Shepherd’s Awakening (Books 1-3)

by Pablo Andrés Wunderlich Padilla

  ***

  Once back in their rooms, the boys could not stop talking about the banquet.

  “Everything was so good—and I really mean good—that I don’t think I’ll ever taste anything like it,” Kurlos said, feeling the bruise on his face.

  “I was surprised by how much food there was,” Joermo commented. “What d’you think they’ll do with the leftovers?”

  “The wine was good,” Argbralius said. “I feel pretty relaxed, despite everything.”

  The other three friends sat down on their beds, looking forward to going over the fight again. They focused their attention on Argbralius, who seemed to be feeling a little uncomfortable at all this sudden interest in him.

  “And what else can you tell us about it, Arg?” Joermo encouraged him. The boy wanted to know more about his friend’s dark side, although he did not dare ask him directly.

  Argbralius started to put on his pajamas. “I don’t know. It annoyed me, seeing Délegas beating Kurlos, and I just went for him.”

  “Thanks,” Kurlos said. “I’m not sure I’d be alive if you hadn’t come in.”

  “I felt the urge to attack him and, somehow, I think I might’ve killed him.”

  Joermo and Ánomnos looked at each other. Kurlos thought for a moment.

  “I don’t think so, Arg,” said Joermo. “We know you, and you wouldn’t be capable of anything like that.”

  Argbralius smiled, but no, his friends did not know him. They did not know he had already killed someone—his father.

  “It’s all ended up relatively peaceful,” Ánomnos said. “Now we’ll have to see how things go from here. Be careful with Délegas. He’s treacherous; he might stab you in the back.”

  “Thank you,” Argbralius replied.

  He blew out the candle next to him to indicate the conversation was over. Lying in his bed, he noticed the relaxation the alcohol had produced in him. Perhaps he had relaxed too much and had allowed the most hidden side of his being to emerge.

  Chapter XIV – Kanumorsus

  It was in the blink of an eye. The moment they crossed the portal in Tempus Frontus, he appeared on a platform of smooth dark stone, two strides by two, and raised slightly above ground level. Below, more stone. He was in a cavern, and from his position, he could glimpse a way out—a tunnel. Around him, everything was lit with an infernal green.

  Teitú, I’ve been here twice in the past! Alac thought.

  That’s right. When you were newly born and Eromes saved you from the hands of evil, and later when you came back as Manchego after trying to save Little Ounces near the ceiba tree and fell in.

  Alac studied his surroundings, nervous at recognizing that fiendish place. He had known it as a child, as Manchego, now he was coming back as a demigod: Alac Arc Ángelo. It seemed strange in the extreme to be the same individual perceiving the same situation and yet, feeling like a completely different person. Now, with his new abilities, he noticed that the place was the product of a very powerful will. He could feel its presence.

  He spun around but could see nothing but blackness. Ahead of him was a perfectly round passage, evidently made by thrifty hands.

  Alac stepped down from the platform. He did not know what to expect of the cavern and the immensely complex system of tunnels within it. As Nordost had warned him, every tunnel led to a portal that transported a person someplace else in the universe. He looked at the portal through which he had come.

  A translucent membrane of energy floated in an arc or semicircle. It was thin, and behind it was nothing but air and space. He put his hand in to check whether it came out on the other side, but it did not. He felt different sensations and another temperature, most likely that of Tempus Frontus. When he withdrew his hand, he noticed a sucking effect.

  Teitú, this is awesome. All this is inconceivable to me, though it’s also true that I’m very young and I’ve barely seen the world.

  I’m equally impressed.

  Alac inhaled deeply, breathing in courage, and went on warily towards the end of the tunnel amid the green light that dominated the place. When he came out, he found himself in a cave so vast that he could not make out its limits. The green light issued from the rocks and rose like a mist. From somewhere came the sound of pebbles rolling. In the atmosphere, there hung a certain smell of decay, memories, and relics of times past.

  In the middle of the cave, he saw a mountain of formidable size. What could its purpose be?

  Teitú, I have to go back to the world of the living, I have to look for my grandma, my best friend, my animals—Alac fell to his knees with the pain that suddenly assailed him.

  Manchego! Alac! React! You can’t allow yourself to cry now. We’re in the Interim, the dimension of ghosts. If you get lost here, you’ll remain lost for all eternity.

  Alac went on crying. He could not stop thinking about the Meridian, the world he had known as a child that held everything he loved. Who created this network of portals and worlds? For what purpose?

  There are many enigmas we can’t solve, Alac, but we can’t remain in this spirit state. We need to solve this mystery so that we can go back to the world of the living and stop the evil which is spreading. Alac, get your sanity back. It’s time to be strong.

  “You’re right, I’ve spent too long complaining. It’s because it hurts so much. I need to know whether my creators knew how hard it would be. Do you know anything about that?”

  It’s an interesting question, but we haven’t the time. We can only go on. And no, I know nothing about your—our—creators.

  “I have plenty of doubts about my existence. If I don’t clear them up, I won’t be able to find myself; that’s what Nordost said. But how the hell do I do that?”

  Teitú lit up in timid sky blue. Alac, I’m a Naevas Aedán, but I don’t know who I am. I know nothing about my culture or my ancestors. In the Lyric of the Wind, it says that the Naevas Aedán were from Tutonticám, but I haven’t the slightest idea what that is. I, too, would like to know more about my origins.

  “My dear warrior, I promise you: One day we’ll find out. I’ll help you find your roots, just as you did with me. And forgive me if I’ve been a drag about this business. Now let’s get going. We have to go back to the world of the living. My family needs me. I need it!”

  It’s a mistake to think that your family needs you. Forgive me if I’m blunt, Alac, but the truth is that your loved ones don’t need you anymore, and you don’t need anybody to be happy. If you’re not happy being who you are today, right now, at this moment, then do something about it, because before you can help others, you have to be able to help yourself. You’re the God of Light. Nordost wishes you to find yourself before you go to the Meridian. If you’re not complete, you’ll be a chaotic god, one more lost soul that will cause pain, and you’d cause more misery than there is already.

  Alac was shocked out of his complacency. “You’re right. I must find peace in myself before I try to create it anywhere else. It sounds cold and it hurts, but it’s the truth. I think you’ve pushed me into taking the first step to solving my existence. Here’s my proposal to you, Teitú.

  “Let’s explore this place, every nook, every corner, to see where every portal leads to. At least we’ll create a mental map.” Alac Arc Ángelo began to walk toward the great mountain in the center of the cave. It must serve some important purpose, he felt, just as every tunnel did.

  Chapter XV – Echoes of an Inner Vision

  Mérdmerén radiated majesty. With his armor of ornamented metal, the long sword at his back, another lighter one at his waist, a dagger across his chest, and a shield tied to his horse’s side, he looked like a real knight. The pride he had shown as a great lord of old did the rest. Such was his effect on others that Trágalar’s soldiers did not know whether to greet him with a bow or ignore him.

  The sailor, on the other hand, was smiling as never before. It was a novelty to be protected by those metal plates and to be armed to the teeth. He had ordered
the blacksmith to change the head of his lance with his harpoon. Now the weapon looked more like a dart since they had shortened the mast to let him wield it more easily. The harpoon, he had kept well hidden in his travel satchel. It was no dagger. Alone, it was not as useful. But it was one of the artifacts he could carry with him onto the land and, finally, it had a purpose.

  Beside them rode the old crone Hexilda, all smiles, on a courser as black as night. The old woman seemed delighted to be taking part in Mérdmerén’s adventures.

  ***

  That evening, they camped near the Márgades River, which soon would fork: one branch flowing northeast to Ementhal Bloss and then Armur Bloss to finish its journey in unexplored underground caves; the other branch would go on until it was lost in the waves of the Early Sea.

  Although many years had gone by, Mérdmerén felt ready for conquest. He considered his companions, each one so different but with a common interest uniting them: to reach the place which would give them back their lives, the ship for Ságamas, and for Hexilda, a new science for creating spells. The witch seemed to be talking to the fire while the sailor’s thoughts were lost in the horizon, utterly enthralled by the passing of the clouds.

  “They say the sea is the biggest living creature on the planet,” the sailor said. “Have you seen it, Hexilda? The blue consumes you. The sea doesn’t belong to anybody. The sea belongs to everyone. It’s the most divine creation there is.”

  Hexilda and Mérdmerén allowed themselves to be soothed by Ságamas’ words. Deep, cavernous, wise, and tranquil, the sailor’s voice was indeed soothing like one that grandfathers used to tell long-forgotten tales to sway the youth into sleep.

  The tranquility of the moment calmed their souls, and the night protected them in its bubble of silence.

  ***

  “Right then, my dear Hexilda. We’re going to make a couple of things very clear before we go on. First, I’m the leader and the one responsible for your lives and your safety. No ifs, no buts. Second, there’s a price on my head, and the road’s sure to offer all sorts of hazards, the most important being the fact that there’ll be those who’ll try to spill my brains to sell for a few crowns. Third, we’re a team, and that means you can’t go off on your own. Fourth, when we arrive in Háztatlon, you can do whatever you want, but until then, you’ll follow my orders. Is that clear?”

  The morning sun poured over the wild forest. Less than a league away from the estates of Licaf and Atisbar, Trágalar’s city was perfectly camouflaged among the vegetation. The singing of birds and other animals filled the place with life and grace.

  Hexilda scratched the dirty tangle of her long white hair. “All right. I have all I want in this life,” she said as she caressed the wyvern claw she had fastened to her staff by magical means.

  “One thing more,” Mérdmerén added. “No strange witchcraft, d’you understand? I don’t want you to go about bringing the dead back to life or any other kind of filthy magic. Only spells that could benefit us and not curse us. Agreed?”

  The old crone gave him a sideways glance, then turned serious. “I don’t think anything could curse the two of you more than you already are.” She spat on the ground disdainfully. “You’ve been touched by evil, and it’s not just any evil, but one that’s spreading wider every second. If there’s anything that can bless you, it’s my presence, you stupid idiot.”

  “And why’s that?” the sailor asked.

  “Because I know the Conjuring Arts, and I like to toy with darkness. Evil won’t feel threatened by its equal, do you understand?”

  “Not that,” Ságamas replied. “My question is: Why has evil picked out Mérdmerén?”

  Mérdmerén himself had never thought of this. The moment of silence was uncomfortable.

  “I’m not sure. You must be valuable, though I don’t know why. To me, you’re no more than a soulless deserter, but you might be something else.” The old crone gave him a deep stare from head to toe. In the end, she shrugged.

  “Well, if some day you understand why they want me dead,” Mérdmerén said to both Ságamas and Hexilda, “I’d like you to tell me; no beating about the bush. That’s all. On we go.”

  ***

  Well into the evening, they reached the point where the Márgades River forked and lost itself among the greenery. They stopped, filled their flasks to the brim, and drank until they had quenched their thirst.

  They left the river and continued toward the north. Luckily, Trágalar had supplied them with more than enough cured meat and bread, which saved them from having to hunt. Also, the horses were strong and were performing like purebreds.

  In two days, more or less, they would be riding over the Fields of Flora and their resplendent plateaus where, long ago, there had been a war against Kathanas, the city devoted exclusively to the protection of the Stratta Trigonosphere. It was built of the same rock of the plateaus with a defensive capacity which was hard to conquer. To reach the upland, there were two options: either to skirt the Irontangle Mountains, which involved several days’ journey, or climb them, which would save time but make the journey far harder.

  When they began to come across roots and rocks which obstructed their path, they knew they would soon be at the foot of the Irontangle Mountains. Mérdmerén was already puzzling over how to avoid the difficulties of this region. Apart from the icy nights and the complexity of the terrain—with possible falls—the ground was arid, which meant a lack of resting places and grazing for the horses.

  Only one special plant grew there, irontangle, which stuck to the mountain rock as if it were iron and spread out in twisted shapes like untidily tied-up hair. The stems were hard and impossible to cut, and the leaves sparse.

  A couple of days later, they reached the base of the unwelcoming mountains. They stopped and let the horses graze. Before long, they would have nothing to eat, so they let the horses get their fill. Up in those mountains, no grass grew, only irontangle. A horse would be unable to eat that.

  Chapter XVI – Wraith

  Mérdmerén woke with a start. He had been aware of an animal roaring very close by. He sat up with his heart in his mouth and seized a sword. Not far away, Hexilda was snoring like a wild boar. That was the danger.

  The man snorted. He remembered the times when there had been women in his band who snored. Nárgana and Garamashi, two unfortunate women who, as it turned out, had gained nothing good from the band. Ságamas was not there. Mérdmerén looked around and saw someone urinating against a tree.

  “By the bastard mermaids! What a pleasure it is to pee in the open air during the early morning when the dew’s still on everything and the wind’s icy. Don’t you love the steam that envelops you? The steam of piss.”

  Mérdmerén felt sick at this. “Wake the old woman. We need to go on. Those bloody mountains are going to eat us alive. They’re damp and slippery. Don’t be too confident, sailor; an unlucky slip might kill you. Look,” he said, going close to a rock. “Feel the stone. Hard as iron and heavy as a bull. If I throw one of these at you, even a small one, I’ll break your skull.

  “Now look at this,” he said, standing by an irontangle a little taller than he was himself. “Look at the roots, how they pierce the rock. They’re claws, by the Gods! Impossible to fell. If you try to cut a part of it, your sword or your machete will bounce off. There’s no living being, except fungi and those sorts of parasites, which get any benefit from this species. Can you see any birds? Of course not. Reptiles and insects don’t survive here either.”

  “Sounds like we should make swords of the material.”

  “It won’t do. Many have tried with ill luck. If you manage to process the plant, in whatever way you find possible, the fibers rot and the product is muck. Not worth it.”

  The sailor shrugged. “Wouldn’t it be better to skirt the mountains?”

  “That way, we’d waste six days including what we’d lose turning around and going back to the northward path. Besides, that way, we’d go straigh
t into the Fields of Flora and the soldiers in Kathanas would catch sight of us, and they’re not too kindly disposed. By the way, that plain is known as the Mires of Maúralgum.”

  “The Mires of what?”

  “Maúralgum. Némaldon fell in the battle of Maúralgum, but so many died that the ground became a bog. The mud’s there to this day.”

  Mérdmerén turned swiftly, his dagger at the ready, but a bony hand held his own tightly.

  “They say that whoever speaks of the dead summons them, Deserter,” the old crone warned him. “If you speak of the Mires, you’ll attract their perturbed spirits.” Hexilda let go of Mérdmerén’s hand. The sailor was as pale as dough.

  “What time did you get up?” the boss asked her. “You were lying on the ground, asleep.”

  “I’m a sly witch.”

  Mérdmerén was suddenly uneasy. He was beginning to doubt his decision to accept this woman in his mission. “Enough chatter. We need to get going right away.”

  He and Ságamas broke camp and hid their trail.

  “What are you doing?” asked Hexilda, looking interested.

  “We have been pursued ever since we left the South. It’s better to try and lose them.”

  “Don’t be brutes. You’re being pursued by something that can’t be seen or felt, only perceived. And what this thing pursuing you is after is to feed on you. I can feel it. It was there on my son’s estate. It didn’t attack you because I was there, and you’ll stay safe as long as you’re with me. As I told you before, evil doesn’t threaten evil.”

  “What exactly is after us?” Mérdmerén asked. “As far as we know, it was a bunch of bandits who wanted my head to pick up the reward.”

  “And during this journey, have you ever seen those bandits?”

  “No.”

  “Exactly. It’s not bandits that are after you; it’s a wraith.”

  “A what?” said Mérdmerén in alarm.

  “A wraith, an evil spirit. If it touches you, it’ll take your life on the spot. Swallow your soul and use it as life-energy.”