Necromancer’s Sorrow: (Series Finale)

by Pablo Andrés Wunderlich Padilla

  The elf was pale. “Can you feel it? The negative energy is coming closer! It’s everywhere!”

  Luchy ran to the foot of the altar and began to shake Manchego. Teitú, meanwhile, flew around them, shining crimson onto the faces of the couple.

  Luchy kissed Manchego on the lips and slapped him, but nothing seemed to rouse him.

  “Come on, bloody well wake up!” she shouted in panic.

  There came an explosion. She twisted her head to see an evil black figure outside the field of energy Riziel had created. She saw that the giant bear was suffering, screaming in pain.

  Another explosion caused an influx of terror and despair, letting in a dance of shadows through the hole that had been created in the field of energy. Luchy was left paralyzed as if time had frozen.

  Riziel could barely manage to defend himself against Mórgomiel’s sword, which pierced him from side to side. Impaled by Wrath, Mórgomiel smiled as it sucked the Gurtha’s energies and essence. The giant bear was losing his life, his tongue hanging out of one side of his muzzle. Before the last breath left his body, he collapsed into a pile of dust.

  Mórgomiel was wearing his helmet of spikes. With a thought, the helmet vanished and his featureless face was exposed. His face took shape when he adopted the features of Argbralius. That evil face twisted into a malicious smile, enjoying the moment. Luchy recognized that face. It was the possessed sacristan!

  “At last. Alac. You stupid girl, did you really think you would be able to summon the God of Light without me finding out? Amana was very cunning. She knew she would manage to fool you and become your confidant in a matter of hours. I’m surprised by how easily you fell for her tricks. Now Amana is dead and her life allowed me to arrive at the moment before you woke this scum.” He pointed his sword at the sleeping body of the God of Light.

  The God of Chaos walked to the altar. Luchy ran back to Manchego. She embraced him and began to pound his chest.

  “Wake up!” she shouted. “Wake up! Manchego! Mórgomiel’s here! He’s come to kill you!”

  He did not move. He was in a deep sleep, a coma. Flóregund was trembling and the Wild Man was ready to fight.

  Do it now, Teitú! Mojak ordered. Fill me with your energy!

  Teitú exploded, invigorating Luchy’s guardian with radiant energy. The tattoo on his left hand blazed.

  Mórgomiel was barely able to dodge the lethal blow from that energized mace, strengthened with elemín, then manage to avoid the giant hand that sought to grasp his head.

  “Powerful creature,” he said with a smile. “I could use someone like you under my command. Like Balthazar.”

  Mojak did not stop his attack. He continued to try and land a single blow unsuccessfully. The God of Chaos was too much for him. Flóregund joined the fray, and between the two of them, they tried to scratch their enemy.

  With a single slap, Flóregund was hurled several strides back and nearly fell off the cliff.

  It was all Luchy could manage to see, because the next thing she did was to close her eyes, relax, and kiss Manchego tenderly. It was no use.

  “Teitú! Help!” she shouted.

  I can only think of one more thing, said the Naevas Aedán. Sing the Lyric of the Wind!

  “What song is that? I don’t know it!”

  Repeat the words I’m going to give you out loud!

  She closed her eyes and sang, her voice filling the atmosphere. The sound seemed to multiply and echo.

  Those who sow with tears

  The seeds which in black fire lie,

  Through blackened sunset creeping

  On the alum, the darkening sky;

  A sea with darkness weeping

  Summon Thórlimás from the land.

  From the land of Tutonticám,

  Lost, lovely, remote Teitú,

  There walks firmly over the veil

  Over ships of white bamboo,

  Which on a purple sky sail,

  A warrior of the Naevas Aedán.

  Time spent in Chaos will pass by him

  Over the war a sadness

  Between its mighty supports,

  Where its dwelling shone in gladness

  Days passed in a peace of sorts,

  A place that remains destroyed.

  The old Lyric of the Wind sings that he

  Who bears the sack of seed with care,

  Heavy and somber, bent double,

  Will soon shine with joy so fair,

  His night disappear from the rubble,

  And his discontent never return.

  He opened his eyes.

  He blinked a couple of times in disbelief. He looked to one side and the other, then he fixed his eyes on those emeralds that were gazing at him with eternal love.

  “Luchy,” Manchego said. He smiled.

  Luchy returned the smile but then turned pale. What the—? The girl moaned with pain, then spat blood and collapsed on to Manchego’s reclining body.

  “Luchy! No! No!”

  Manchego took Luchy’s body in his arms. When he sat up, he saw that his most feared nightmare had come true. Wrath the Godslayer was buried in his beloved’s back—but it had not gone through.

  He was horrified. He came fully to his senses immediately, crying out in horror at the sight of his love turning pale, and behind her, the threatening figure of the God of Chaos.

  Mórgomiel was disconcerted to hear his opponent’s powerful warcry. He had expected to impale the girl and kill both lovers with the same sword stroke. Was there something in this universe that could prevent Wrath from sliding through a body? That cloak. The girl was protected by some thick material. This was not turning out as he had imagined. He had expected the elimination of the God of Light to be easy.

  He drew the sword from the wound just in time. In less than an instant, the God of Light had produced his spear of divine light and attacked.

  “Nooo,” howled the god of Light. Mórgomiel, taken aback, saw the spear moving toward his face and then plunging into his left eye.

  Teitú flew around the God of Light. God and Naevas Aedán joined forces once again. The seraph shone with intense color, a powerful crimson that flooded the space around them with blood-red.

  The God of Light began to stab the God of Chaos, piercing him through a thousand times in a single instant. Mórgomiel was weak. Without three of the pieces of his armor, he had lost vitality. He could not defend himself, he could not move away from the deadly attack that would soon bring his life to an end. He managed to raise a claw and strike a blow at Alac’s face, then he raised Wrath the Godslayer and plunged it into the God of Light’s leg. Alac howled in pain, but with a sure thrust, he buried his spear in the arm that held the sword. The God of Chaos was forced to withdraw his weapon. The wound in his leg winded Alac for a second, which was enough time for the God of Chaos to flee.

  “Coward! Come back! No! Luchy!”

  If he had been alone, Alac would have chased the God of Chaos and struck the final blow. But he could not. His beloved was bleeding to death and thanks to some divine force, her essence had not been sucked by Wrath the Godslayer.

  “My darling! No, no, no…”

  The elves! It was because of the elemín reinforcing the cloak! That’s why it didn’t go through!

  The God of Light was weeping his heart out.

  Manchego, Teitú said. I know it sounds cruel, but we must stop the God of Chaos. You always knew there would be a price, you always knew that someone important to you might die.

  “Yes, but not her! No, no, no, no! I’m furious with you, Teitú. You abandoned me at a crucial moment. I remember everything. Róganok is dead. This wouldn’t have happened if you were there.” There was hatred in Alac’s voice.

  You can’t hate me now. It’s not my fault. There’s no time for this! We must leave now!

  “That’s true,” Manchego admitted. He picked up Luchy’s body. It felt so fragile, so soft. She was dressed in a very elegant suit and the cloak, reinforced with e
lemín, protected her body.

  Manchego examined her back and then her abdomen, to check that the sword had only cut into her back. The wound was severe, deadly, but he had more time to help her than he had thought.

  “Come on!” said an elf Alac had not seen before. “She’s weak!” The elf was bleeding, but he was not dead.

  And Mojak? Teitú asked.

  “There he is,” the elf said. He smiled at the sight of his friend.

  Manchego raised his eyes to meet a character he had not seen before.

  “Mojak…” Luchy managed to murmur as a single tear ran down her cheek. The girl’s mouth was smeared with her blood and her skin was pale and cold.

  The giant Wild Man was on his knees, his head bowed. Mórgomiel hadn’t time to absorb his soul with Wrath, but he had delivered a severe blow that opened his abdomen. If it had not been for the intrinsic magic the Wild Man possessed, he might very well have been dead by now.

  When Mojak saw Luchy in the arms of the God of Light, he did not know whether he ought to praise and worship Alac or weep and try to help Luciella.

  Mojak got to his feet and did what his heart dictated: he helped Luchy. When the warrior stood up, Manchego was deeply impressed by his size, massive torso, and those hands as large as boulders. He was reminded of Balthazar, except for the fact that this Wild Man had no hair and didn’t speak a word.

  Mojak took Luchy from Manchego’s arms and hugged her with all his strength. He fell to his knees. While he cradled Luchy in his arms, pressing her against his face and chest, he roared like a wounded animal. He began to shine blue and the tattoo on his left arm flowed with calm energy. Luchy seemed to recover some of her color and the blood stopped flowing from the wound in her back.

  Mojak says he has stopped the internal hemorrhage, came Teitú’s thought. But Wrath’s poison still courses through her veins. He says he doesn’t know how to heal her from this poison.

  “Thank you, Mojak,” Manchego said. He took Luchy back in his arms and kissed her tenderly. “You came to help me. You saved my life, Luchy. You crossed impossible worlds and distances to come for me. Now, I’ll do the same for you. I love you. Oh, hell.” The pressure of sadness seemed to shatter him into fragments. He felt that if he did not manage to concentrate, he would succumb to the abyss of depression. “We’re leaving now! Teitú! To the Meridian!”

  Mojak walked with difficulty to the platform where the tremendous arch stood. Once on it, he raised his left arm and began to cast a spell. The tattoo shone angrily and from it flowed a sphere of energy that emerged from his hand, floated to the center of the arc, then scattered to create a vortex.

  Now it is your turn, Alac Arc Ángelo, Mojak thought through Teitú. It is your turn to play your part and stop Mórgomiel once and for all. Only you can achieve it.

  “Who are you?”

  Mojak gazed into Alac’s eyes. I am one of Mother’s vassals, and now it is my turn to give myself to the cause. This is my sacrifice. If I do not surrender, you will never activate the portal. Farewell. I hope you may still hold back the God of Chaos. Farewell, dearest Luchy. Remember me.

  “What!?” Flóregund cried. “What are you doing? Mojak! No!” He was trying to reach the Wild Man, but he was too slow. Mojak turned to bright dust the moment he had surrendered his body and soul to create the spell that would allow him to open the vortex. Without this spell of great power, they could have never returned to the Meridian.

  “Come on!” Alac cried. “We won’t let Mojak die in vain! The portal will close if we don’t make haste!”

  With Luchy in his arms, he crossed the threshold. Flóregund was weeping and for a single instant, he wanted to remain and see the Wild Man off. When the portal began to weaken, he gave a start and ran through to the other side.

  Chapter LVIII — The Fields of Flora

  Only eight rings of defense were left around the portal. The tide of orcs was using the brute force of their weight to their advantage, compressing the defenders around the portal itself.

  The space between the rings was shrinking. Soon, the distinction between the rings would be lost. When this happened, Chaos would reign and the orcs would have the way cleared for them.

  “Huh! Huh! Huh!” they shouted in unison, two thousand million of them at the same time. The sound of their victory made the hearts of the defenders tremble.

  Morale and will broke when the line of defense buckled. Leandro called the retreat and the defense was renewed.

  The general was not the only one who was staring at the Portal. It was not shining as though anyone was about to cross it. If Mórgomiel decided to send a handful of soldiers through, they would surely finish off the defense in a matter of minutes. Leandro was wondering why he had not already done so, though he could find no answer to his question.

  “Stop!” he ordered. His voice was lost among the war cries, the clangor of shields clashing against swords, and the cries of the dying.

  A group of fifty Mandrakian soldiers gave up hope. They climbed onto the platform and made their way to the Portal. What would happen if they crossed? Nobody had thought of trying. Suppose they could escape to another world? It was a stupid idea, because if Mórgomiel won this battle—which was very close to happening—the whole universe would be under imminent threat.

  The soldiers crossed the Portal. They disappeared. Where had they gone? Had they died? Fifty more saw them and followed their example.

  “The penalty for desertion is—!” Leandro could not finish his sentence, because on the horizon, over the distant mountains of the East, a ray of light pierced the darkness. Dawn had come! They had battled all night and now, at last, the sun was rising!

  The sky was cloudless. After a few minutes, the sunrise became visible as a luminous sphere rose, radiating its light. A carpet of liquid copper painted the world with its grace, revealing the true immensity of the army of orcs. They covered all the land as far as the eye could see.

  Mórgomiel’s servants were affected by the light. Some were blinded and others had doubt visible on their faces. The assumption had been that they would win this war like lightning, wiping out the impostor’s army in a matter of hours. But now that those beings of different cultures were still battling on, the first seeds of doubt had been sown.

  Courage, valor, and cunning grew among the defenders.

  Mondragón pointed at the portal. “General!” he shouted. The soldiers who had gone through it were coming back! Behind them were a group of men, women, and foreign beings!

  “Elgahar!” Leandro cried. There were tears in his eyes. He could not believe it. But the mage did not stop to greet him. The sky was now flooded by a beautiful sunrise and a colossal dragon was unleashing its fury on the never-ending sea of orcs.

  Leandro saw Elgahar clasp his hands. His eyes turned sky-blue with the energy shining from his hidden powers. The mage placed his hands on the ground, and where he was standing, there erupted two pulses of waves of expansive energy. The first wave of energy blue as the hottest fire hurled the orcs at the front several paces back, killing all the demons that came in contact with it. The second one, more powerful but less lethal, was like a hurricane and hurled the attacking lines almost fifty strides back. What was happening? The mage had created a space fifty strides across between the defense and the attackers. What was this for?

  The portal shone once again. He saw Turi gesturing everybody off the ramp so that some of them even had to jump off. What was on its way? Was it Mórgomiel’s hordes? Had he finally decided to send his legion?

  Leandro’s eyes stared wide when the first being with a horse’s back and man’s torso came out of the portal. He was armed from hooves to head in reinforced metal. A shield protected his chest and torso, and he held a sword in each hand.

  Behind the first horse-man, there emerged a steady stream of soldiers of the same race. They quickly filled the space Elgahar had created between the defense and the aggressors.

  The orcs were petrified. If there
was one thing they hated, it was the cavalry. They could be crushed easily under them. But these beings were much worse than simple horses. They had the body of a man and a horse like those giant he-goats. The attackers hesitated.

  Elgahar reached the general’s side. “Leandro! They’ve sent three hundred thousand centaurs to fight alongside us!”

  “Centaurs? You mean the horse-men?”

  “Yes!”

  A handful of centaurs were talking with Mondragón, Valímidos, and other leaders. They held large crates in their hands.

  “They’ve brought food and drink, General!” Mondragón shouted.

  “Assign a division to hand out rations as you see fit.”

  Leandro was still mounted on his horse and he knew that the poor beast was frightened at the sight of the centaurs and the giant he-goats, but it was trained to bite, crush, stamp, and even die if necessary. The general did not stop to eat and moved to the battlefront.

  The centaur introduced himself to Commander Mondragón. His words were translated by Tenchi. “General, I am Ostherlan, the general of the forces of Gatasclán! Your orders?”

  Leandro, seated on his horse, was now face to face with the centaur. His panic and the impression the newcomer had made on him were soon replaced by humility when he saw intelligence and patience in those eyes.

  He came out of his momentary paralysis and said, “General Ostherlan, you have come as a gift of the Gods at such a time as this precarious hour. They were about to checkmate us!”

  “What’s the strategy, man?” the centaur asked. Leandro explained as quickly as he could. Before he could give the order, Ostherlan was already leading the orchestra of three hundred thousand soldiers. The centaurs organized themselves in concentric rings and advanced toward the periphery.

  The orcs were still petrified. The sight of so many horse-men horrified them, in addition to which the sun was shining at its brightest. That was not a good sign. Where was the God of Chaos and the chieftains?

  A hundred thousand orcs died when the first ring of defense crashed against them. Nordost came down again, and his flaming breath caused the death of another thousand orcs. The lines of attackers fell apart and the orcs began to lose their cohesion.