Shepherd’s Awakening (Books 1-3)

by Pablo Andrés Wunderlich Padilla

  “Did you bring the tobacco?”

  Argbralius did not understand Orolio’s habit of smoking, but if that was what the priest wanted in exchange for a favor, he would give it to him with pleasure. He handed him a small pouch of tanned leather. Orolio opened it delicately, put his nose inside the leather, and inhaled with delight.

  “Ahh… this is good tobacco! Where did you get it? I can’t imagine what you do to get hold of these things. You’re a strange boy; I’ve always been clear about that. Oh Gods, you’ve charged me with the task of making you a great man of religion. Where do you get it?” the priest insisted, caressing the pouch.

  Argbralius smiled feebly. “Here and there. It’s a question of finding the right people, my dear mentor.”

  Argbralius had to negotiate with the cleaners, offering them food, desserts, and other delicacies a cleaner would never have access to in exchange for inferior, dried-up tobacco leaves. That Orolio found them exquisite made the dried up leaves a better bargain.

  “The youth of today never cease to astonish me. You’re lively and greedy for the experience. When I was young, leaving your room after six in the evening meant instant expulsion. But times change. Religion and the rules have softened with time. For better or worse, that’s the way things are. And the Slegna Flamon—I’ve never seen those bastards do any good. Impostors. Don’t you tell anybody I said that.” A nervous laugh escaped Orolio’s round face.

  From his black toga, the priest took a long thick pipe that was forbidden in the corridors of the sanctuary. He put a pinch of tobacco in the bowl and brought the candle to it to light the herb. He inhaled through the mouthpiece until he had raised a thick, satisfying cloud of smoke and closed his eyes. He went on inhaling, and as he exhaled, he twisted his mouth to give the smoke the shape of rings and clouds that wandered around the room. Orolio took a sip of his tea.

  “Before I give you the book about The Conjuring Arts, I want to explain a couple of things to you,” he said gravely.

  Argbralius became restless. The fat priest had offered him an exchange with no buts.

  “I know, I know. That’s not what we agreed on, but you have to understand: I’m about to give you an object of great value, not only for the Décamical Library and the erudites of Cauda Poltos-Par but also for the School of Magic in Omen. I’m giving you something that holds secrets only the high spheres have access to.”

  Orolio paused and pondered his own words. For a moment, he felt that a simple pouch of tobacco in exchange for this book was a swindle, but his vice overmastered his scruples.

  “You need to understand that religion very rarely resorts to the Conjuring Arts. Of course we use it, but only every once in a blue moon during burials and to sanctify the Emanating Rose. That’s why men of religion never mention this book.

  “The Conjuring Arts is something that needs to be handled with delicacy, Argbralius. And there’s something more; if you’re caught with this book, you’ll be expelled straight away, and you won’t be able to come back—that is, if you’re not punished and locked up in the dungeons of the Décamon Mayutorum.”

  They were silent for a moment.

  “The Perfect Pontiff has a confidential opinion about the Conjuring Arts. Omen takes advantage of it for its military operations. Vásufeld uses it for scientific and philosophical advancement. In our world, that of religion, we see it as heresy. Argbralius, you need to understand that you mustn’t take this lightly. You’re putting your hands in the fire.”

  Orolio paused once again. He studied Argbralius closely, debating whether to give him the book. “For a long time, we’ve considered you a prodigy. You’re a very capable young man, very intelligent. That’s why I trust you enough to give you a book like this. You’ll go far, my boy. Maybe someday you’ll be as important as Aryan Vetala, the first evangelist. Maybe you’re the one who’ll set the Empire back on the path of religion that it’s strayed so far from, particularly since the death of the God of Light. Maybe you’ll manage that change of direction.”

  Argbralius’ eyes shone as he imagined himself as the spiritual hero of the Empire. Great deeds awaited him. He felt it. Orolio inhaled again and rubbed his belly.

  “Wait here. I’ll bring you the book.”

  Argbralius was left alone for a moment, hearing the priest hunting around in his bed-chamber.

  “Here it is,” Orolio announced from the room next door, which he was returning from with dragging footsteps.

  “The Conjuring Arts and Its Practical Applications, by Rummbold Fagraz,” Argbralius read when he had the volume in his hands. It was a heavy book with an ancient, rustic look. The cover was made of weathered and slippery leather. It smelt of dampness and old memories.

  “Rummbold Fagraz was a great scientist in Vásufeld and very much respected in his time. He was never a mage or a Brutal Fark-Amon. Yet, his love of science drove him to study and write about the phenomenon he called Conjuring Arts. Other authors have devoted themselves to explaining the phenomenon we call magic as well, but this book is the best one.

  “It’s quite basic but ideal as a way into that world. To master the art, you have to go to Omen and visit Hakama and that damn wizard with the strange name. What’s that hairy old man called…? Oh yes, Strangelus Üdessa.”

  “You really wouldn’t like to master the Conjuring Arts?” Argbralius asked.

  The pot-bellied priest let out a cloud of thick smoke. “Well, you know. That sort of thing is very interesting: knowing the physical and chemical laws, the properties of materials, the combinations… it’s fascinating, yes, but it’s no use to us in our world of religion.”

  The boy knew the moment had come to feign interest in the conversation. The priest loved to let his tongue run on, and it was in the boy’s best interests to keep this man happy.

  “Ah, my little apprentice! I owe you an explanation about politics. I’ll take you back to the remote past of our nation. Three centuries ago, politics was very simple. The king ruled with an iron fist, and nobody dared oppose his designs. The lands were sparsely populated, and the cities little developed; there was no place for any other word than the king’s.

  “But in these past two hundred years, the population has grown exponentially. The great cities have become powerful and self-sufficient, each one with a reigning duke. In this age of ours, a royal council has also been formed to regulate the power of the king. It’s a disgrace. It stops the government from working!

  “Now, any project takes years to come to fruition. All because of the damn bureaucracy. And the worst thing is the corruption of those counselors, and there’s no way of throwing them out. Those are the ones who watch over the king! Can you believe it? It’s crazy!”

  The priest coughed a couple of times and wiped himself with his cassock.

  “Do you remember what happened three years ago? A village was besieged, and its population exterminated. It was horrible. Nobody knows how it came to happen. The king and his general, the legendary Leandro Deathslayer, are still racking their brains over it. Even the wizard Strangelus is bemused by the facts.

  “The fact is, my dear pupil, that the king took almost three years to send reinforcements to help the besieged town because he had to wait for the authorization of the council.”

  Argbralius had found out some details of those events. It was rumored that a demon had come to life again, but that was surely just the chatter of idle people. Who was going to believe anything like that? All the same, the boy was intrigued by the matter, as if it called out to him.

  “Well, anyway, Mandrake is such a divided and monstrous empire that each branch has taken its course without considering the king’s will.” He drank from the mug and went on: “This Empire is too big, and it’s unified very different peoples. Those of the South are a different race; their manner of speaking and their customs about food are different from ours. Imagine that the South rises in arms against the North and declares war on us. It would be devastating.” Orolio cleared his throa
t. “By the Gods, what time is it? You allowed me to ramble again. I think it’s time you went back to your room, Argbralius. Wouldn’t like anybody finding out about our meetings here now would we?”

  Argbralius took the book and hid it under his gray cassock. “Thank you, Orolio. I’ll use it well. And do not worry. Nobody will find out about this at all.”

  Orolio chased the young man with his gaze, the feeling of having made a mistake present in his eyes. The sweet and charred smell of fresh tobacco leaves, however, made him doubt again and assured him he had made the right choice. The boy would never use that book, anyway. For a boy like him, it would merely be an artifact to admire. Nothing more.

  Chapter VI – A Healthy Thought

  Mérdmerén rued the fact that he was riding a stolen horse. Ságamas had manipulated him into agreeing to the exchange for the house. The old man was astute, no doubt about it.

  “One thing you need to know about me, sailor. I’m not a thief any longer,” Mérdmerén said. “I don’t want to follow the same path anymore. I’ve found out that it leads to perdition.”

  “And what path do you seek now, boss?”

  “Boss? Why do you call me that?”

  “Because of your past, Mérdmerén. You were a great leader; that’s what they say in these parts. Your problem was your greed. Otherwise, the Wild Man would’ve stayed with you.”

  “That’s true,” the deserter murmured. “Leading that band brought me two things: bad luck and a lot of death. Anyway, what I want now is peace and reconciliation, but first, I’m going to avenge my wife and daughter.”

  They were going at a leisurely pace, restraining the natural impulse of the horses to run off in such a vast and beautiful field. Free from the eyes of strangers, the men could allow themselves the luxury of going on peacefully, enjoying the landscape. The sun shone down on the immense plain from a clear sky.

  “People have to be wary with you, boss. You’ve got the air of a nobleman, but you’ve got the claws of a hidden beast. Revenge isn’t peace. You want to shed blood, and where there’s blood, there’s death; where there’s death, there’s evil; and where there’s evil, there’s more evil. It’s a vicious cycle, something I’ve seen too often in different crews.”

  I wonder if this is going to be my guardian angel. Finally, I’m associating with the right people, Mérdmerén thought. But he did not want to commit himself yet. He wanted to watch the sailor first and to know how much his word was worth.

  After several years without noticing the moors, Mérdmerén was letting his gaze wander along the vast horizon, appreciating the blue sky and the copper sun descending little by little. The trees, the clouds, the birds, and even the insects seemed to him something divine and absorbing.

  At least I’ve got as far as appreciating everything around me once again, Mérdmerén thought now that the likelihood of dying in the course of this venture had entered his mind. Just like old Ságamas, that bastard Innonimatus knew how to speak to convince me. Me, protect the Empire, he said… Oh yes, sure.

  The sailor thought they were heading to Háztatlon for reasons to do with revenge when the truth was that he had to notify the king of the advances of evil. This sounded very heroic, but carrying out his mission seemed impossible. Why would they believe him? He had not yet decided whether he would tell the sailor about it. Perhaps when he trusted him, if that ever came to pass. Ságamas might trick him again and reveal himself as a bandit.

  “What’s your business in Háztatlon, sailor?”

  The sailor seemed lost in thought. “Squid and black-inked octopuses, I thought I told you,” he said after a moment. “This country, child-of-the-shells, has impounded my ship, and I want to fix that and free my ship, the Stingray, where it’s stuck in Merromer.”

  “You seem to know quite a bit about the Empire, sailor. How long did you say you’d been here?”

  “Several years. It’s been a long time.”

  Mérdmerén came up to the sailor’s reins and tugged on them. The horse neighed and threw the sailor to the ground like a sack of potatoes. Mérdmerén leaped off his mount and straddled the old man, who was out of breath. He put his sword to his neck.

  “I’ve got a feeling that you’re a liar. Tell me your true purpose, or I’ll slit your throat. No one but me will witness your death. I’ll leave you to the buzzards.” Mérdmerén had forgotten many things from his past, but not how to kill a man.

  “I’ve already told you! Are you crazy, or what? Let me go at once! Ouch! I’m a ruined sailor, that’s the truth. I’ve spent ten years in this ill-begotten Empire, and I want to leave once and for all. I’d do anything to get to the North, but nobody would accept an old man as a companion.

  “It’s true that my ship was impounded and that it’s been in Merromer for a decade. Without money and with no opportunities in the North, I had to come to the South. Here, a lost man can find a place for himself among all the other unfortunates. I’ve spent ten years looking for someone to get back to the North with. I wouldn’t survive by myself.”

  “You tricked me! You stole horses to finalize the deal!” Mérdmerén shouted.

  “I swear that the only thing I want is to get back to my homeland!”

  “My head has a fat reward on it, sailor. Why should I trust you?”

  “I don’t want money! All I hope for now is to get back to the sea and die in peace there. A sailor like me can’t die on dry land. He’d be a failure!”

  Mérdmerén was pressing the edge of his sword against the sailor’s neck. The man was very nervous and was breathing with difficulty. He seemed weak and desperate. During his time with the band, Mérdmerén had learned to judge a man by his gaze. He suspected that the old man was hiding something, but what? Although on the other hand, he was sure that the story he was telling was the truth.

  “All right, I’ll accept your company,” Mérdmerén said, standing up and sheathing his sword. “I used the same test with everyone in the band to get to know them. It’s not easy to be a leader, sailor. I need to take precautions.”

  “Is that true? I’ve passed the test? You’re not going to kill me?”

  The man tried to stand up, but his wooden leg was an obstacle. Mérdmerén helped him find his balance.

  “You’re an old bastard; that’s what you are. They say the men of Moragald’Burg have a price; yours is life. Any unexpected move, or if you trick me again, I swear I’ll make dough out of your flesh.”

  Without another word, they both mounted their horses and renewed their journey north.

  “We’re being followed,” the sailor said in warning.

  “I know,” said Mérdmerén. He was counting on either the owners of the stolen horses or Jerd’s band pursuing them. “They’ll keep their distance as long as they believe I’m under a curse. They’ll only attack if they think we’ve made some mistake. There’s no time to lose; sooner or later, we’ll have to face them.”

  The sailor looked at the leader, and for the first time he wondered whether he had decided wisely when he chose to join a man under a curse.

  Chapter VII – The Celestial Screening

  He was going from one side to another in a house that was ablaze. Tongues of fire licked his skin. He was shouting his mother’s name as the fire devoured him alive, but Ferlohren was nowhere to be seen. He heard howls. Someone was torturing her. He went outside, rolling on the ground to put out the fire that had caught his clothes. He stared at the house and the flames.

  Trumbar was on his knees, weeping uncontrollably, his black wings drooping by his sides. His tears were the fuel that was generating the fire. Trumbar became aware of the presence of the little one. And yet, he was no longer a child but an adult dressed in the brown cassock of a sexton. The demon began to grow in size with a sardonic laugh. The flames spread to their maximum extent and projected a terrifying shadow.

  “Trumbar! Please stop! Don’t you see my mother’s dying because of you? Can’t you see that?”

  The beast l
et out a roar that echoed under Argbralius’ feet. In his hand, there appeared a sword of red flames. He took Argbralius by the neck and stabbed him from one side to the other, scattering his innards around.

  ***

  Joermo, Ánomnos, and Kurlos woke up with a sudden shock. Argbralius, huddled on the bed, was shaking, moaning, and gasping as if he could find no air to breathe. Kurlos watched in fear while Ánomnos and Joermo appeared concerned. It was not the first time they had witnessed Argbralius’ suffering in dreams, and they knew it would not be the last one either. It was worse when he had convulsions.

  Joermo went close and crouched down by the edge of the bunk, although he did not dare touch him. “He’s never been like this for so long and—that look. It’s one of absolute terror.”

  “By the gods, he’s possessed!” Kurlos cried. “We’ll have to tell the priests, or the pontiffs, or somebody! He’s possessed; there are no two ways about it! May the Gods help us!”

  Ánomnos pushed the redheaded giant. “Calm down, will you! It’s just a nightmare, can’t you see? What we’re going to do is help him and not harm him anymore. Come on, let’s wake him up.”

  Joermo agreed and gave Argbralius’ shoulder a light shake. His friend seemed to respond, and gradually, he came back from unconsciousness out of whatever that shadowy world might be. He stopped writhing and opened his eyes with difficulty as if he were unscrewing them after a memorable binge.

  “Joermo? My friend, what’s the matter?” Argbralius appeared confused, downcast. He certainly had no idea what was going on, nor did he remember anything about the nightmare.

  “I think you had a bad dream again. D’you need anything?”

  Argbralius sat on the edge of the bed, put his bare feet on the wooden floor, and took a moment to return to reality. “It was one of the usual dreams. They repeat themselves over and over, more and more intensely.”