn’t just any thief.
The King of Mandrake looked closely at the man in front of him. He was thin but athletic, black-skinned, and had an inquisitive gaze. It was obvious that he was quick in both movements and mind.
“Isidro is one of the engineers who are beginning to understand how the Tower of Lis works.”
“The Tower of Lis!” Mérdmerén cried, remembering that mysterious construction in Grizna which allowed him quick communication with the empress.
“They’re towers that use a cryptic mechanism to communicate at high speed. Imagine that we could manage to communicate without needing to use messenger birds or papers; we could communicate through magical means and nearly instantaneously.”
“That would be fascinating,” the king said. “Did you ask Sokomonoko for the secret formula?”
“No. I don’t want to depend on her, anyway. They might be her creations, but she can’t stop us from investigating the mechanism so that we can replicate it. My idea is that each leader of the army we’re planning to create could have an artifact like the Tower of Lis. This would allow us to communicate and act more or less in unison during the battle.”
Mérdmerén had no arguments against logic like that. He supposed that of all the reasons that the Baron was so powerful, it was because he depended on no one. He managed on his own and always had the most important resource—apart from time—on hand: human talent.
“And how will you work the magic?” Mérdmerén asked wonderingly. He knew that Elgahar would not agree to this and nor would any of the old flat-asses of the Council of Mages.
“Elgahar has established Maggrath,” the Baron said. “This is the island where the School of Magic has started to operate.”
“Are you going to tell me you have thieves infiltrated there, learning magic?”
“That’s precisely it. They haven’t infiltrated. They’re real pupils and Elgahar knows they’re my thieves.”
“There’s another problem,” the king said. “The Tower of Lis is—well, a tower. Are you planning on giving each leader a portable building?”
“Don’t mock me, Mérdmerén. Though, your question is reasonable. Just as Isidro is seeking to decipher the way the Towers of Lis operate, he’s also searching for a way to reduce them in size.”
Mérdmerén was at a loss for words. The Baron was always a couple of steps ahead of everybody, including Mórgomiel. He did not know how the man did it, but he was sure that part of the se
cret was the network of ears that were listening to everything at every moment.
“We don’t know when Mórgomiel will find out about our plans, but by the time he does, we need to be ready for when the owner of the planet comes to take everything away from us. It’s when he comes to eliminate us that we’ll hit him with everything we’ve got.”
Mérdmerén nodded. “Balthazar has assured us that several worlds are considering joining us. Now it’s only a matter of Elgahar and the Interworld Committee crossing the Portal and establishing a more lasting relationship with them, and hopefully convincing them to bring a significant number of soldiers to the cause.”
“So be it, then. The first meeting with the Interworld Assembly awaits you, my friend. Our session is over for today.”
The Baron’s presence vanished, and at the same moment, Mérdmerén’s head was covered by a hood. The next thing he saw was the streets of Háztatlon.
Chapter X — Maggrath
In Omen, the Council of Mages met daily. Previously, before war had been declared on Árath, they had met only once every trimester.
When Strangelus was alive, the meetings had not been necessary. They took place mainly for the pleasure of getting together and exchanging thoughts and spells. With the unexpected and tragic, but at the same time brave and heroic, death of Strangelus, the Council had been turned upside-down and left directionless.
Its currently most advanced pupil and the youngest mage ever to gain the title of Üdessa, the mysterious Elgahar, had emerged from the rubble as if possessed.
“Ulfbar Üdessa, leader of the Council.”
“Present.”
Necromancer’s Sorrow: (Series Finale) Page 6