Chapter XXXI- The fallen angel
Lombardo was trying to keep close to Lulita and Luchy, although he had no idea what was driving them to follow the flow of that river of the dead they had joined, brushing against all those dirty corpses in the process. It disgusted him.
He tried not to retch when Lula’s axe tore one of the bodies and the viscera, putrid and ill-smelling, slid down to the ground. The dead at least did not react to the living. He lost sight of them. He felt the adrenaline push him on, and overcoming his disgust he began to push and kick aside dead bodies so as to move faster. At first he felt he was being rude and even apologized, but then he told himself they were monsters and kept going without second thoughts.
He emerged from the river of the dead covered in blood and a nauseating stickiness. But his attention was focused on something else: an intense beam of green light connecting the sky with a deep abyss. He looked around in case he should catch a glimpse of the women, but could only see the dead, who were heading toward this abyss and falling in when they reached the edge.
“What’s going on?” the young man asked himself with his eyes staring in amazement. He had heard of necromancy, but had never given credit to the rumors. Could this be the explanation for the phenomenon?
At the edge of the hole the rancher found Lulita on her knees, weeping as she tore at her hair. When Lombardo went to her side he understood her despair: a beautiful demon, tall and slender, with a pale but powerful face, white-haired and with penetrating gray eyes, held by the neck a frail boy who was kicking for his life, while a transparent light flew around him like a drunken glowworm.
The dead at the bottom of the abyss reached out, trying to trap the young man. The wind changed direction. There came a furious blast and a red light covered the angel. Two huge and majestic wings grew from his back, and he took off in flight.
“My love! My love!” the grandmother cried desperately, reaching out her arms to the angel. What she saw before her was not a winged being but a new-born baby her husband was holding in his arms as he repeated: “Look after him! Look after him!”
Luchy stared at the divine being. It had Manchego’s face, yes, but she perceived fury and something more behind those eyes in which there was no trace left of her best friend. She wanted to embrace him, comfort him, but he was no longer Manchego, he was divinity incarnate who was magically equipped with spear, helmet and armor and was preparing for battle. Her eyes filled with tears when she saw him fighting a duel with the demon, hurling himself into the attack with a gaze that might have penetrated rocks. The demon on the other hand seemed calmer, with that ball of black energy in his hands.
She shed her first tear when the ball hit Manchego and enveloped him. She felt her heart break at being powerless to prevent the boy from falling, falling, falling… Luchy knelt down at the edge of the abyss and looked over it. There was Manchego, beaten, unconscious. Thousands of the dead in a pool of green lights pulled at his legs and arms, dragging him to the depths.
Manchego screamed as he came to, crying for a salvation that would never come. Little by little the abyss swallowed him and the world was struck dumb, unable to believe that an angel had been murdered. The beautiful and murderous demon was enjoying the moment, the echo of his cruel laugh reverberating in the village as if thunder was roaring. Before anybody knew it the demon had vanished, leaving in his wake the cemetery needed to bring him back to life.
The spiral cloud made contact with the light of the sun. The great tentacles which had stretched from the core were gradually reduced to shreds. The cloud stopped spinning, and the wind carried it away. When dawn was over, the only traces of that cloud were the memories of those who had seen it and the accursed abyss with its thousands of corpses.
The green light of the abyss went out. Not a single dead body remained outside it. Day had dawned stained in purple and orange, as if the blood which had been shed had reached the atmosphere. The light drained into the hole which had swallowed the Town Hall.
A bird was flying in the sky, solitary and solemn. Its gallant black wings, extended to their limit, glided against the wind. Lombardo watched it closely. He would have sworn it was a black owl. The bird gave a screech which sounded throughout the ruined village. The war was over.
Chapter XXXII-The silent vigil
The tobacco lit promptly and the flame grew.
“How do you wish to manifest yourself, blessed presence? Come to me… show yourself. I know you’re here, I can feel it, but… you elude me.”
The philosopher pronounced those words with his eyes fixed on a dawn dissolving in blue waters of fresh palms. The distant mountains had always been an inexhaustible source of inspiration for him. He watched with close attention, absorbed in the beauty of the landscape. An incalculable distance away something caught his attention. He inhaled smoke again, without looking away.
“Food is served!” the guards announced from behind the door.
The call startled him, so that he jumped with the shock; he could not get used to it and it seemed he would never learn to. Upset by the interruption, he started to feel annoyed.
“Breakfast time!” he said to himself, stroking the paunch he had been cultivating since he was young. “Mmmm, tasty… At least there’s something good within these meaningless four walls, whose only use is to take away time, no more than that. What would I give to be in my hut at this moment, without having these halfwits bothering me during my meditations… this business of castles and formalities isn’t my sort of thing at all. I don’t know why I ever said yes to working for royalty. Oh yes, the food! If you play with power, you’ll soon get your money paid back one way or another.”
He drew deeply on his pipe. Immediately he felt dizzy, but the sensation was delightful. He tipped the tobacco on to the ashtray and put the pipe away in his blue toga. He hid the tobacco so as to avoid the elders in the Council of Kings asking for a share. He had to look after those resources which helped him ripen his thoughts. “A philosopher can never be far from his inspiration,” the old man with the white beard said to himself.
He looked at the hat and rejected it with disdain; he detested it, more because it made him look like a sorcerer than for any other reason.
“Hey, the king’ll be angry if you’re late! We’re talking about his Majesty, for the gods’ sake!”
“I’m coming, I’m coming…they don’t even respect an old man these days.”
One of the guards rolled his eyes as if he hoped to find the necessary patience in the sky, and sighed. His partner slapped him on the back.
“It’s the same as always, chum. You know the philosopher’s never going to be punctual, he won’t give in. He rebels in his own way.”
“Quite honestly, I don’t blame him. The king can be pretty exasperating,” the other soldier replied, looking around to make sure no one had heard him.
***
The wind died down. Was it a storm developing in the south? The cold penetrated his bones and an ominous presentiment came over him. He smoked non-stop, like a chimney, as he studied the view from the highest tower. The faint, creamy light of the sunset spread as though on thousands of halberds in a fan, like a peacock’s tail. The sun was hiding on the horizon, the gray clouds would end up taking it to the depths of the night.
One, two, three glints appeared in the sky: the stars. Lying on his bed he closed his eyes and in seconds was asleep, still dressed. At midnight he woke, disturbed, bathed in a cold sweat and with his long white hair plastered to his skin.
And his round, chubby face trembled, he sniffed the air with his long straight nose and became aware of a somber scent. Something obscure was shaking, as if huge black wings, the wings of a demon, were beating on the other side of the window. He got to his feet in a clumsy leap and threw a robe over himself against the cold. He leant his head out of the window and felt the violence of the wind. A cloud in the shape of a shroud lay low on the horizon.
Was
all this real, or only a dream? He did not know what to say. He went back to bed, still damp with the sticky sweat. When dawn woke the world with its band of fire, he was certain that something was going on far away. He took the satchel where he kept his tobacco and pipe out of a drawer in his bedside table. He sat down in a chair, lit the pipe and began to sharpen his wits while he got ready to go out on the balcony to watch the progress of the sunrise.
There he sat down on the wooden bench. That black spot on the horizon had grown and… it was not moving. That’s not just any old cloud, he thought.
***
Sunset was advancing, over the chariot of night drawn by white horses, by magnificent swollen clouds, slightly angered by the caramel-orange tint that nibbled at them. A beam of sweet light came in through the window and landed on the rug in the philosopher’s room, where it created a luminous figure in the shape of an irregular rectangle.
The philosopher’s attention turned from the floor to the window. The composition of the horizon, with those clouds, looked unusual, and he went out on to the balcony to see better. The wind was behaving erratically. He inhaled twice and inspiration came to him. He could not take his eyes away from the black spot on the horizon.
He heard footsteps behind him and turned fearfully. It was a guard.
“Oh no! What d’you want now, you damned parasite?”
The guard went red with rage, but restrained himself before the friend of the General himself.
“Don Leandro Deathslayer is calling, master philosopher. He says it’s urgent,” the guard explained, instead of telling him what he had in mind.
“And what does he want now?” the philosopher spat out with pure disdain.
The idea of throwing the old man off the balcony crossed the guard’s mind.
“The General needs help with his sons. Karolina is away on a journey and Nanna Bromelia’s nowhere to be found.”
“By the blessed gods! Tell Leandro I’m not in!”
“Hell! The General’s said you have to come, and that’s that!” the guard shouted and left, seething. The philosopher sighed and followed his steps to the General’s rooms.
***
Leandro was frightened, as if he were facing a voracious fire, and in addition his face showed deep disgust as he watched the cradle apprehensively. When he saw the philosopher, he smiled gratefully.
“Gáramond! I need help urgently. Look at this mess, I don’t know what to do. Karolina left me instructions on how to change them, but… well, I just can’t. Help me, for the gods’ sake!” he begged in distress.
Since Karolina, Leandro’s wife, had gone to visit her mother in San Ántion, a distant village in the southwest of the Empire close to the city of Aldebarán, the General had had a number of difficulties with his twin children: coughing, runny noses, crying, bodily needs… But now it was something serious, something never seen before.
“Lift the blanket and you’ll understand,” he said, and moved away as if the cradle held a bomb ready to explode.
Gáramond, wise in many fields, believed he had seen everything and done everything. But when he lifted the blanket he was dumbstruck, both by the smell and the texture of that yellowish mess the two babies had apparently agreed to produce at the same time. And not only that, the little savages were playing with their excrement, throwing it in the air and spilling it all around. Their feet and hands were smeared with the stuff, even under their nails.
“Oh my god!” the philosopher exclaimed, taking a step back. “Your gods allow this, Leandro? How do you expect me to deal with a couple of babies when I’ve never had one myself?”
“I was hoping you’d find a solution,” he replied indignantly. “You’re always boasting that you know everything and you can do everything.”
“Of course! You can trust me for whatever you want, but this is something else. I don’t deal with babies’ number twos. You’re going to have to take on your responsibilities as a father and… get your hands dirty. I don’t see any other solution!”
Leandro Deathslayer had been a general for nearly twenty years. He had started in the army at an early age, and had soon earned the position for his competence as a soldier and his enviable gift for strategy. About his deeds myths and legends abounded. It was even said that he was the love-child of two dragons. Songs about him were sung in bars and taverns, something unusual for someone who was still alive, as many of those verses were dedicated to the heroes killed in battle.
The General had earned his last name, Deathslayer, after numerous battles against the necromancer and his minions. If his subordinates could see him terrified by baby poop, he would lose his entire reputation in an instant. He remembered he had never been happier than when his wife Karolina had told him she was pregnant a month after the wedding, and when later on those two beautiful twins had been born. But now he felt at the mercy of those little ones.
At that moment Bromelia, the castle nanny, came to the rescue of those two men who were incapable of changing a diaper. She was in her fifties, flat-faced, with thick arms and legs, wide hips and buttocks and a generous bosom.
“Oh no!” she was saying crossly. “Come on, you don’t need either a firm hand or a soft one here! So much fighting against warriors and no courage in the face of your own blood’s poop… You’re tough enough, Don Leandro! You’ll have to learn to do these things, for goodness’ sake! I’m not always going to be at hand to get you out of these messes…” the woman complained while she looked for what was needed to clean the babies. “So what’s all the fuss, then? Didn’t Doña Karolina tell you how to do this? It’s so easy, for goodness’ sake…”
The nanny worked diligently before the shocked gaze of both men. All the same, they stayed at a safe distance.
“Oh my pretty little ones, here’s Nanna coming to change you,” the big woman chanted as she feasted her eyes on those babies who had the pale skin of their mother, one green-eyed and the other blue. “Now watch,” the nanny said, turning to the General. She began her instructions: “One, two, three, you wipe, you lift the little legs, clean along the cleft, wipe off the main part of the business, lift the little legs again, clean the back, dry in front and behind, and put on the diaper. And the same with the other baby…”
When she had finished the woman picked up both babies, one in each arm, and began to rock them to the rhythm of a song only she could hear. “And have you thought what you’re going to call your children?” she asked in a low voice. “You must choose very carefully.”
On occasions the woman slipped into the southern accent of the Empire, in spite of the years she had spent in the north.
Gáramond sighed deeply, not hiding his disdain for Bromelia. It bothered him to have to deal with her. He turned to Leandro. To his distaste, the man was all tenderness. His character had softened too much. It occurred to him that fatherhood might be an inconvenience for the Empire. “Come with me,” he said suddenly, to stir the General from his besotted staring. “There’s something you have to see. I’ve found out the origins of my unease about the future at last.”
The General’s face twisted. The philosopher never erred when talking.
***
“What the hell is that, Gáramond?” Leandro demanded, clearly worried. “The clouds are organized around a black spot… as if it were attracting them.”
“Exactly! Now, let’s think: what is black, doesn’t move, floats and attracts clouds?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“You’ve said it in the best way possible. I have no idea either, Leandro. But in any case it’s nothing good.”
Leandro looked out at the road to the southeast. Although night was falling he saw a rider approaching, galloping hell for leather. Gáramond saw him too, but only when he was closer to the castle. He rode through the huge city of Háztatlon to reach its center: the Imperial Palace, protected by a white wall the height of a great tree. Leandro turned and Gáramond followed him.
; The General ordered ten soldiers to get to their posts on the wall and prepare their bows and arrows. He ordered his horse to be brought and three other riders to arm themselves as quickly as possible. The old gate rose. There was no moat around the palace wall given its extraordinary thickness, around six feet.
Meanwhile Gáramond looked on, not understanding, and moved uneasily among the soldiers. The General and his entourage went out to the wide open area behind the wall to receive the rider, who was galloping as though whipped by a demon. Leandro swore under his breath. There was nothing he hated more than solitary riders galloping like that. It would not mean good news.
He prayed to the god of light in the hope that the message would not be too serious. A crowd had gathered outside the palace, curious about the rider’s haste, but careful not to step over the permitted limit on pain of instant death without warning.
Leandro unsheathed his sword, but calmed his readiness to fight when he saw that the rider was covered in blood. It did not take him long to recognize the badge of the Empire on the man’s armor.
“By the gods! Get him off the saddle right away and take him to the healer!”
The soldiers helped the rider, who was carrying a gray hairy bundle, smeared with mud and saliva, on his knees.
A crowd gathered outside, and the murmurs ran swiftly to spread news of the arrival of a blood-covered soldier. The rumors reached the taverns and seedy, down-at-heel alehouses of the Imperial city.
Leandro placed the gray hairy bundle on his horse’s saddle. It was an exhausted dog. It was breathing, although irregularly. Some day, the General would find out that a young shepherd used to call him Rufus.
The horse was deeply afraid. Red foam issued from its nostrils, its ribs were an accordion which sounded ceaselessly with a horrible whistle. The animal was on the point of death. Leandro had already witnessed this: horses which run and run without stopping, without restraint, and then, after carrying out their mission, die.
The Sacrifice (The War of the Gods Book 1) Page 19