Shepherd’s Awakening (Books 1-3)

by Pablo Andrés Wunderlich Padilla

  Wyverns lived in the rocky highlands of Devnóngaron, where the reptiles kept their young away from predators. So, the Wild Man chose a high mountain and prepared to climb day and night to its summit. On the way there, he was amazed by the landscape’s colors: the green of the trees, the browns of the earth, the bluish-purple of the mountains, the color of the soul. He renewed his journey when he had got over the impression; he would never be any more ready than he was now. He kept himself going with fruits and seeds and any grass that proved to be edible.

  He began climbing after two days and nights of walking. After this, the ascent became his only reality—his only perception. The days went by. At the end of the fourth, he began to make out the summit. Up there, the wind was impetuous and threatened to spit him back to the bottom at a single misstep. It was the breath of Mother, who was training her creature to be strong. He regained his strength by night, continued in the early hours, and soon, the sun announced a new day. The young man had conquered the summit. His naked torso shone with perspiration and rose and fell with the effort. He leaned on the spear he had made. Now it was time to look for one of the many wyvern nests scattered all over the region.

  A croak pierced the dawn. The reptiles had detected him. He crouched down, and very soon he heard the beating of giant wings above him. A wyvern landed not more than two strides from the Wild Man. It was a dominant male: red-skinned and as wild as the wind on that summit. This was the wyvern he had been studying, and clearly, the wyvern had been studying him as well. The scales of that animal scintillated with the touch of the nascent sun like gold foil and covered the beast with a precious cloak.

  The reptile croaked again and the rocky walls sent back the sound in the form of an echo, which seemed as if it would go on to infinity. A shiver ran up his spine, but he stayed firm. The wyvern began to swell with rage. It spread its wings in a show of size and strength. It opened its jaws and showed fangs that were as long as fingers. The Wild Man saw a valuable part of his future armor in them.

  He got to his feet and yelled. At the same time, he threatened it with spear-thrusts. The dance of death began with both competitors measuring one another and stepping carefully around in circles. The reptile threw itself at the man but then pulled back to confuse him. It worked because the young man had already launched himself forward, falling into the trap. As part of the dragon family, those beasts were frightening not only because of their strength but also their cunning.

  The wyvern took advantage of the human’s confusion and attacked him. It tore his left shoulder, which began to bleed. He fell, and the reptile was hurling itself at him once again to crush him with its weight. At the last second, the Wild Man managed to avoid death. The beast croaked in frustration. The young man breathed out heavily and got ready. The animal puffed out its chest and blew out through its nostrils. It must have killed many humans like this one and in less time than this. It must have been eager to finish him off.

  It began the sequence of small movements which would fill its glands with acid, which it would then spit at the intruder. The Wild Man recognized the sequence of movements in the winged reptile’s throat and told himself he must act quickly. He took his spear and threw it at the beast’s neck with all his might. The tip struck the target: the acid glands. It was the only way he could bring it down in his wounded condition.

  The reptile screamed and gurgled in desperation as it began to drown in its juices. It stepped back, writhing and straining its neck. The acids were cooking it from the inside out. When it fell and lay still, the Wild Man came closer. He needed to skin it before the process of putrefaction spoiled the meat and the rest of the body.

  The nest of wyverns did not attack. The death of the alpha would mean it was weak, and a new wyvern would step up to defend the nest. In this, the Wild Men and the wyvern were similar. Death was not a form of punishment but an honor if met in honorable combat. For an alpha to die, it would mean that it was ill-equipped to lead, and thus its death warranted the search for a stronger alpha.

  With a sharp-edged stone, he pulled out the claws. He would use them to skin the reptile and make himself a suit of armor. For it, he needed the teeth, the claws, and the skin on its back—particularly the parts on the spine and the head, as they were thicker. The skin of the chest was no good; it was sometimes used for carpets or other decorative objects. In his clan, they never wasted Mother’s gifts. Whatever the case, he needed to be careful not to touch the acid secreted by the animal unless he wished to see his flesh melted away and scarred for life.

  For fifteen days and fifteen nights, he stayed on that summit and worked on his prized armor. The other reptiles didn’t bother him, perhaps fearing this intruder for his ability to defeat a great male. The Wild Man was smart to stay away from the nests to avoid being attacked by anxious mothers.

  From his bag, he took the herbs he had collected during the climb, and, using rainwater, he prepared an ointment that he used to heal the wound on his shoulder. When he had recovered from those final efforts, he knew the moment had come to face Mother’s last challenge: the Sacred Battle.

  Each one of the previous tests led to the fight with the dominant alpha male of his clan. If he won, he would take power and earn the privilege of spreading his seed. If he lost, he would die, and his body would nourish the earth. The clouds looked like an overhanging awning on that dazzling day. He arrived at the Nam Nomed, a rocky area of the rocky mountain where the Sacred Battle would take place. The sun was beginning to go down, spilling shadows and tinting the faces of the contestants.

  The dominant alpha male waited, firm and proud. Arms and legs showed marked muscles. In one hand, he carried an ax. In the other, a shield. His gaze shone serene, as he was an expert in these necessary dealings. As a good son of Mother, he would fight to show whether he possessed the strength to guide his clan to the Nogard Taerg or whether the young warrior should be the new leader instead. The rival was no less than his son, born of one of the women of the clan in whom he had deposited his seed. As was customary, they did not exchange a single word since they had nothing to say to each other. Mother would speak to them.

  When the sun hid behind the mountains, and the land grew cooler, the Sacred Battle began. Spear and ax crashed violently against each other. The leader was skilled with his ax and shield. With small but rapid blows, little by little, he pushed and weakened his opponent, who nevertheless resisted. During his training in the forest, the young man had learned the strength of the bear, the fluidity of water, the cunning of the snake, and the swiftness of the sparrow-hawk, and now he imitated them.

  His unpredictable maneuvers took their toll on the chief, and the warrior took advantage of his tiredness. The spear came and went, sank into flesh, and opened wounds in his opponent, who was beginning to pant with frustration. In his pride at the ground he had gained, the candidate made a serious mistake: he miscalculated the speed of an ax stroke. When he tried to avoid the blow, he tripped on the edge of the weapon, which then went through flesh and bone. The ax hit him on the center of the chest. A splitting sound was followed by blood. The young contender thought this was the end. His breastbone had been beaten in, and his chest would soon explode. But this was not the case. The fresh wyvern armor held, and it was only skin that was torn. The ax was left in place, sticking out of his chest.

  The leader made his own mistake in thinking the ax had reached the young man’s heart. He was raising his arms in a gesture of triumph with his back to the young man. The youth gathered what little strength he had left, seized his spear, and threw it at the dominant male. It hit him in the middle of his back and came out at the front. Death was instantaneous.

  He yanked the ax out, and blood spilled from the flesh wound. Despite the pain, the young man went over to his rival and beheaded him with the ax. He lifted his trophy by the hair and yelled in ecstasy. He threw the head over the cliff, along with the body of the defeated male. Mother would make sure it went back to the earth and that his body
was used as nutrients for other creatures and plants.

  The spirits of the forest howled, the winds blew with frenzy. A gust of wind embraced him, blessing the generation of the next dominant alpha male and granting him a new name: Tzargorg.

  The young man felt both proud and exultant. How was he to know that years later, he would betray his people and be banished? That he would go from being Tzargorg to being Innonimatus? That a stern landowner would give him a new name, Balthazar, and that after the death of this man, he would lose himself only to find his way again by helping Alac Arc Ángelo himself? The next time Balthazar visited those rocks, it would be to ask Mother for forgiveness and give her his soul so that She might decide what to do with him.

  And now here he was as a banished Wild Man, on the same high peak of the Nam Nomed. The spirits of the forest would never find him. Not because Mother had ordered them to stop searching for him, but because he had gained great skill as a sorcerer. He was not returning to be accepted back into Mother’s arms as he had done twenty years before. No, he was returning for very different reasons. He was sure that Mother would listen this time because She needed him. The world had taken a murky path, and he was aware of his role in the forces which opposed themselves to chaos and darkness.

  He had taught Manchego, the incarnation of the God of Light. Evil had awakened, the same evil that, four hundred years before, had shaken the foundations of the world. Mother remembered those events with tears, for the domains of Devnóngaron had suffered the unspeakable: the earth had been burnt, devastated until it was almost laid waste, and so many of her sons had died that they had been almost exterminated. Mother did not want any of that happening again.

  The Wild Man forgot his pride. He spread his arms and let the winds cradle him. He gave himself up. At this moment, Mother would decide his destiny. She might take his life in a second or invite him into her space. Balthazar felt a colossal force pierce him from side to side. He sighed and felt a heat that warmed his soul. Mother had decided to communicate with him. Celestial energy enveloped him. He was with Mother again!

  The man was filled with joy like a newborn child at its mother’s breast. The images began to flow: Mother was transmitting her message. An alliance was forming between the two of them. He saw the smiling face of a boy. It was Manchego, running and playing in the field; he sprouted wings, and in his hand, there appeared a spear. In front of him was the master of Némaldon. The image vanished. He now saw a deserter speaking to the Wild Man he had christened Innonimatus. It was himself! Decades back! Balthazar’s soul smiled at seeing himself in those days. He was so young. His face had not changed yet with the wrinkles of suffering. The other was Mérdmerén the Deserter. Had he not died? That was very strange as rumor had it that he had fallen near Ágamgor.

  The image turned more shadowy. Némaldon was celebrating after the resurrection of Legionaer, but something was wrong. Manchego was nowhere. There was no balance. Evil would soon explode and proliferate. Balthazar felt that Mother was united with other supreme beings—the new gods? The message was clear: evil must be stopped, and for that, they had chosen a messenger: Ehréledán—Mérdmerén?

  The Wild Man opened his eyes suddenly. He was still standing on the Nam Nomed. His mind cleared when he realized that Mother had entrusted him with great responsibility. His heart was galloping. What would it be? He was nervous! He must hurry.

  “I accept being your servant,” he told the wind. “Thank you for taking me back into your glorious realm.”

  Balthazar breathed in and then vanished like vapor.

  Chapter II – Summoning

  Balthazar went into a tavern of ill repute. He had been traveling from town to town without finding what he was looking for. With his cloak revealing only the tattoo on his chest, and his blue eyes and square jaw, nobody dared challenge him. The ax that hung from his belt was as frightening as his looks. The customers moved away from the Wild Man at once.

  “Mérdmerén?” he asked.

  The innkeeper was shaking.

  “He hasn’t been here, Wild Man,” he hastened to reply. “They say he died.”

  Without another word, he left that pigsty, determined to continue his search even if it cost him his life. During his journey, he passed through a very small village. If Mérdmerén were alive, he must be living in a settlement like this one to avoid the authorities. When he went in, the stench invaded his senses. It smelled of feces, sweat, and other bodily fluids.

  He remembered the brigade of inadequates: Nárghana, Garamashi, Ofesto, and Godforsaken. They had been perfect examples of those who live on the shores of degradation. As he went through the streets, he noticed that the people were drunk or drugged with Brugmansia; they showed the devastating effects of venereal infections. The children, filthy and uncared-for, spent their time lying around on the ground. Balthazar went into the only tavern he found, followed by the gazes of the people who had gathered there.

  The innkeeper looked him up and down with neither fear nor malice, simply with curiosity. Why would a Wild Man venture along those roads? The whole tavern stayed silent while they watched the duel of gazes between the traveler and the owner of the inn.

  “Anything to drink, sir?” the man muttered. He was beginning to get nervous before the scrutiny of those blue eyes and the ax hanging from his belt.

  “I am looking for Mérdmerén,” the traveler replied in the accent of those Wild Men who adopt the language of the Empire.

  The hiss of metal sliding out of sheaths was heard. Tension ran through everyone like an electrical discharge. Inebriated deserters and mercenaries were hanging on the reaction.

  A wall-eyed man asked, “Have you come to execute the deserter?”

  “No.” The Wild Man drew his ax and buried it in the counter. “Where is he?”

  The bandits, cowering, pointed at a house through the window. It had an old and forgotten look, although it had a well-tended vegetable garden, which was something strange in that land of filth. Balthazar took his ax out of the counter and made his way to the door. Nobody said or did anything. His steps led him to the garden, where a figure was bent over to cultivate the earth.

  “If you’ve come to kill me, do it now. I’ve been wanting to die for a long time, but I’m a coward and I don’t dare take my own life. Come on, forget your scruples. Various assassins have tried before, but at the moment of truth, none of them dared for fear of being cursed.”

  Mérdmerén had grown old. His hair, which used to be a deep black, had several white locks in it. His eyes, which before had shone with vengeance, were now sad. His beard was long and badly trimmed. The Wild Man had known Mérdmerén when he had been about thirty. Almost two decades had gone by since they first met. Now, he must be about fifty winters. The man had aged terribly.

  “A man of few words,” Mérdmerén went on. “It doesn’t matter. At least you keep me company, and that’s something I haven’t had in many years. This vegetable garden is the only thing that keeps me on my feet. When I was the king’s counselor, I had my lands and a garden like this one in my property of Santiago de los Reyes. Of course, that one was a hundred times bigger and more beautiful, but this one plays its part and keeps me busy and content while I await death. I’ll die when I finish this plot. I know it, I feel it.”

  “What happened to the man who wanted to get back his daughter and his wife?” Balthazar taunted him. “Where’s the man who swore vengeance against those who robbed him of everything, even his soul?”

  “Oh, by the Gods!” The man laughed. “You almost managed to take me back to those days of pain, but no, you won’t. And why do you know those things?”

  The traveler pushed back his hood, and Mérdmerén sighed. He reached out to touch him, perhaps to check what he saw was real or whether his imagination was tricking him again.

  “Innonimatus, you traitor! You left me to rot. You made me a promise.” The deserter’s eyes went from hatred to sadness, but after a few moments, his gaze showed nothin
g more than defeat.

  Mérdmerén’s strength failed, and he looked down at the ground. He smiled weakly. “So now you speak. By the blessed Gods, you said nothing before. And now here you are, instructing me. Life’s so unpredictable. Tell me, what the hell are you doing here? What the hell do you want from me? You’re a son of a bitch. You left me to rot. You killed my friends. I can’t believe you’ve come back now to see the coward I’ve turned into. And for what? Have you come to kill me? Do it! Or have you come to take away what little I’ve got left? Speak!” Mérdmerén was shaking, panting.

  “Before, my name was Tzargorg, and I was the leader of a clan in Devnóngaron. In a fight, I lost against the next leader. I did not die, and so I betrayed Mother. The spirits of the forests banished me. When I betrayed my land, I lost my name too. Now I am Balthazar. A great landowner, Eromes the Perpetuator, gave me this name. Now you can call me that.”

  “You?” Mérdmerén was astonished. “You knew Eromes the Perpetuator?” He laughed. “What an incredible story, Innonimatus, or Balthazar, or whatever the hell your name is. I don’t give a damn. What I do know is that you’re a damn sorcerer. You’re a son of a bitch. And now, can you just leave? I have to tend to my garden.”

  Mérdmerén went on laughing like a madman as he pulled out a carrot. “Well, are you going to come in and have some tea, or what? I’ve told you: if you’ve come to kill me, okay. Do it now, make it quick. I’d have killed you already if I were in my years of glory, but the truth is, I’ve been rotting since the day you left us. The whole band is dead, and it’s because of you, because of your curse. You knew it would happen; you can’t deny it.”

  The former chief of the brigade went into his house, and Balthazar followed him. He noticed the shining past of the place in the elegant crests on the woodwork, the paintings, and the dusty furniture.