Shepherd’s Awakening (Books 1-3)

by Pablo Andrés Wunderlich Padilla

  The soldier wished he were that man; his life would be so much easier. Annoyed, he went on his way toward the watchtowers to carry out his daily routine. A rooster crowed. The bells of the Décamon announced six in the morning. The sound of carts, stalls, and vendors were already rising from the central market.

  The children ran after their mothers, greedy at the sight of the baskets full of fruits and sweets. The street dogs ran in and out of people’s legs in case something fell to the ground. The soldier went on in the shade, warily watching the hive of activity.

  Ágamgor was a unique metropolis in the Mandrake Empire. Her people had become used to living only a few leagues from Némaldon, the core of evil. The city had suffered too many sorrows, too many spells, and too many curses. It was used to talk of fights against orcs and other monsters. Unlike Vásufeld and Érliadon, which were known for their progress in the human sciences, Ágamgor could not boast of culture, art, or literature, apart from legends of heroic warriors. Here, what took pride of place was military progress, the manufacture of weapons, and the comfort of brandy.

  Trumbar Gémorgorg, the soldier who had taken refuge in the shade, arrived at his post. He was stopped by a fat feminine hand, a breath of corncob, and a rusty knife. He knew at once it was that tedious woman.

  “You’re late again. Son of a bitch, we’re sick of your … your shifty low-class unpunctuality.”

  Amagma was the supervisor: a gap-toothed woman with a face full of craters and well-rounded buttocks. She wore her hair very short in a masculine style. The only thing Trumbar would have kept out of those features he loathed was her nose, small and almost pretty. Her armor reflected the dawn.

  Most of the women were like her in this part of the Empire since a military city, above all, needs to find room for mercenaries, soldiers, and those with experience in war. A good number of whores who gave birth to the bastards who would end up forming the militias.

  That was why the typical Ágamgor woman was rough and powerful, and the typical man was smelly, square, and had a bushy mustache. Other regions of the Empire considered this city to be inferior because of its strange customs and the ugliness of its people. Those of Ágamgor replied that the Empire would not exist were it not for them and their successful fight against Némaldon. To be born in Ágamgor meant taking up arms sooner or later, patrolling frontiers, killing orcs, and decapitating deserters.

  Trumbar did not reply to the woman. He lowered his gaze and stared at the ground. It was better if the supervisor did not see the fierce hatred coming out of his eyes. Inside, he felt an accumulation of rage and a desperate urge to fight that he found hard to keep in check. He could barely contain himself, and he knew that someday the bomb would go off.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he muttered. “It won’t happen again.”

  Amagma looked him up and down. “Always the same thing. Don’t you understand what your work means?” She spat on the ground. “You second-rate bastard! You know full well that every watch-guard has to be scrupulous about following their schedule. I should report you to the duke so he can tie you to a post and whip you. That would be just the thing for you, you piece of shit. You’re useless, Trumbar. I know where you’re from, I know you’re originally from Némaldon, and that a man born in that land is cursed forever.”

  The woman made to slap his face. Trumbar did not flinch. I hope the devil possesses you and drives you mad, he thought maliciously. He gave her a sarcastic smile and passed by.

  ***

  The watchtower that protected the southeastern front was deeply important for both the Mandrake Empire and the people of Ágamgor. After the battle of Maúralgum four hundred years ago, Némaldon had never recovered its strength but went on trying to cross the border. After so many defeats, it seemed that Némaldon had given up.

  All the same, some believed that someone was making new plans. Whatever the case, the times were prosperous, and that was why after so many centuries of peace, the rulers had reduced their reinforcements and Omen had withdrawn the wizards from their quarters.

  Trumbar went into one of the two lookouts which protected the front. It was so tall that from its top, he could make out the great military city like a carpet of rock and metal. His post was called the Teutónomus. Sahfalhas was in charge of the Valley of the Spell, and Pómotor kept watch on the border where the Devonic Mountains of the Simrar stood.

  A cart arrived at the sentry box. From above, the guards, including Trumbar, readied themselves in case they needed to attack. Under the visor of his metal helmet, he savored the hope of shedding blood soon. It was his catharsis, his way of freeing the cloud of sorrows which had wounded his soul. At the tips of his fingers, he felt the tightness of the bowstring and his galloping heart rate.

  “It’s just a grain cart!” someone shouted from the sentry box. They all relaxed except for Trumbar, whose urge for war still throbbed in his fingers. He licked his dry lips and forced himself to stay calm.

  “Bloody Nemaldines,” said Boargh, a great ape of a man a head taller than Trumbar with a good belly and a prominent beard. “After four hundred years, we still feel threatened. Sons of bitches… And those orcs keep ambushing our farmers and our honest workers at every opportunity.”

  Boargh was redheaded, something very rare in these parts. The big man was skillful with the hammer and was known for his brutal strength. More than that, he was one of the few whose helmet was not equipped with a visor and who never used a shield to protect himself. He claimed that his great size was already protection enough against the iron of weapons.

  Loktos came up a few minutes later, very cheerful as usual. He was young and beardless, his shoulders wide and his waist narrow, and his legs strong. He raised as many glances as he did skirts. Like the other soldiers, he covered himself with tanned leather, a metal breastplate, and a coat of chainmail. To top it all, he wore a pointed helmet with a visor. They were trained in the use of different weapons: bows, swords, hammers, and shields. You have no idea how much I hate you, little man, Trumbar thought. I can’t stand that perennial smile, those bright eyes, or the fact that you’re always so happy. I wish you’d die and be swallowed up by the devil, Loktos.

  “Hello there! My good friend Trumbar. How are you?”

  Trumbar did not say a word but stared at the ground.

  “Leave him, Loktos,” Boargh said to break the silence. “You know our friend starts to grumble if he doesn’t see blood. He gets into that foul bloody mood of his.”

  “Be patient, Trumbar,” Loktos said. “The day will come when you’ll have your fill of blood.”

  The young man followed the other tower guards. Laconic though he was, Trumbar was appreciated for his skill with weapons. Besides, nobody wanted to have him for an enemy, particularly knowing that warlike pulse that burnt within him.

  Trumbar’s gaze penetrated the floor of the lookout. He could not free himself from the whirlwind of negative thoughts that were slowly gnawing away at his soul.

  Chapter II – A Winter of Ill Omen

  He did not know how he had come to this rock he was sitting on in the middle of a misty field that was hard to penetrate. Something bright with tiny wings was flying about him, circling ceaselessly. Nothing moved, not even the air.

  Time went by. How long? Who knew? There was no way of measuring it. Perhaps it did not even make sense to speak of time; perhaps he was on a plane alien to the coordinates of space and time. He stayed on the rock, trying to decipher what was going on in his confused mind.

  What am I doing in such a strange place? The thought lost itself and vanished.

  He stared at the gray thing that was changing all the time. Black and white spots moved on a distant screen. The little light fluttered around his head, making a halo. He was fascinated by those wings that beat up and down with a harmony he could barely have imagined. Imagine? The word sounded familiar.

  He could not say exactly what it meant, and when he tried to grasp the idea that had slipped into his head, he fai
led. He got to his feet and started to wander; there was no place he could think of going to. After a while, a vague memory came to him.

  It was a girl with emerald eyes, rosy lips, and long chestnut hair. The girl was a real beauty. That face stung his heart, and the pain spread throughout his body. He squatted down disconsolately and burst into tears. The tears vanished before they touched the gray earth. The tiny being that accompanied him was shining now with a color between red and pink. It seemed that it wanted to tell him something.

  He was assailed by another memory: a tall pine, robust and welcoming, with himself leaning against the trunk, watching dawns and sunsets. He wished he could enjoy a moment like that here. He looked into the distance. He found relaxation in the gray screen. This world felt too alien, and there was nothing to hold on to so that he could understand it, except that rock he had sat down on and the luminous being that was changing color all the time.

  He forced himself to keep walking, head down, outcast, with no destination. After a while, he decided to stop again, but this time with a clear purpose. He had to find something. He did not know what and nor did he understand the urgency, but the wish was very strong. He looked to either side, up and down. There was nothing but the gray screen. The ground was a flat gray area, completely featureless. He decided to lie down for a while to get over his grief, even though he was not tired. Maybe he had been in the habit of lying on the ground in another time, another dimension, another world…

  Relaxed on the ground, he allowed himself to be carried away as he watched the seraph, divine and luminous, that never left his side. He smiled. It was as if this tiny creature were protecting him.

  He closed his eyes and dreamed.

  Chapter III – The Wandering Traveler

  The moon covered the night with a silver veil that clung to the treetops. In the air floated the peculiar scent of the soil of this region; it was not a pleasant one. Its frivolous dwellers, the Mandrakians from the blasphemous Mandrake Empire, had betrayed Mother four hundred years before. In retaliation, they had been given back this unnatural odor as if they had violated the fields. He had been wandering for weeks, usually by night because the empty roads brought him the peace he craved. Besides, when everybody was asleep, the blackness reflected his past for him, before he had betrayed Mother.

  He ought to have died during the ritual of the Sacred Battle when Mother herself made her creatures fight until only the strongest remained and became the leader of the clan. But he disobeyed and was defeated. And he did not let them cut off his head.

  The wind whirled around his almost naked body. He covered his genitals with wyvern skin, a sacred reptile of Devnóngaron. His torso, uncovered, bore the tattoo that marked him as the leader of his clan. From his belt hung his axe. He had not eaten properly in weeks. Sorrow had sunk him into a dark well, but he was out now, ready to change his life. He would never again be the Wild Man he had once been, even though he knew he would have to learn to live with his memories, which would never leave him. For that reason, he had to find a new way, but he had no idea how.

  The Mandrake Empire was too wide, and there were any number of unfortunates who had strayed from Mother’s teachings, her purity, and her gifts.

  A gust of wind bearing a familiar smell alerted him. It was some animal of the night, grazing. Hunger propelled him to follow the scent. He took his axe and moved slowly toward his goal. With a swift stroke, he severed the animal’s jugular, reciting some verses dedicated to nature as he did so. Then, he closed the eyes of the creature whose life he had taken in order to survive.

  Months went by. The wanderer continued on his way, sometimes along scarcely traveled roads, keeping away from the checkpoints of the north of the Mandrake Empire, and seeking instead the little-guarded depths of the south. Sometimes, he went into small villages and met good Samaritans who offered him a snack, but usually, he had to deal with the typical Mandrakian who detested him for being a Wild Man away from his place of origin. They all knew that a Wild Man would never leave his sacred land unless Mother had banished him. This life drove him to begging.

  He went parallel to the roads in search of any opportunity, avoiding being seen by other travelers. On one occasion, the agents of the authority had tried to take him prisoner – there was no more highly valued slave than a wildborn of good size and well-developed muscles – but he managed to evade them easily; all he had to do was dive into nature, and there he would lose himself like a ghost. By good or bad luck, the wandering traveler became aware that a group of deserters had found him and were following him.

  He had learned that deserters were the worst defect of the Empire, condemned by the Council of Kings to the misfortunes of a life without honor or glory. All the same, this group emanated an energy he felt he could identify with.

  He blended into the forest and sharpened his senses without losing sight of his pursuers. The noise of laughter and footsteps became clearer. They spoke in the language of the Empire, which he did not understand.

  “Where is that son of a bitch?” roared a cavernous voice.

  “Piece of shit, he must’ve hidden in the brush. I told you, you band of no-goods, that the bastard would vanish in a matter of seconds if you made any noise.”

  “Grono! Grono! Grono!”

  “Shut up, you bloody halfwit! Or else we won’t be able to find him. And I still don’t understand, oh great Mérdmerén, why you had to employ a mental defective,” said another voice.

  “Every member of the group has their own function, Ofesto,” the leader pointed out. “Let’s keep on looking, you pile of human wrecks. He can’t be far away. I’m telling you: this Wild Man is our escape route from this shitty life of ours. I’ll cut you loose, and then maybe I’ll be able to get back the honor those sons of whores took away from me. Don Cantus of Aligar and Don Loredo Melda will pay,” said the voice of the aforementioned Mérdmerén.

  “Oh, go and get fucked by the sword, Mérdmerén.”

  “Grono! Grono!” the fool chanted.

  The wandering traveler laughed to himself. Those ridiculous criminals were two steps away, and yet they would never find him.

  Hours later, the group of unfortunates paused for lunch. They lit a small fire and shared some foul-smelling food. There were two women: one of them was having sex with a partner, and the other was eating with her mouth open and spluttering. The others were occupied with preparing the food and filling the place with garbage. The man called Grono was sharpening his swords.

  The Wild Man was astonished. They were the most disgusting people he had ever seen, yet they attracted him. Maybe this was the final proof that his soul was rotten. He stayed hidden, not missing a single detail about the group that had stirred so much interest in him.

  Chapter IV – Ergo

  “Do you want anything to eat? I can make you whatever you fancy,” she said hopefully. Trumbar’s wife was slim, with an attractive body, small breasts, and long legs. She was pale-skinned with hair as black as her large eyes, which were like tunnels into the soul.

  Her features were fine: delicate nose, oval jaw, and finely-drawn lips. She wore a silk frock, the one her mother had given her for her honeymoon and whenever she wished to awaken desire. In fact, she did not need any special dress since she felt comfortable with her face and body. She knew she was sensuous and attractive, but there were times when, as she faced her husband’s failed gaze, she felt like running away.

  “No, thanks,” he replied, avoiding eye contact. “I ate on my way home.”

  Trumbar remained still, in silence. There was a moment when he opened his mouth but said nothing. As usual, the man ‒ he was tall and definitely on the large side ‒ walked out of the room without a word.

  He had not been like this before; he had never been a man of few words until the accident. Ferlohren watched him as he walked away, and with each step her husband took, she felt her soul falling to pieces. She bit her lip, and her eyes filled with tears. She flung a robe over the sil
k which covered her body and went to the kitchen to get herself something to eat. Soon she would be going to work and would be able to forget the unhappiness of her home. At work, her colleagues would pay compliments to her and brighten her day.

  She prepared a tamal of rice and potato. It was an everyday menu in the poor quarter. A sentry box soldier did not make good money, unlike the militiamen in the service of the duke, who provided them with quantities of food for themselves and their families. When she had finished the tamal, she bent over and took out the bottle of wine from its hiding place. She raised it so hastily that a little of the crimson dribbled down her chin. Welcome, toxins. Welcome, madness. The tingling of pleasure was immediate, also the warmth that comes before drunkenness. She took another swig from the bottle.

  Meanwhile, Trumbar, tidied up by now, came out of the bathroom. He wrapped himself in cloths to dry himself and went to the bedroom to put on his armor and get back to work as soon as he could, to take care of the sentry boxes. He hated being in the house; it was like a hall for people made hopeless by suspicion. He tightened his sash of tanned leather and fastened the metal breastplate.

  As he was putting on the coat of chainmail, he felt a presence behind him. He spun around rapidly. It was his wife, with that madness which sometimes took hold of her and set her loose.

  “Why don’t you love me anymore!” Ferlohren cried. “Imbecile! Son of a bitch! Why don’t you desire me? Don’t you want a bit of this?” She grabbed her crotch, then her breasts. “Tell me! Tell me once and for all what’s wrong with you! The only thing I’ve ever done is love you, and you’re nothing more than a ghost who prowls around the house but doesn’t stay. You keep away from me. Damn you! Love me! Come back to me! Please…”

  Ferlohren acknowledged defeat, fell on her knees, and burst into tears. The room filled with a crushing unease. Trumbar felt he had to do something about it. He wanted to go over to her; he wanted to love her the way he had before. He could not, god damn it!