Shepherd’s Awakening (Books 1-3)

by Pablo Andrés Wunderlich Padilla

  “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 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 rider was delirious. He had a high fever and turned and twisted in his sleep. The healer had assured them that he would recover, that it was simply a question of dehydration.

  A soldier had recognized him. He said his name was Felix, that he was a bailiff and that judging by his armor, he must come from the remote village of San San-Tera. What could he be doing so far from the place he had promised to protect? Leandro too wondered about this. The bailiff was gaunt, as if he had fled from the devil.

  “Come, my lord,” a servant announced.

  The General, followed by Gáramond, went over to the convalescent, who had awoken with a mask of horror and terrible halitosis. “It’s an honor to be in your presence, my General.” Felix said.

  He coughed without covering his mouth. Gáramond stepped back in disgust to avoid the spluttering of saliva.

  “The village, my lord… the village where I used to live has been taken by higher forces; a despot has taken command of everything.” The man’s gaze lost its focus. “Destruction… desolation! They’re dead. They’re all dead. The Mayor… the soldiers were bewitched, my General, I’ll swear! I’ve never fought against Némaldon, but I’m sure it was all the result of their magic…”

  The servants in the room fell silent. There came the noise of a metal tray shaking. Behind the door, the soldiers whispered.

  Leandro shivered, as he did every time he heard the words Némaldon or Black Arts. Gáramond remembered the blood-covered armor, the ho
rse overborne by the fatigue of a desperate flight, and put two and two together. The two of them looked at one another. The philosopher trembled as he recognized the decision his friend was about to make.

  “Pack your things and prepare to go light,” he said firmly. “Today we travel southeast, to San San-Tera.”

  Gáramond was on the point of objecting but was unable. Against Leandro’s determination, which was as solid as the iron of swords, there was no possible move.

  Chapter XXXIII – A Necromantic Spell

  The stench of putrefaction was perceptible from leagues away. In addition, flocks of crows and buzzards flying over the village were confirmation to Leandro that he would have to deal with the Black Arts. That stench of death and desolation reminded him of the southern borders, the graveyard and the doomed land of Aegrimonia.

  When they were half a league from the outskirts of the village the cavalry column reined in their gallop to a peaceful trot in case there was a trap waiting for them. Uncertainly, the soldiers readied their spears. The horses scented their restlessness.

  The banners with the emblems of the Empire fluttered in the nauseating air. As they entered the village the General’s gaze took in all that absolute destruction. His heart sank.

  Everything was in ruins, burnt; worms of smoke rose to the sky, but there was not a single corpse, which was strange given the stench of decay. Maybe they would find the bodies further on. Leandro raised his fist and the column stopped. Around, there was nothing but silence. After a long anxious wait, Gáramond came up to him.

  “My General, the men await your orders.”

  “We’ll go on, but only a group of ten. We might be about to fall into a trap. The Nemaldines, those sons of their bewitched mothers, play very dirty,” he said under his breath. “Lomans! You stay out here with the cavalry. Philosopher, with me. I want you to observe everything and take notes. No buts.”

  The philosopher lowered his eyes. He did not wish to go on through those streets; he was no warrior. His only weapons were words and rational thought. But the order was unequivocal, and disobeying it might mean he ended up with his head on a pike.

  The selected group trotted on, keeping a close eye on their surroundings. They all carried spears and shields. Leandro carried only a sword, on whose blade the evening light was reflected. He also stood out by virtue of his helmet, with a red tail on its point, and the white stallion he rode.

  As they advanced, they were able to confirm the total desolation. Every corner, every bend was charred black. As they approached the center, the General felt a presentiment of evil.

  They reached the Central Park. There the statue of Alac Arc Ángelo was broken into scattered pieces: the wings separated, the spear broken, the head severed. There was also a deep hole, blocked by ruins and rocks. It was at this point, above the abyss, that the crows and buzzards crowded.

  Leandro peered down into the abyss and immediately shivered. Thousands of corpses were piled on top of one another, gutted, dismembered, their innards dried up. With a great effort he restrained the urge to throw up on the spot. Two soldiers did not manage; another wept. The General moved away, unable to bear the sight anymore. He had never faced a holocaust on such a scale.

  He went to Gáramond, who was following the flight of a black bird with broad wings. The other soldiers were absorbed by the philosopher’s deep contemplation.

  “An owl…” he muttered.

  Dragging footsteps came from behind the group.

  “Halt!” a soldier cried to the intruder, whose face was covered with ash. “In the name of the King, stop there! Identify yourself immediately!”

  The lances pointed menacingly, ready to attack. The intruder wiped her face with a sleeve. It was a girl with beautiful eyes and an expression of sadness. An elderly woman came to stand beside her. She was golden-skinned, and her stance was heavy with the same sadness. They were joined by another woman, a big one, with the same golden skin; then there came other men and women. Leandro stared in amazement.

  “They’re survivors! Call the rest of the cavalry!” he called out. “And secure the perimeter of the village!”

  Gáramond noticed the deep sorrow in the General’s eyes. He knew that the times had changed, that something dramatic had happened in this place. The Empire, after enjoying relative peace for so many centuries, was facing a new wave of terror.

  “Lulita… what in the name of the divine Gods happened here?” asked the General. He knew the Wild Woman, as she had served the ranks in the past.

  “He’s dead… gone… my little angel was taken from me… the demon… the beautiful demon… the demon…”

  General Leandro Deathslayer recognized the terror in the eyes of the survivors, the extreme psychological burden of the pestilence carried by the damnation brought by a necromancer.

  “Come, Lulita. Please tell us everything you saw,” asked Gáramond, offering his hand to the aged Wild Woman. She looked so frail, defeated, as if death was about to take her too.

  “My… Sunshine… is gone,” she said in a whisper. Luchy began to whimper inconsolably. Soon, every survivor approached the abyss, knelt on its edge, and cried their hearts out for those who had been vilely used, their souls raped, their bodies mangled, for no other purpose than to bring a demon back to life.

  Epilogue

  His nose guided him through the palace, following that smell of freshly baked bread, corner after corner. He reached the kitchen, where Macadamio was baking bread in the firewood oven for the King’s supper. The scent brought back memories that clutched at his heart, and he almost broke into a howl. He decided to do nothing, just lie and watch the day unfold. He missed the boy, missed going to the Observatory every day. He missed the Ranch, and the household animals, missed Lulita, missed Balthazar…

  Every time he saw grass, he felt the need to jump and roll in it. But his little master with the smiling face was nowhere to be seen. He had disappeared or… died.

  The smell of bread invaded the kitchen. He raised his eyes and saw the butler taking the bread out, putting it on a rack and starting to cut it carefully. That smell, the crunch of the crust, were a torture. His mouth watered. He found a few crumbs on the floor and licked them eagerly. He sat on his haunches and looked up at the butler with his best forsaken-dog’s face.

  “Oh, you wanderer…” Macadamio said tenderly. “You know you shouldn’t be in the kitchen. Come on then, come here and have some of this bread. Careful, it’s still hot. Now go out and play, and be careful about the mischief you do in the garden, because Abanthina’s keen to catch you red-pawed.”

  He left the kitchen with the bread in his mouth and went out to the garden, where he lay down to enjoy his treat. The breeze caressed his gray fur and lifted the fringe from his near-blind eyes.

  The sun was going down, and through the branches of a tree with spear-shaped leaves it drew a laborious lace pattern on the ground. The dog was moved by the memory of another evening, as far away as the distant mountains on the horizon. He felt a deep wave of emotion; his heart pounded. He looked to his left. He was not there, sitting beside him and leaning against the Great Pine: the boy he would always love, with an eternal loyalty.

  Nanna Bromelia came out with the twins in her arms. Gabriel and Nickolathius—Leandro and Karolina had finally given them names—were intoxicated with the beauty of the sunset too.

  “Look at the little dog, how he’s eating his bread…. Oh, how cute! Children, say hello to the dog.”

  The twins paid no attention. Rufus, on the other hand, felt deeply attracted to them; perhaps he was beginning to need new friends to play with. He wanted to get to know them and look after them. It would be almost like getting back something of the boy he kept in his heart.

  He barked a couple of times and put his rough tongue out of his muzzle. In response the children laughed and wriggled free of the nanny’s arms. She set them on the ground gently. One of them, the one with the blue eyes, crawled over and tried to grab his t
ongue.

  “Rufus! Good boy! Come on!” The echo of Manchego’s voice rang in his mind, bringing intense feelings back to him. He saw him in his memory, the way he used to run through the fields, through the pastures, happy and full of dreams, with the sunlight on his face. What a beautiful smile.

  What he would give to be able to wake him up in the mornings, lick his face and see him smile! What he would give to be able to run on the fields of the Ranch, even for a single day! His spirits sank, but seeing those twins, radiant and happy, soothed him.

  He looked up at the sky, called by an unusual whisper. His eyes drank from a beam of light that pierced a fluffy white cloud, which changed shape gradually until it took on that of an angel. Rufus barked, ran in circles, at once excited and confused. The cloud seemed to be smiling. The cloud looked very much like his master. Would he ever see him again?

  The End

  Shepherd’s Awakening

  (Fallen Gods Book 2)

  Pablo Andrés Wunderlich Padilla

  Part I

  Chapter I – Hero of the Day

  Morning was spreading across the horizon in a copper fan. The quiet was such that if there had been candles lit, their flames would have stayed tall and motionless. But despite the peace of the bright day, the soldier found no comfort, for a great sorrow gripped his soul. A somber day, just like my foul mood; like my damn life, he thought.

  A nascent ray of the sun caressed his chest, but he did not let himself be moved by its warmth. With his gaze, he followed the course of that long, bright finger and was silent in envy. Not far away, another man was smiling because of the caress the soldier had disdained. From his appearance, he might have been a merchant; whatever the case, he had known success.