A couple of strides away the boy raised his sword, ready to let it fall on the demon and cut it in two with a single stroke. The sword flew gracefully, cutting the air and the particles of dust. It reflected the light of the fire burning in the village. Manchego pivoted and put all his weight on the blow which was going to kill the demon.
Paralysis.
A hair’s-breadth from making contact with the demon’s pale, beautiful skin, Manchego froze. He lost control of his body, though not of his thoughts. He panicked, knowing himself so near and at the same time so far from his goal. Teitú’s light went out.
The beautiful being spun with a fluidity that was graceful and poetic. On its face was a smile brimming with irony and evil. Its hair—long, thin, white fibers—fell around its shoulders and fluttered with the wind. It was three heads taller than Manchego, broad-shouldered although not muscular. It fixed its gaze on the boy. It had intense grey eyes which seemed not to belong to it.
Its smile twisted. It seized the boy by the neck, lifting him over the accursed crack. Manchego dropped the sword, his eyes filled with tears; he realized he had no air to breathe and his face became congested with blood. The demon awoke terror and admiration in him. It was staring at the boy curiously; perhaps it could not explain how someone who looked so weak could show such courage. Manchego watched it in turn.
Those gray eyes emanated a very strange power, as if they could see across time and space. They were supernatural.
Manchego’s heart beat with fear as he recognized those eyes as the source of the evil. The demon smiled, satisfied as it realized the weakness the boy had sunk into, then a growing annoyance twitched in its face. It had recognized this busybody. It squeezed his neck harder, its lips turned to two threads of deep anger. “Alac Arc Ángelo?”
Manchego lost feeling in his legs, then in his hands. At the same time something inside him began to stir vigorously, to be reborn, as though a sun were being born inside him. He began to emit beams of white, divine light in his desperation to escape the asphyxia that was killing him. Below, the dead raised their hands, anxious to take Manchego with them, down to the bottom of the accursed abyss.
“You managed to escape from my servants, the assassins of the Brotherhood of the Crows, and your saviors kept you well hidden for thirteen long years, but during this time of waiting I never suspected that the God of Light would reincarnate in such a feeble body…” the demon said gravely. “You’ve done me the favor of coming to me, and now I myself will take it upon me to cut you to pieces.
“By the grace of Mórgomiel, God of Chaos, Father of the Universe, God of Evil, today I shall defeat the God of Light once and for all. Die!”
Teitú was flying around Manchego, full of frustration. It did not know what to do to help the boy, whose face was already purple.
“Naevas Aedán,” the evil being went on, “when your master dies, you will die with him. Your God, Thórlimás, succumbed in the presence of my master Mórgomiel. Soon you will both join him.”
By now Manchego could hear nothing. In fact he had lost all his senses and now all that he had left was a force that burnt in the center of his soul. He was aware that he was going to die of suffocation, and in spite of that he felt an internal peace which he did not want to abandon him.
Amid so much commotion, he found a dormant beam of light waiting for its moment to come forth. Without knowing how, Manchego caused it to surge into life and send forth a lightning-flash of powerful magic. The blast radiated clemency everywhere.
His shoulder-blades began to tremble. He felt a deep pain in his back. Something was growing continuously, violently tearing his skin apart. There burst forth two limbs with powerful muscles and long bones, which stretched vigorously. Manchego felt he had received a supernatural gift. With his new strength he slipped free from the hand that was squeezing his neck and with an explosion, hurled himself towards the sky.
Two gallant wings, white and plumed, lifted him with a grace which only a God could possess. He was so beautiful that he illuminated the whole scene with his white radiance, which bellowed, defeating the shadow. The demon covered its face, blinded by a light that was too white, too brilliant.
From nowhere Manchego took out a spear of solid light, as long as it was heavy; in his other hand appeared a shield made of the same strange material. Around his head formed a helmet of pristine metals and his body acquired a covering of armor. The God of Light emerged in all his splendor. He raised the spear in the air with a threatening flash of brightness. Teitú flew around him, orbiting close to its master. The God, who had never taken his eyes off his goal, prepared to attack. He beat his wings and hurled himself toward the demon like an arrow.
The demon did not cower before its mortal enemy, the same one who had sent Mórgomiel to the rubble during the Times of Chaos, when the battle between the Gods had begun.
The evil one gave a hair-raising growl. Voices whose origin it was impossible to determine began to cheer on the being in chorus: “Legionaer, Legionaer, Legionaer…” Legionaer moved his hands and from them issued a ball of black energy.
It would only have taken the God of Light a few seconds to defeat a rival like this, but he had only just recovered his powers and felt like an inexperienced soldier who has just been sent to the battlefield. He poured all his hatred and all his frustration against the evil being, but Legionaer was waiting for him.
The black ball flew like a missile, leaving behind a wake of shadows. The spell enveloped the God in a web of dark threads which began to burn his skin in a furious rain of sparks, which immediately began to scorch his flesh. Alac Arc Ángelo lost strength, the spear vanished like vapor.
He was falling… falling… Below, the dead reached out to receive him. He felt those bloated hands touch his body, seize his wings.
“Nooooo! Noooo!”
Hundreds of hands pulled him towards the accursed abyss. They enveloped him. The boy glimpsed cracks of light as he was sucked down by the demonic forces. Around him everything was green, and fire licked his skin.
“Nooooo! Noooo!” he cried again, reaching out a hand to Teitú, who joined in the fall, faithful to his master.
Legionaer laughed, and his laughter traveled through the village, passing through streets and walls, spreading the news that he had killed the resurrected God of Light. Those who witnessed this would always remember this moment which shriveled their souls.
The demon, conscious of his mission, left without delay, leaving the destruction of the village which had been used for the sacrifice to continue.
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, 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 newborn 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 onto 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.
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.
Shepherd’s Awakening (Books 1-3) Page 20