Necromancer’s Sorrow: (Series Finale)

by Pablo Andrés Wunderlich Padilla

  His colossal and elegant body was bloodied, with many scratches all over it. He took up so much space that, as he had collapsed on the flat field where the palace was under construction, the platform and the foundations of the site had been destroyed.

  “This has been a disaster,” Meromérila said. “A stupid folly. We should have waited for the war to be over before we migrated to Flamonia.” She was weeping in mourning for her people. Mérdmerén had warned her, but she had not wanted to listen.

  More than three-quarters of those who had migrated with her to build her palace and conquer Flamonia had been reduced to headless corpses. It took the queen several hours to regain her senses. She was stunned and had no idea what to do. Her counselor Ulfbar had died, as had her most renowned soldiers.

  The Metallic Knight came to the queen as soon as he had recovered. The evening was falling and the sky was taking on a purple tinge. The stars were coming out, twinkling endlessly.

  The queen was unable to tear her eyes away from the massacre. “So much effort. So many lives for this nothing. I was a fool. I don’t even know why I wanted to come here to build a new palace when I have everything I need over in Mandrake.” When she realized a god was at her side, she stood up at once and bowed, showing all the respect she could summon up at that moment.

  “Queen Meromérila, I am the Metallic Knight, a god of yore and the essence of the amalgams and metallurgy of the universe. Rise to your feet. The catastrophe around us is a sad one and deserves all the grief we can show. Let us keep vigil over the dead.”

  There were no more words that evening. The corpses were piled up and set afire to prevent infection. Whether insect, Mandrakian, Mílikin, they were all suffering under their losses. The fires burned all night.

  The next morning, when the sun rose, the Metallic Knight was standing looking out on to the moors. The queen had barely slept, having spent most of the time singing quietly to herself or helping the dying to get better or find swift peace.

  “Nordost is healing fast,” the Knight said. “His magic has restored him, and he will soon be ready to take us back to Mandrake.”

  “Go back?” It had never occurred to the queen that she might go back.

  “The war against Chaos has hardly begun. This world is about to enter a very dark era. The fires and violence you see here are merely an example of what Mórgomiel has caused in other parts of the planet of Meridian. The armies are gathering in Mandrake and we must reach them as soon as possible to help them.”

  “Do you think my idea of coming to colonize Flamonia was stupid?” Meromérila asked. “Was it premature?” Her distant gaze was turned on the corpses, now reduced to ashes. She did not know how her people could still trust her when she had so clearly led them to their doom.

  The Metallic Knight came over to her and sat down on a log of wood beside her. Around the queen was her retinue, a limited number of Mílikin women who had accompanied her to assist her in her everyday comforts. Although previously, she had twenty pairs of hands to help her, now she only had three left. Those women, like their queen, were covered in soot. There was nowhere to wash.

  The Knight said, “Looking back, it was a terrible decision. I would have liked to have been firmer and refused you the chance to come here.”

  “But you—Who? How? Where?” the queen said, not understanding.

  The Knight’s eyes were fully visible since the helmet left his face in the open. In those eyes, the queen thought she recognized a look, but could not place it.

  “Ah. Allow me.” The Knight understood why he could not be recognized. He took off his helmet, and at once, his jet-black hair was exposed to the wind, which blew it around his face.

  “Mérdmerén!” Meromérila cried. “The King of Mandrake, here! The King of Mandrake!”

  Everyone, without exception, whether human or insect, knelt to greet the king as was proper.

  “Mérdmerén of the Kings… A god? What is this?”

  “It’s a long story, Meromérila. One that you’ll hear in due course. Now, we have to go back to Mandrake as soon as we can. That’s where the armies are gathering to oppose Mórgomiel. But as the Metallic Knight said, Mórgomiel has begun to spread terror throughout the Meridian. We must make haste. My dragon said—” Mérdmerén stopped himself, surprised at the thought of calling the dragon his own. “Nordost will soon recover. Perhaps not all his powers will come back but he’ll be able to fly.”

  Mérdmerén put his helmet back on and at once, he became the Metallic Knight. He got to his feet and reached out for the queen’s hand. “We’re leaving now. We can’t delay any longer.”

  “And my people?” the queen cried, turning to look at the Mílikin and the Dakatak who were lost with nothing to do except wait for instructions. The look on the faces of the poor wretches was one of despair.

  “They must go back to the shore and sail back to Mandrake. Right now! There’s no time to lose!”

  The queen echoed the Knight’s words, and before she could make sure her people were safe, the dragon passed over her head and clasped both queen and god with his claws.

  “We’re heading for Mandrake!” Nordost bellowed.

  The survivors of the Flamonia calamity followed her instructions without wasting a second. Nobody had any desire to stay in what had been the ruins of Flamonia; after Mórgomiel’s attack, it was clear that this was an accursed land destined never to be occupied again.

  The captains and their lieutenants organized the few remaining soldiers, and in a matter of minutes, squads and platoons set off toward the seashore.

  Chapter XLII — Don’t Forget About Me

  Leandro had always shown an interest in the architectural organization behind the Imperial Palace dungeons. There were several levels going down deep into the ground and a historian had even commented that nobody had been able to document how far down the deepest levels reached.

  This topic had been an interesting one when Leandro was on the surface. But now that he was a prisoner in one of the deepest dungeons, the idea of being locked up in a lost pit, far from civilization, was gnawing at his soul.

  They had dragged him down so many stairs that it was hard to pay attention to the details. What frightened him most was realizing how many souls were locked up down there, crying out for help with their bony hands poking out through the bars seeking redemption. How many of those have already lost their minds?

  Some were praying to the God of Light, others to the God of Fire, and others still who prayed to different gods, which made him think that there were prisoners from several nations ranging from Moragald’Burg to Doolm-Ondor.

  Leandro would have wagered that nobody remembered why those miserable souls were still locked up. Those who had passed judgment and put them in there had probably died years before, and the prisoners were still enduring the consequences of their trial. How many of them were unjustly imprisoned?

  The day he was brought down, he heard another body being dragged. The other prisoner must have been heavy because it took three or four men to move him. They dragged him to a nearby cell and it took all of them to squeeze him into the cage, given the abundant flesh around his stomach. The man was barely breathing, he was so cramped inside. Leandro had not yet found out who it was. It could be anyone Leandro the Impostor considered a danger to his mission to sabotage the plans for the union against Mórgomiel.

  And who was this impostor? Did he have his own life, family, or passions? He might not even be human. Perhaps he was all demon and no flesh, and with some powerful spell, he had been invested with skin and eyes by the whim of the sorcerers.

  He thought about his own family. He did not know how many days had gone by, given the absence of light to measure time with. Here, there was only darkness until the guard, a loathsome creature who looked like a mutant after so long in the dungeons looking after lost souls, came with his torch to leave his food. It was surely dog vomit or goose droppings. He wept in silence, trying not to shed a single tear b
ecause, as a good soldier, he knew that when water is scarce, it is precious and even urine must be recycled. He was already beginning to be mired in his feces, but that was not the worst thing. It was the fact that he had been tricked and that his wife and children would be in danger. Again he grabbed the bars, trying to move them and realizing once again how well-made the dungeons were. Whatever position he took up, he could never find the right angle to let him exert his strength. In this cell, he could barely lie down, and to do so he had to roll himself into a ball and lay his head on his own filth.

  On one occasion, he thought his face was on a pillow, but when he came to his senses properly he realized he was leaning against a lump of his shit.

  It was all the fault of fatherhood. He did not blame his sons or his wife. He blamed himself for growing soft and allowing himself to put on weight. He had lost so much agility that he was not even sure whether he would be able to wield a sword on the battlefield. This was not like him. Instead of the great warrior he had been, he had become as lazy as a politician.

  Something stung him in the back. He got to his knees with difficulty, terrified because something underneath him was moving. He heard a shriek like that of a rat. His eyes were wide open, and even so, he could still see nothing. However, he could hear that it was not one rat but a dozen of them coming up out of the floor. He felt disgusted and terrified because he had heard that rats are carnivores when there is no other option, and they could dispose of a man’s body in a matter of hours if there were enough of them. But these rats sounded calm. How he would have liked to be some small creature like them, able to sneak through the bars and run out of this horrendous place.

  The stones the rats had come up through, which is to say the floor of the cell, began to shift. He could not see it, but he could feel it. Horrified, he felt one of the rocks under his feet rising. He had to move over to avoid being lifted with the stone and flattened against the ceiling of the tiny cell.

  “It’s here.” He heard a whisper.

  A person’s voice!

  “Shhh! Leandro! Leandro! I think he’s dead. Let’s go.”

  “I’m here, damn it!” Leandro hissed when he was able to speak after the shock.

  “Hellfire! The general’s still alive!”

  Before Leandro could say a word, two strong hands pulled him, not minding that he was covered in filth, and dragged him into a narrow tunnel.

  “Hurry up! Put the corpse in there!”

  A body was handed over from one to another. Then, he heard them placing it where he had been, and then the trapdoor was barred with stone and gravel. The strong hands grabbed him again, and from one moment to the next, he felt he was being steered through a labyrinth of tunnels.

  Whoever was at the head stopped, sniffed the air, and said, “This way.” And they ran on. He did not know how, but they went down, then up, then they splashed, and at one point he felt a gust of wind. He could see nothing and he was sure it was due to the lack of light.

  “This is the second relay,” said the one carrying him with his strong hands. Leandro was laid on the ground, then another pair of hands tugged at him and carried him once again through a labyrinth of tunnels.

  He could see some light, although it was still too dark to make out any detail.

  “There,” was all the second pair of hands said. They laid him on the ground again and another pair of hands took charge of him. They picked him up and took him down another tunnel which ejected him—outside! It was nighttime, which was why he could not see very much. To his confusion, he changed hands again. He was beginning to feel like a sack of potatoes, what with being passed around so much. These people must be very strong because they handled his body as if it were a load of merchandise. There was no use protesting. His destiny was in the hands of his saviors, whoever they were.

  A door opened. Darkness. Then a little light. They took him up some stairs and suddenly, he was being sponged with warm water. The touch of it was divine.

  “Take off your clothes,” a voice said. He did as he was told without question, trying not to see who was talking. He did not wish to annoy anyone, as he knew that some captors became uneasy when their victims identified them. He stripped and when he was naked, he felt sad at the amount of fat he could feel on his belly. It was something he had never allowed to happen before. He could barely see his private parts, which would have been unheard of in his past. His stomach had been as flat as a washboard; now, it was a roll of blubber.

  Another bucketful of water fell on his naked body. The filth slid down and he could smell the mire he had brought with him. He was thrown some rags and he dried himself as best he could. Then he was given new clothes, which looked like those of a peasant, and a straw hat. Before he put on the hat, someone shaved his face with a sharp knife.

  “He’s ready. Take him.”

  Once again, two strong hands pulled him away. This time, they slipped a hood over his head. He went up, then down. Again, he changed hands. This seemed endless.

  A door closed and they sat him down on a chair. There came a sigh. When they took off the hood, his eyes were dazzled by the bright light of a candle. He heard a sorrowful moan.

  When his eyes had grown used to the light, he saw Karolina. She was weeping. Leandro fell on her and hugged her as if he had not seen her in years.

  “I missed you so much!” he yelled as he smothered his wife with kisses. “I was afraid for you! That damned impostor! I’ll kill him! I swear it! What about our children?”

  “Easy, my love. They’re asleep. Now, hush.”

  Karolina’s caresses calmed the general, and before he could even kiss her again, he was fast asleep, kneeling with his head on her lap. Karolina wept in silence, grateful to the Baron and his followers. She was aware that they had taken great risks to save her husband’s life not only because he was her husband, but because he was one of the key players for winning the coming war—or at least mitigating its horrors.

  ***

  “My name is Greyson,” he said and then waved at three other massive men and two women. “I’ve been appointed by the Baron to be your guard, together with these fine thieves. Our spies have located Düll Donn and Othus near Merromer. They are ready to leave for their respective homelands. Sokomonoko is on her way back to Grizna, fleeing from the Portal of Worlds, where the impostor wants to set his trap. It’s lucky for us that the Baron and the empress have been communicating via this.” Greyson showed the general an artifact he had never seen before.

  “We call it a long-distance communicator. It’s made of a material like rock, but with a collection of spells that make it a device for long-distance communication. The empress has named it the Wand of Lis. It’s magic.” Greyson shrugged. “Who can understand it? Now, General, if you’ll do me the favor.” He put the artifact into Leandro’s hands.

  Leandro took the magical object. It was around four in the morning and he was dressed like a peasant, getting ready to leave for Merromer. They were still in the secret hideaway and very little could be seen through the windows.

  The artifact appeared to be made of marble; it was smooth and heavy. The moment his skin touched it, a flow of thoughts filled his mind. Startled, he dropped the communicator.

  “Sorry,” he said as he bent over to retrieve it.

  “Don’t break it. It costs an arm and a leg to make these things,” Greyson said mockingly. “Maybe I should’ve explained to you. You’ll feel as if someone was thinking inside your head, but that’s just the thoughts of the person who wants to communicate with you.”

  Leandro nodded. He took the wand again and focused, trying not to panic when the communication began. The Baron seemed to be a man of many resources and his wide and extensive network had brought benefits. The general felt lost and he knew that without the Baron’s cunning, a great deal more than his life would have been lost. Now he understood why Mérdmerén had spoken so highly of him.

  Leandro. The empress’s thoughts reached him. This is Sokomo
noko. I am happy that you are well and have been rescued. Since I saw you, or rather since I saw the imposter at the meeting, I knew something was wrong. The impostor has managed to break alliances and endanger the armies of Mandrake, the Divine Providence, the Cristalur, and the Elves. But fear not. The elves and others can be swayed by you.

  “Amazing!” Leandro cried. Greyson shushed him reluctantly. The general closed his eyes again to concentrate and work out a reply.

  Elves! There are elves! Cristalur? By the Gods, there’s so much I’ve missed. It took him a few seconds to calm his thoughts. He had known that other species would come, but the fact that they were here already was awesome. We’ll march toward Merromer to convince Düll Donn and Othus not to break their ties with us.

  Let us hope they have not already left for their empires, the empress thought. It is a shame that Haziiz Farçia has taken such a liking to your impostor. It will be impossible to reach him. He has been seen marching beside your double. You must reach Merromer as soon as you can. You must speak to the Baron to find out about our plans.

  So we will, Empress. We’ll set out for the North as soon as we can.

  Travel with care, Leandro. We have no choice but to give it our all. May the Gods be with you!

  When Leandro opened his eyes again and looked up, Karolina noticed the anger in his eagle glare.

  “You never told me I was so fat,” the general accused her.

  Karolina embraced him, playing with the folds of fat under the peasant clothes. “But it’s adorable!”

  “Enough,” he said with something between a smile and a frown. “I’m going to lose some weight and that’s that!”

  They left around six in the morning, as the city was waking up. The markets were coming alive, exchanges were beginning, and the bustle of the city was underway. Beggars walked on bare, ulcerated feet, whining for a couple of coins. Orphaned children ran after chickens or dogs, finding a game to pass the time. Paid assassins carried out their work. Grocers and butchers began the daily labor of earning their living.