“You can wait here for Don Trágalar.”
As soon as Mérdmerén and the sailor crossed the threshold, the guard shut the door.
“Are we prisoners, or what?” the sailor asked. The stone floor was cold, and there was nowhere to sit. The window did not admit much light.
“It might be part of their protocol,” Mérdmerén said with a hope that vanished when he read the messages on the wall: May the gods take pity on us. “I think we’ve walked into the dungeons of this town voluntarily,” he guessed with a sinking heart. “At least they left us our weapons.”
The sailor felt beat up by the days of walking with his stump. His wooden leg slipped on the moss and gelatinous mud, and it was difficult to stay on foot for the old man. “I swear this wretch will be the end of me,” said the sailor, struggling to stay in one place. His knees were trembling, threatening to buckle under his weight.
The deserter felt a chill. This had been a center for torture. A click in the lock drew his attention. The door opened, and a short, black-bearded man appeared. He was leaning on a golden cane with a red gem on the pommel. He was dressed in golden clothes and a coat of chainmail that looked as though it were made of iron. He approached them with great interest.
“Welcome to my lands. My name is Trágalar Maximus, and I’m the owner of these lands that my ancestors named Licaf and Atisbar.” His tone of voice was somewhere between sarcastic, aggressive, and haughty. “You have a finger’s breadth of the sundial to explain yourselves. Set the sundial,” he ordered one of the soldiers, who immediately dug a stick into the ground and drew a circle around it. He measured the shadow, put a finger to the side of the shadow, and made a small line beside his finger, opposite to the shadow. “When the shadow hits the line drawn by the soldier, you die.”
“How so?” Mérdmerén was alarmed by the ultimatum.
“For months, deserters, thieves, rapists, murderers, and any number of undesirables have been coming. Once, we let in a spy from Némaldon, and he caused a lot of trouble. He raped two women and killed a guard. Since then, I’ve doubled security, and nobody can walk around my land without first passing through the Dungeon of Truth. You have one minute to explain yourselves and convince me that you’re not a couple of sons of bitches and that your lives are worth more than food for rats. If you don’t convince me, I’ll give the order to pour boiling oil on your bodies, and then I’ll invite the rats to eat your charred flesh. You’ve got half the time left.”
“One moment! Mr. Trágalar,” Mérdmerén pleaded.
“We’re going to die,” the sailor said serenely. He seemed comforted by the fact he could simply give in and die. No more fighting.
“My lord, we’re just two travelers coming from the south. We’re going north to Háztatlon.”
“We’re going to die.”
“My lord, my name is Mérdmerén. I was a counselor and owner of the estate of Santiago de los Reyes.”
“We’re going to die.”
“My lord, my mission is to avenge myself on Don Cantus de Aligar and Don Loredo Melda. Those bastards took away everything that was mine. They banished me! My lord!”
There was a heavy silence. Only Mérdmerén’s panting was heard as he waited impatiently for the verdict. The sailor seemed to have found peace in his memories of the sea.
“Don Cantus de Aligar,” Trágalar said, as if he were tasting something bitter, “is an ill-begotten wretch who tried to usurp my lands a few years ago, and Loredo Melda is another rat. You said your name is Mérdmerén? Of the house of Santiago de los Reyes? It rings a bell. So, you were banished. Mérdmerén, why should I harbor someone like you and this old friend of yours? What do I, or my beautiful lands, gain?”
Mérdmerén saw his chance. “We have a common enemy. I’ve sworn revenge against him. Cantus took everything from me. He tricked me. He said he was my friend, and then he played me and stuck a dagger in my back. Loredo helped him carry out his plan and kept all that was mine, including my wife and daughter.”
Trágalar’s face sketched something resembling a compassionate smile but soon recovered. “All the nobles in the council are scum. Because of them, the Empire is at the end of its tether. They’re thieves, murderers, usurpers. All of you are the worst disgrace to humanity. I don’t see why I should keep you alive. If anything, I feel under an obligation to kill you. You’ve committed a double sin: being a counselor and being banished. Eliminating you would be an honor, a hygienic operation—Hey!” he shouted at the sailor. “And who are you? And why are you traveling together with this rat?”
“I’m a sailor from Moragald’Burg whose ship has been seized by this miserable Empire,” the old man replied, leaving his thoughts and coming back to the present. “I want to regain my ship, which is in Háztatlon. The sooner I return to the sea, the better. I partnered up with Mérdmerén because he’s a man of his word and good faith.”
Trágalar and his soldiers responded to this with laughter. “Now listen, gentlemen,” said Trágalar. “Your story doesn’t ring true, which is why you’re going to die like a couple of rats. A former counselor, later banished, and his minion; a nobody who’s already made up his mind about dying. The world will go on turning and won’t ever remember you. Bring the oil! Burn them!”
The lord had already turned his back on them. Mérdmerén’s heart sank along with his hope of having his revenge and seeing his wife, his daughter, and his lands. He would finally end his days in a cold, desolate dungeon.
“I should never have come with you,” Ságamas said, his gaze distant. “What people said was right: You’re cursed. Death is my salvation.”
There were sounds of dragging, a sign that the boiling oil was on its way. A hatch opened above their heads, and then there came the sound of a thick liquid being energetically stirred.
“Just a moment!”
An old woman, profoundly hunchbacked with scanty white hair—you could see her scalp—deep black eyes, and rotten teeth, went quickly over to Trágalar. The dry branch of a tree served her as a staff.
“Stop this right away, Trágalar! If you execute these men, you’ll be sorry.” The old woman, fragile, hunched, and small, had left the soldiers frozen on the spot.
“Hexilda! But they’re just a couple of rats! A banished nobleman and a nobody! They have to die!” Trágalar protested like a child trying to justify himself to his mother.
“I said no, you thoughtless child! Take those men out of the dungeons this very moment, or you’ll have me to deal with. And you know what that means!”
Trágalar snorted, huffed and puffed, and clenched his fists. “Let them go!” he yelled.
The guards opened the door of the dungeon and let them out. Mérdmerén went out almost breathlessly, unable to believe his luck. He felt the adrenaline running through his veins. Ságamas, in contrast, was almost dragging himself out as if he would rather have died.
“Leave,” Hexilda told the lord of the lands. “I’ll deal with these two.”
The man grumbled and, throwing Mérdmerén and Ságamas a look of hatred, left like a child who has just been punished.
“You two, come with me. Nobody’s to touch them!” the old woman warned the guards. “This one is cursed, and the other one’s touched by the darkness.” All those around—soldiers, lords, children, and old people—disappeared at once. This old woman had power. But perhaps more so than just power over people by some position of leadership.
“Come quickly, my dears. This place couldn’t be more crammed full of superstition.”
Chapter XII – Claws and Fangs
Mérdmerén had not freed himself from his tension, nor Ságamas from his deep nostalgia. At least the old woman lives a long way from the castle, Mérdmerén thought. What sort of person can this woman be, he wondered, if she can speak like that to the lord of this place? At the same time, he looked around her dwelling. It was a hole in a rock with a badly set door and a stench of death.
He sat down. Ságamas did the same. T
he sailor certainly looked defeated, like one of those old people who are ready for death. Mérdmerén noticed his battered wooden leg and gaunt face. I wonder whether he’ll be able to go on, he thought.
Meanwhile, the old woman was preparing something very thoroughly in a metal cauldron. She muttered and talked to herself as she did so. The deserter gazed around the variety of gadgets all over the place. Trágalar had called her Hexilda. Did that mean she was a witch?
The walls of the cave were of damp stone, spattered with patches of dark green mold. In corners here and there, nails held heads of garlic, leather cloths, and other objects he could not recognize.
It was very different from the homes Mérdmerén was used to. Maybe Ságamas was thinking something similar, as his eyes seemed curious. They had stopped by a stone bed covered with hay that sat beside a table full of books and assorted objects such as horns, dry skin, and animal bones.
At the far end, the old woman had managed to find a corner for the cooking stove. Adjoining the kitchen were shelves on the point of collapsing under the weight of utensils, either culinary or for magical purposes. “They’re remains of ruthyia,” the old woman said, with her back to the men. “Ruthyia mactans, ruthyia lantans, ruthyia obliterans. It’s the reptile most people know as a wyvern and which others confuse with dragons.”
The woman looked back over her shoulder and glanced at Mérdmerén for a moment.
“Do you know what their origin is? It’s thought that they come from dragons. There are two branches: the black and the red. The red ones are more lethal, but the black ones are the only ones that can be domesticated. Némaldon uses them as an aerial method of attack and transport. In the Empire and other parts of the world, there are more red ruthyia than black.” The old woman paused again, sure of her authority in the field of the taxonomy of the flying reptiles.
“If I interceded for you, it’s because you have something for me,” she said eagerly, rubbing her hands and her eyes glaring with interest.
If it had not been for the wrinkles, anybody would have said she was a child excited at the promise of candy.
Mérdmerén took the wyvern’s claw from his satchel, and the woman gaped in amazement.
“At last!” she cried after a moment and reached out her bony hands with their dirty, badly cut nails.
“One moment,” Mérdmerén said. He drew back the claw, leaving the old woman eager and frustrated with her challenge. “This claw comes at a price.”
“You hairy rat. Isn’t it enough to have saved your life? Sons of perdition, your bandit tricks won’t work with me. You’d be dead by now! The least you can do is give me that.”
“And what’ll become of us then? By the way, I also have two large fangs.”
The old woman sat down and looked thoughtful. Her wrinkles deepened, and her dark eyes sank deeper into their sockets. She had donned an apron over a black skirt which revealed her legs, thin as toothpicks. Her boots were more worn-out than oblivion itself.
I could kill them right here, but I can’t afford to, she thought. These bastards are useful to me. “What do you want? Why are you here?” she asked them, pretending disinterest.
“We’re going to Háztatlon. We have business to sort out.”
The old woman gave a gust of laughter. “You’re sharp, you hairy rat, but you don’t fool me. I notice things, and I know a lot. Come and see, see with your own eyes.”
In the cauldron, a fluorescent green soup was boiling and spewing out putrid gases. “There’s just something rotten cooking here,” Mérdmerén said. “I don’t see anything I need to know.”
“Watch closely, Deserter. I know more about you than you think. Watch.” At the woman’s words, the liquid began to transform, taking on a metallic color as it did so. On its surface, he saw himself a few days back when he had met Usuma, when they had visited the accursed village, and when they had come across the hooded being.
Then he saw himself in the dungeon, begging for his life. The liquid turned red. “Now you’ll see the future, Mérdmerén of the house of Santiago de los Reyes. It’s red because the path you must travel is full of blood, treachery, and a great deal of death. The death of your loved ones.”
The color changed to purple. “You’re cursed, Deserter. Since the day you met a sorcerer of great power. Any man traveling with you will be in danger of dying. More than that, you’ve crossed paths with a sáffurtan of Némaldon. You’re a grim man, Mérdmerén. And it looks as though—it looks as though your head has a price on it.”
The old crone began to be nervous. She threw a drop of ram’s blood into the liquid, and it turned black. The image took them to Némaldon, to Árath, and there appeared the taciturn gaze of a faceless demon. The crone jumped and threw in an herb. She began to writhe with sudden abdominal pain.
“A Grim Shepherd is looking for you, Deserter. You’re very special, Mérdmerén.” The old crone fell silent as if she did not want to put what she was seeing into words.
Once again, the liquid began to transform and regained its metallic color. Now, it was the sailor’s turn.
“A man of the sea, you left your home at fifteen. You had projects, but your family couldn’t support you; they lacked the means. The sea lived up to your expectations right from the start. You’ve killed several men and one woman. You’re a dangerous man but an honest one.”
The color turned red.
“Your future is marred by Mérdmerén’s curse. And not only that, it seems you’re dragging your curse with you. It goes back to that encounter with the sáffurtan. You’ll carry that misfortune for all eternity; there’s nothing you can do to free yourself of it unless you get rid of the darkness completely. The suspicion of treachery weighs upon you. As long as you can save your skin, there’s nothing you wouldn’t do.”
The cauldron turned fluorescent green, and the atmosphere seemed to look and sound more normal. Mérdmerén and Ságamas were overwhelmed. They doubted one another and weighed one another up with furtive glances. Yet their friendship prevailed, and they both relaxed. Mérdmerén trusted his intuition, and though he was sure the sailor had secrets in store, he was convinced he could trust him. Ságamas, for his part, knew himself to be accursed because of Mérdmerén. It was too late now to abandon the cause, so he would go on with him to the end.
“Our future’s as disastrous as that?” the sailor asked.
“It’s not the true future, but a probable one,” the crone replied. “What you’ve seen is based on the state of your mind and soul, and that can change. This was a projection, if you will, nothing more.”
“That sáffurtan… what is it exactly?” Mérdmerén asked. The memory of that being made him shiver, as it did Ságamas.
“In Némaldon, there are forces of dark nature. Some sorcerers conjure the most destructive powers of the universe. They’re creatures of the God of Chaos. The sáffurtan bring the dead back to life and possess their bodies utilizing evil spirits. The Grim Shepherd has the same ability, although his function is that of establishing religious principles and worshiping the Gods of darkness. The sáffurtan are like soldiers, so to speak. In Némaldon, they practice the Black Arts, which seeks to control the world’s energies. There are many treatises about the Conjuring Arts, all based on the study of how to transform energy and use it for personal gain, whether for good or evil.”
“And what does that mean for the Empire?”
“It means, Mérdmerén, that Némaldon has returned after bringing the Master back from the dead. They did it in San San-Tera. Very few know this, and most would never accept anything of the sort. Legionaer is the Master, my dears. Legionaer! The damned! The usurper! The leader of the wicked ones of Némaldon has come back and wants to take possession of what he considers his own and spread shadows, darkness, and evil. Legionaer has sworn this against his worst enemy, the Mandrake Empire, and he’s the direct servant of a higher force: the God of Chaos, Mórgomiel.”
The wind eddied and swirled at the cave entrance.
“Are you crazy, witch? You don’t know what you’re talking about!” Mérdmerén shouted at her. Mórgomiel. What an eerie and terrible name. He had never heard it uttered or mentioned but even hearing it once made his innards churn with fear, a deep and piercing fear that cut deep into his soul.
“Things are what they are, and you owe me a wyvern claw. For having made me waste my time, I’m going to charge you the two fangs as well. Come on! Give it all to me right now or else I’ll slit your throats and sell your remains as pigswill.” With a sudden unexpected movement, the crone laid a dagger against Mérdmerén’s neck.
“Wait a moment, witch. I’ll give you the lot in exchange for one more thing: a couple of horses. Come on, we just want to go on with our journey to Háztatlon. I have unfinished business there.”
“Revenge never brings about good, Deserter, because what’s it for, after all? So that the relatives and loved ones of your victim can turn into avengers themselves and start searching for you or those you love? And so on for all eternity?”
“What do you want it for? Why so much interest in a wyvern’s claw?”
The witch laughed heartily. “I like you, Deserter. You’re stupid. Be careful with that mouth of yours; it’ll get you into trouble. I had a wyvern claw on my staff until very recently.” The crone showed Mérdmerén the staff with a charred pommel. “Wyverns have dragon blood; that’s why I’m interested.”
“Crazy old woman. Dragons are a legend.”
“Dragons existed, you little imbecile. I don’t owe anyone explanations, least of all rats like you who refuse to keep to a bargain. All right then, I’ll give you a couple of horses.”
Shepherd’s Awakening (Books 1-3) Page 42