Shepherd’s Awakening (Books 1-3)

by Pablo Andrés Wunderlich Padilla

  Godforsaken set off, grumbling. Grono was laughing, and Ofesto and the others began to gather their belongings together.

  Mérdmerén moved away from the group. He picked up a bow and a quiver of arrows, which he hung from his belt. The wandering traveler knew that the moment had come to step in.

  Chapter IX – The Promise

  Trumbar and his men were on their way to the frontier to investigate the alarming fall of a whole platoon. Nothing of the sort had happened for several centuries.

  There were always rumors about the return of Némaldon, their sorcerers trained in the Black Arts, and of the heirs of dethis and the return of their master. Legionaer had led them to war in the past and ended up buried under the ashes of his mighty army in the fields of Flora. That great battle passed into history as the Times of Köel.

  After defeating a group of orcs and weighing up the dangers involved, the mission was canceled, and the soldiers decided to come back and make appropriate preparations.

  It was late at night when Trumbar came back home. Ferlohren was not there. He stayed awake, sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting for his wife to arrive. In some recess of his heart, there were still some remnants of the love he had once felt for her. What had happened? He could only remember the enormous sadness and the feeling that it would always be a failure. He waited and waited until sleep overtook him. The front door of the house thundered as if a rabid animal were pushing its way in by force.

  Trumbar reached for his sword, ready to fight, overwhelmed by intense sorrow. With his sword raised, he opened the door with a fierce tug. Before he let the steel fall, Ferlohren came in and stumbled. She fell on her face and remained there; she seemed either poisoned or drunk. The soldier felt powerless. His aggressive side wanted to possess that body, to grip it by the neck and thrust the sword into it, to watch the blood being shed.

  But those embers which had not yet gone out took over, and the man allowed himself to be swayed by the feeling. He picked up his wife in his arms and took her to bed. As she lay on the sheets, he caressed her hair. And then, he saw all the rest: the red dress, the inflamed lips, the corset which emphasized her bosom.

  He shivered. His wife had not given up on him; she had dressed like this for him. She was gazing at him through half-closed eyes, but with a gleam that awoke a flame in him. On an impulse, they embraced. They rolled on the bed, carried away by a primitive passion. Ferlohren was not sober enough yet to realize it was not Vurgomm who was inside her. She dug her nails into his back and begged him to mount her once again.

  When Trumbar moved across to one side of the bed, he thought he had found his wife all over again. He took his leave lovingly, hopeful about the future.

  ***

  The first patrol consisted of ten soldiers; when it came to the second, there were a hundred, all of them well-armed.

  Ninety-nine men were organized in two lines, one of fifty and the other of forty-nine—the one Trumbar was missing from. He arrived with the traces of conjugal pleasure on his face. Could it be true? Was he finding his beloved all over again?

  Nurimitzu Loyola, Duke of Ágamgor, was seated on a long-maned charger. Rider and horse were attired in purple tulle and armor of the same color. He was the leader of the most important border city of the Empire, and his appearance—the product of a father from Grizna and a mother from Doolm-Ondor—suited his position. He was tall and strongly built, like a hairless albino gorilla; a beard in the shape of a padlock covered his chin and surrounded his lips.

  There were several legends about the duke and his heroic acts in the numerous skirmishes that broke out on the borders. Nurimitzu Loyola, of the Imperial nobility and a member of the Council of Kings, was one of those most feared noblemen for his size and experience, despite his youth.

  It was said that the duke had survived the terrors of the frontier with soup made from orc and other demons and that by feeding on the enemy, he had acquired extraordinary strength. Those who had ever had to resort to orc-flesh out of necessity had no doubt that it was the most disgusting meat in the world.

  The duke eyed Trumbar Gémorgorg with a grim smile. He had never liked him, as he was a man of few words and fleeting gaze.

  “My people know very well how lateness is paid,” he said in his metallic voice. “We cannot allow such an act of recklessness. There are lives lost as a result of a mistake of this kind. Today, Trumbar will receive the punishment for late arrival.”

  But Trumbar might have been anesthetized. He did not feel anger or remorse, but the pleasure of being freed from the imprisonment of a frustrating marriage. He could still feel the touch of her skin against his own, her perspiration, her open mouth.

  “Attacks and ambushes are the daily routines on the frontier. Némaldon will never rest; it will drive us to war again and again, but when one of our own falls, we respond effectively, speedily, and courageously. The day we do not respond will be the first day of our end as a civilization. That is why we are on our way to the borders now, to confront our eternal enemy, to give him such a beating that he will regret having summoned us to battle.”

  The duke paused to study his soldiers, his body firm and straight, like forged iron. “Death is our liberation,” he went on, “since we have come to an arrangement with the Goddess of Night. If one of ours should perish in his mission, he will be admired by D’Santhes Nathor herself. May the Gods be with you.”

  “They say the God of Light has been murdered,” said a soldier who instantly bowed his head, aware of the impropriety of having spoken without permission. The captain of the squadron, Leongahr, punched him in the nose.

  “He’s right, you know,” said Nurimitzu. “Surely word has reached your ears that the God of Light was killed very recently. The stained-glass window in the Décamon has turned cloudy. But do not doubt his power. He will be with us, just like the Gods of Fire, of Water, of Earth, and of Night. Go with the glory of our ancestors; those who built Aegrimonia in the Time of the Great Sorrows, when the frontier would have succumbed had it not been for those great towers which now lie in ruins!”

  The great gates of the Teutónomus sentry box opened with a great creaking of rusty hinges. The God of Light, dead? Trumbar wondered. He shrugged, unable to take in a piece of news like that. Leongahr the Legendary, the captain of the battalion, gave the order to set off. In a matter of seconds, both lines of fifty set off at a light trot toward the frontier.

  Duke Nurimitzu watched the battalion lose itself in the horizon, unable to shake off a premonition that had been haunting him during his sleep. Something was happening at the frontier. Something evil had awoken, and he was not altogether sure what it might be.

  Chapter X- The Boar of Remorse

  Mérdmerén was not a novice in matters of hunting. He had certainly gone on numerous hunts, accompanied by his servants, when he had been a member of the Council of Kings, but he knew little about killing the prey once it was in his hands. Sometimes his aim was terrible, and his arrows hit the tree-roots or branches instead of the meat he enjoyed eating.

  Mérdmerén suffered from an inflated view of his worth; he believed he could do everything when, in reality, he was bad at many things. Being a great lord, with the title of Don and several properties, had not been good for him, and now he could not accept his fall. All the same, with his arrogant attitude and his glorious past, he managed to attract fools who followed him as they would a real leader who promised them many riches in exchange for their service.

  Mérdmerén nocked his arrow clumsily. He slid stealthily behind a tree, aiming at a muscular boar with tusks so big they could easily rip him apart. But the man, with his elevated self-esteem, did not cower. He tensed the string.

  The noise alerted the boar. Straight away, it detected the predator. He noticed that his legs were shaking even though he would never acknowledge the fact. The animal prepared to charge, and the hunter released. He missed. The arrow struck the bark of a tree.

  Mérdmerén was getting ready t
o flee when he realized that the ground was full of thick roots that would betray his escape. The boar had already launched itself into a charge. The man fell on his face on the ground and waited there for the boar to bury those fearful tusks in his flesh. But nothing happened; there was only silence.

  Mérdmerén opened his eyes and looked around. He took the dagger from his belt and stood up with a start. Something, or someone, was stalking him. Where was the boar? He heard the unmistakable sound of flesh being cut, then heavy footsteps. Out of the bushes came a man with broad shoulders and the neck of a beast. He had angular features, deep sky blue eyes, beautiful golden skin, and a tattoo on his naked chest. His arms were pincers covered by muscle, his legs thick, strong-nerved trunks. In one hand, he carried an axe with a great blade, covered in blood. In the other, he held the headless carcass of the boar by its hind legs and was dragging it along the ground with great ease, leaving a trail of blood.

  Mérdmerén dropped the dagger and fell on his knees with his palms together, begging in a tremulous voice. The man kept coming; the leader of the unfortunate group mumbled a string of pleas for mercy, his teeth chattering. “Don’t kill me, my lord, please don’t kill me. Oh gods, help me!”

  The coward hid his face in his arms, waiting for the end. But the Wild Man took his hand and pulled him up, inviting him to stand.

  Mérdmerén got to his feet with a start. He wiped his hand on the black leather of his jerkin and then, astonished, realized who the man was. He felt insulted. He had never imagined that the booty he was expecting to get hold of would catch him in its turn and, what was more, treat him with such indulgence.

  “You’re the Wild Man we’ve been chasing after. I saw you on the road, you saw me too.” Mérdmerén recovered the poise he used to have as a lord in his times at the Palace. “Tell me, what’s your name and why are you here? You must know that we weren’t chasing you to take you prisoner, but to offer you a place in our group,” he lied, hoping to stay alive. “I’m inviting you to join our cause. I know my men are a disgrace to this life, that they’re nothing more than bastards, rapists, deserters, and abusers, you won’t find true and worthy people among them. But together, we’ll regain what was taken from us. Give me your name, please, or else I won’t be able to shelter you, as I don’t entertain strangers.”

  The wandering traveler did not reply, and that silence terrified Mérdmerén, who was already fearing the worst. But the Wild Man clicked his tongue and offered him the boar. The leader of the band let out his breath, relieved. Finally, a friendly gesture. He began to get excited at the prospect of a future full of fortunes stolen along the roads.

  “You still haven’t told me your name. I’m Mérdmerén. Once, I bore the surname Santiago de Los Reyes, but today I’m only Mérdmerén the Deserter. That will change one day, you can be sure of that.” He looked at the man with interest. “You don’t speak our language, do you? We’ll have to give you a name…” He scratched his chin as he thought. “Well, for the moment, we’ll call you No-Name. How about Innominatus?”

  ***

  The whole brigade was ready to leave, particularly Godforsaken, who was the one most tired of their prolonged stay in the forest. They were waiting for their leader.

  “I think he went hunting,” Godforsaken said.

  “He won’t even bring a squirrel,” Ofesto said. “Luckily, I managed to pick some fruit. That doesn’t fight back,” he added ironically.

  “Grono! Grono!” laughed the fool.

  The others too laughed openly. Mérdmerén’s reputation as a hunter was well known. They all fell silent the moment they saw the leader coming, followed by the old wanderer. The man’s poise provoked a variety of effects among the band: in Nárgana, an immediate attraction; in Garamashi, utter amazement at his muscular build and beauty; in the men, except Godforsaken, a monumental fear which caused them to put their hands to their weapons.

  There was no doubt the man was intimidating, and not just for his size and muscles; the tattoo on his chest led them to suspect he might be a wizard or sorcerer. The fact that his hair was badly cut to shoulder length instead of well gathered in buns and queues to the hollow of his back was a sign of a dark past, perhaps of dishonor. They forgot all their woes when they noticed the huge boar their leader was carrying on his shoulders, staining his skin and clothes.

  “Mérdmerén, who the devil is this?” Ofesto asked. “I thought you wanted to catch him and sell him, but now it almost looks as though you’re friends. Can you explain this reckless behavior? Suppose this scum stabs us in the back, or while we sleep?”

  Ofesto stared at the traveler with clear hostility while the man himself stared back at him in a silent duel. Ofesto started to feel nervous and cautiously slid his hand to the pommel of his sword.

  “He was following us,” Mérdmerén said. “If it hadn’t been for him, I’d be dead right now, struck down by this beast I’m bringing you to eat. The Wild Man appeared before me, peacefully, with this gift.” He dropped the carcass on the ground. “I don’t know much about the culture in Devnóngaron, but I can assure you that in any land, a man who offers his kill and his service is a man to be trusted.”

  Godforsaken interrupted Mérdmerén’s flow of inspiration. He had developed an adoration for the Wild Man. “If the boar had gored you, we’d be very happy now,” he burst out, upset by his chief’s over-excited speech. “Useless bastard. You always have to think you’re capable of great things. You were certainly lucky to have crossed paths with this man, but now you want to make him a member of this band without taking our opinion into account. Ofesto’s spot-on: what if he skins us during the night?”

  The others joined in the debate; half agreed that Mérdmerén had been too hasty, while the other half were happy to include the Wild Man in the group. Nárgana could not hide her attraction and was batting her eyelashes as she blew kisses at the stranger.

  “At least you can tell us this son of a bitch’s name! If he’s going to be one of us, he’ll have to take several chores, won’t he?” Godforsaken spat out.

  “His name is Innominatus or The Nameless,” Mérdmerén replied. “He doesn’t either speak or understand the Imperial tongue. This name will serve him while he learns our customs and our language.”

  “Those arms of his will come in very handy against the guards on the wealthiest carts,” Garamashi put in. “There’ll be all the more of a reward for us.”

  “You ought to be an animal, you fat, ill-omened bitch,” Ofesto said.

  “Shut up, you band of leeches!” Mérdmerén shouted. “Pack up and get things ready to get on the road again. We’ll look for new prey, and that way, we’ll test the skills of our new member.”

  Mérdmerén looked at Innominatus. He could not stop thinking of the gold and shining future he could almost touch with the tip of his fingers. They left without any destination planned, only the goal of finding fresh meat to attack. The forest, lit by the early evening light, swallowed them.

  Chapter XI – Aegrimonia

  The winds blew turbulently. The soldiers, led by the brave Leongahr the Legendary, marched with determination. They traveled for several hours, and after seeing the sun set and the moon come up, they rested for the first time. Most of the soldiers were deeply fatigued and were coughing dryly with the effort. All the men were widely experienced in battle, but the frontier missions took their toll on even the bravest souls.

  They stopped in the forest of Agamgóriath, the first control point under the command of Ágamgor. Here they felt safe since all the paths were marked on the maps and protected. They camped in a cave well-known to the soldiers as a shelter during those harsh voyages toward the borders.

  Outside the gorge, the night was so black that the soldiers could see nothing. It was well known that the darkness was denser closer to Aegrimonia, and the sun shone less brightly. Nobody could explain why.

  The place was certainly bedeviled, and in it, the rules of nature operated differently. They built a fire a
nd made sure to keep it going as a protection against possible predators that might be lurking around or, what was much worse, a wraith, a lost soul subjected to a powerful spell.

  Several guards watched the entrance of the cave, crouching by its sides and hugging themselves so as not to lose body heat. They prayed to the God of Light to keep them safe, and to the God of Fire for the coals to keep burning. Inside was a feast of cured meat and dry corn dough. They were afraid to chew because any sound was like a premonition of some bloody end.

  Some of the men exchanged words, jokes, and trivia, anything to relieve the pressure. Others preferred to remain silent, buried deep within themselves, perhaps praying or remembering their families and friends, their gardens, their homes, and other, better times.

  Trumbar’s mind was in turmoil. He had retreated to the darkest corner of the cave. Behind him were the depths no one wanted to explore. Few had ventured down those paths; even fewer had come back, with new sorrows and nightmares.

  Trumbar liked being at the edge of that abyss. He was comforted by the silence, the occasional echoes that rose from the depths, the sound of lost drops, and the murmur of something that slithered along the damp walls. The unknown terrified him, and that fear tamed a certain part of the chaos that held him in its power.

  ***

  Breakfast was cold and tasteless. Leongahr and some of his comrades were sharpening their swords with a pumice stone; others were adjusting their armor. In their faces could be seen the struggle each one was fighting; their emotions dueling between fear and regret at having set out. Trumbar watched his soldiers, and in each of them, he could detect the greatness of his courage or his terror.

  When the new day came, they packed, put out the embers of the fire with earth and rocks, and left quickly. Soon, the forest of Agamgóriath became denser, preventing the passage of light. However, the presence of deer and weasels, together with trees that bore good fruit and beautifully-colored flowers, helped to calm their spirits.