Shepherd’s Awakening (Books 1-3)

by Pablo Andrés Wunderlich Padilla

  “You lost yourself all on your own because of your greed,” the Wild Man said. “That’s why you’ve ended up here.”

  “And you, you lump of shit, you dare come and teach me lessons. Why didn’t you speak when we took you into our band?”

  “Because I had betrayed Mother and lost my true name. For us, the worst insult is losing our name.”

  “We gave you a name! We called you Innonimatus, you lump of slag.”

  “That means without a name. That is a curse. Eromes gave me a real name.”

  “I don’t give a damn. I can’t forget what you did to us.”

  “Mérdmerén, you are the only one who has betrayed yourself. Everybody ought to be responsible for their actions. Only those who admit their mistakes and amend them are great. Wisdom, my friend, does not only come from books, but also from the decisions you make in life and from the courage to fail. You learn when you realize why one way was wrong and another was right.”

  Mérdmerén, his eyes like saucers, soon recovered from the amazement these words had produced in him and grew angry.

  “And you?” he spat at the Wild Man. “Are you a wise, deeply responsible man?”

  “I am.”

  “So what do you want? To torment me for my past? Remind me that I left my daughter and wife in the hands of a bunch of criminals who robbed me of everything? Do you want to curse me once more before I die? Eh?”

  “I have come because the Empire is in danger, and I need someone like you, someone who has been in the Council of Kings, to deal with the king and his army. Otherwise, the Empire will fall without any possibility of salvation.”

  “Let it fall, what the hell do I care? The Empire has ill-treated me every way it can. Fuck the Empire! Let it rot! Yes, let it fall! You’re worried about what’ll come after. Darkness. Evil.”

  “Mérdmerén, I need you. If you would just listen to me—”

  The former bandit poured himself some cold tea.

  Balthazar continued. “When the Empire crumbles, there will be changes in power. You know well how many snakes there are in the Council of Kings; corrupt men who will do and undo at will when the king is not there. We cannot allow that. A man of principle ought to be available when this happens and take the reins of government.”

  “And you, the man with the golden skin, you think I’m that man?”

  “You are. Mother told me so.”

  The man laughed heartily.

  “You and your precious Mother are full of shit. You are a son of a bitch, so she must be a putrid slut!”

  Balthazar’s eyes became enraged.

  “So you can be damaged? I insult your Mother and you lose it, huh?” said Mérdmerén.

  Balthazar ignored him and continued. “The man who has suffered and lost is a man who knows the price of life. Not everything in this life is paid for with money. You have paid the fortune of ease, of peace, of your material possessions, and the most important thing: your wife and daughter. Besides, you were banished and made to live the life of a beggar. You rotted and joined worthless people. Haven’t you paid a very high price? Your destiny awaits you in Háztatlon, man of great fortune. Do not feel you are cursed, rather that you are a man who has overcome all adversities. The moment has come to regain what you lost. Refuse, if you so wish, and you will die without glory, without fame, and you will allow both your family and your country to die at the mercy of those evil ones who threaten us once again.”

  Mérdmerén listened, feeling the dizziness of a great decision. “You damn sorcerer. But how am I to reach Háztatlon? I’m poor, I have nothing but my garden. Hell—Balthazar? Balthazar!”

  The Wild Man took off before his eyes. When the deserter tried to find him, he was met with nothing but a sad and pulsing wind.

  Had this encounter taken place, or had he imagined the whole thing? Had it been a ghost? Something had changed. Everything around him was the same, but he now looked upon it with deep disgust.

  Chapter III – The Freeing of an Inner Sun

  Mérdmerén was searching among his belongings only to realize he owned almost nothing. Beside his vegetable garden, into which he had poured his soul, he had only a set of black, tanned leather armor and a rusty sword.

  After the defeat of his band, near the border with Ágamgor almost two decades in the past, he had left, alone with his sorrow. He believed it was time to start afresh, but in some other way that did not involve stealing. I’ve paid dearly for so many robberies, he told himself. How could he make an honest living? A newfound urgency had him on edge ever since those words of Balthazar’s.

  The bandage had been taken from his eyes, and now everything around him made him feel pity and disgust. What the hell had he been doing for nearly two decades? Nothing. He had sunk himself in sadness, awaiting death. The truth was, he did not give a damn about the Empire, but it irked him that those damned Nemaldines might attack again and that his daughter would be caught in the middle of a chaos of colossal proportions. He felt like a mouse in a labyrinth. He had to come out of that misery.

  The talk that something very strange and very dark took place in Ágamgor was on almost every breathing man’s tongue. People said Némaldon had awoken, and that was no idle comment. Four hundred years had passed since the Times of Köel and Némaldon had been defeated. For things to have stirred so recently was something interesting and alarming. And then there was mention of that small village San San-Tera, where people said other evil deeds took place.

  Wasn’t it there that the now-dead Eromes the Perpetuator had his famous ranch? The Holly Comment Ranch?

  It was odder to have had the Wild Man Innonimatus step into his home and warn him of darkness coming when he had also mentioned having worked for Eromes, whose Holy Comment Ranch was in that small village were evil stirred. It could not be a coincidence that in both the border with Némaldon and in some part of the Empire, bad things were happening. And the rumors were vast that the God of Light was dead.

  Mérdmerén’s heart raced. He didn’t care for the Empire’s trifles; that much was true. The king could be assassinated tomorrow, and he wouldn’t give a damn. But when evil things were happening, and it threatened to overthrow what little balance existed in the Empire, he felt a deep sense of alarm. He had not seen his baby girl in so many years. She must be a grown woman by now. Married, perhaps. But she was still his baby girl, and he needed to protect her from the advancing tide of evil that would surely take the Empire. Would it? Had Némaldon truly awaken after four hundred years of dormancy?

  There was only one way to find out. If this adventure of his came to nothing, he would at least thank Balthazar for saving him from this disgrace of a life he had chosen. Yes, his heart was once more glowing with passion like an ember, lusting for adventure. His soul had been purified by the long years of difficulty being a dishonorable deserter. He would set off as an honorable man; he would become a man worth his word.

  Where to begin? He needed money. He needed a horse, saddle, and fine weapons. Maybe even a companion.

  Would anybody want this house in exchange for a horse? he asked himself. Without one, he would never get to Háztatlon in time. Being a deserter with a price on his head presented quite a problem for him. There would be many who were after the handful of crowns offered as a reward, and he would have to throw them off his trail. Even so, the worst would come just before crossing Háztatlon. He might come across those he had assaulted and robbed who would surely ask for repayment and not in a peaceful manner.

  It was a suicidal mission. The risks were innumerable, and the possibilities of success minimal. He felt suddenly nervous. A new path was opening before him, and all he could do was follow it. The excitement began to take hold in his breast. Mérdmerén the Deserter was back from the brink of despair.

  ***

  It was lunchtime. In the village, silence fell on streets and houses that became more and more empty as time went on. Those who remained in the village were gathered at the tavern, infect
ed with hopelessness. When he left his house, Mérdmerén was wearing his leather armor, which was visibly weather-worn. It would not withstand the pressure of a kitchen knife.

  Underneath, he wore his only garments that were badly kept and dirty with sweat. Bathing or washing his clothes did not figure among his habits, so that the accumulated effect on his skin and clothes was evident. Thus, in this decidedly disheveled manner, the deserter set out on his mission to take revenge on those who had caused so much grief and to recover a memorable past.

  More than two decades had gone by. He could not delay anymore in getting back what was his own. He would always be grateful to Balthazar. Without his words, he would never have set out.

  I should be better prepared, the adventurer thought as he contemplated his rusty sword with no sheath. He doubted the effectiveness of its edge, but at least it showed that he was ready for more than words. He was not the best of swordsmen, but he had pierced many backs in his days as a bandit. He headed for the tavern. Everybody looked at him curiously, as it was not usual for him to leave his garden.

  “What’s that lump of shit Mérdmerén doing ‘round here, I wonder?” one drunkard said. “He’s dressed like a well-shat gentleman. He’s a scoundrel, that we know well. Mérdmerén the Rotten. D’you think you’re going to save the world, or what? There are no heroes, you imbecile. To be a hero, you have to die heroically. Let death go with you wherever you go, you hear me?” laughed another.

  “I offer my house in exchange for a horse,” the deserter said, convinced of his generosity.

  The tavern exploded with laughter.

  “Did you hear tha’? His shit-home for a horse! What a thief he is, truly!” yelled one.

  If Mérdmerén had anything on his side, it was an air of nobility when he stood: firm and tall with his chin high. His hooked nose and penetrating eyes granted him authority. Besides, he had shaved carefully as if he had money.

  “Now, what do you think? This son of a bitch wants to exchange that rubbish for a mount. You’re crazy and you’re stupid,” said a mercenary in rusty armor who was sitting at the counter.

  “I’ll make an exchange, sir,” offered an elderly man, lame and with the accent of the distant region of Moragald’Burg.

  The whole tavern pricked up its ears. The old man did not flinch in the face of the interest he had stirred around him. Mérdmerén noticed the amputated leg and the wooden prosthetic limb that tapped on the floor. He had a well-kept white beard and a three-cornered hat on his head. What could someone like him be doing in the wretched Empire?

  “How much will you give me, old man?” Mérdmerén probed. The drunkards returned to their vice and lost interest in the transaction.

  “Come and join me for a drink. We’ll talk about the details here. It’s Mérdmerén, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right.”

  He went over to the old man’s table, where he had been sitting alone with a bottle of fermented spirits.

  “My name is Ságamas, and I’m a merchant. I used to trade with regions overseas, but my ship was seized two years ago at Merromer. Since then, I’ve been waiting here, trying to put together the money and a competent crew so that I can go on. I also want to get my ship back, and for that, I need to confront those misbegotten sons of bloody mermaids who seized it. My poor ship… abandoned in the water. That’s a sin.” The man’s gaze was distant for a moment. “My land of origin is Moragald’Burg. I believe you can hear my accent.

  “I wouldn’t want to remain in the Empire much longer. It’s a dump of a country. It boasts of containing the most advanced city in the world, but you don’t need to be very observant to realize that the Empire is falling helplessly apart.”

  Mérdmerén studied the old man’s face, his gestures, and the tone of his voice. He seemed honest. The white, well-trimmed beard framed a round face. His eyes, blue and deep as the sea, gleamed under white eyebrows. The sailor had the air of a well-mannered man. He liked him.

  “What if I were a spy or some gentleman in the service of the king? You speak ill of the Empire too freely. That tongue of yours is going to get you into trouble,” said Mérdmerén.

  The old man watched Mérdmerén as he poured himself a drink of the fruity liquid. “I very much doubt that a high-ranking imperial official would walk around in rags with such a defeated look. Besides, there are stories told about you, even legends, for goodness’ sake! They say you were once a great politician who went into exile and turned into a deserter who went on to lead a band of petty bandits.

  “They also say that for a while, the great Mérdmerén was accompanied by a Wild Man in whose company he got hold of great wealth. And they say you were put under a curse you haven’t been able to escape from. I’ve been a sailor all my life, Mérdmerén. I’ve seen the seas rise and fall, waves so big they could cover the sun. I’ve visited many lands, I’ve lived in genuine pigsties. The gaze of a broken man is always the same, no matter where he is from. You’re one of them, Mérdmerén: a man torn apart by life. There’s a well-known saying among seamen: the fish that floats is poisoned. You, my friend, float.”

  Mérdmerén poured himself a glass of the fermented liquid. “What does that mean?”

  “That you’re cursed.”

  “Hell!” cried Mérdmerén. “Do you want the damn house or not?”

  “On one condition,” said the sailor with one finger raised.

  “Speak, before I give up hope. I’m fed up with all this chatter. I know what I am and the misfortune I’ve lived through. I don’t need your understanding or your bloody irony.”

  “The condition is that you take me with you.”

  “What?”

  “I’m a sailor without a ship and crew. I want to return to adventure and be able to feel a little danger again. Besides, there’s a rumor that you want to go north. That interests me because my ship is in Merromer, and I don’t want to die without getting it back. A sailor doesn’t die on dry land, but among the wild waves of the sea.”

  Mérdmerén calculated the old man’s age. He must be about twenty years older than himself. “How do you know I’m going north? Besides, the mission’s a very dangerous one.”

  “I didn’t know you were going north, but you just confirmed my suspicions.”

  “Ah, you are a cunning old man, aren’t you?”

  The old man raised his hands with an air of innocence. “An old man’s weapon is his intelligence and his tongue. I’m just a curious man, a sailor who means to make the most of what little life’s left to him. If you accept me as a traveling companion, I’ll be honest with you; you’ll have to put up with my stories. I’ve seen and listened to a lot, although one also lives off the experiences of others. You might live a thousand lives listening to the avatars of a thousand lives. That’s how a sailor gets to be so wise.”

  Mérdmerén looked into his eyes and found the depth of the seas in them. This Ságamas was a man with a brave heart, whom life had tried with many tests. During his time with the band, Mérdmerén had learned two things: never trust a stranger and always trust your hunches. Mérdmerén sensed that Ságamas might bring him good luck. At the very least, he would be good company. But he had one more question to ask before he accepted the deal.

  “Are you good with a sword?”

  The old man smiled. Mérdmerén felt something sharp against his side. When he looked down, he saw a sharp dagger against his ribs.

  “My name is Ságamas the Sailor, and my hand is very swift. This dagger has been threatening to pierce you for over ten minutes, Mérdmerén. You’re a dangerous man, and I couldn’t take any risk,” the sailor confessed as he sheathed his knife in the leather folds that protected him.

  “I cannot blame you for that. I am a cursed man. But pull a trick like that again, and I will skin you with that dagger of yours. Let’s go north, then,” Mérdmerén said with a smile. He offered his hand, and the sailor took it. “Wait a minute—the house?”

  “Quite honestly, I’m not as inter
ested in the house as I am in coming with you,” Ságamas replied, scratching his beard. “But I’ll keep my side of the bargain. I’ll give you a horse with saddle, stirrups, and everything you need for the trip. The house stays here in case I come back someday.”

  The sailor burst out laughing, and the deserter felt slightly offended because an old man from Moragald’Burg had manipulated him cleverly without him even suspecting it.

  Chapter IV – A Head Without a Body

  Without the two of them noticing, several bandits had not taken their eyes off the old man and Mérdmerén. When they stood up, ready to go, one of the men cleared his throat, and five swords slid halfway out of their sheaths to block the exit.

  “My name’s Jerd, and I’m the leader of this group. For your head, Mérdmerén, they’d pay me up to five hundred crowns. That’s enough to retire and pay my fine collaborators a handsome sum so that they can do as they please with their lives.”

  “Five hundred? No counselor would give you as many crowns as that for my head, so who has bet against me?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “You said Jerd, didn’t you? Listen to me, we’re going to leave now, and your minions are going to put their swords aside so that we can go out the door,” Mérdmerén replied, clenching both his teeth and his fists. Who could have set such a high price? Would it be the same old enemies as before? Don Cantus de Aligar? Don Loredo Melda?

  “Sorry, Mérdmerén, but this reward will make me rich. I promise it won’t hurt. Or at least, that’s what they say when they cut off your head,” Jerd said with a trickster’s smile.

  Mérdmerén felt his patience running out. “I said we’re leaving,” he repeated firmly.

  But the bandits did not move. Mérdmerén unsheathed his rusty sword, and behind him, the old man did the same with his dagger.

  “Come on, you sons of bitches!” Mérdmerén barked. “I’m Mérdmerén the Unhinged, the Accursed, the one who can touch you with the blade of his sword and leave you maimed for life! Come on, you bastards!”