“And why is it chasing me?” Mérdmerén asked, shivering with fear.
“I don’t know who you might have offended, Deserter, but a wraith has found you out and wants to devour you.”
“We’ll hide.”
“You can’t hide from a wraith. It detects your soul’s energy. It doesn’t need to see.”
“We’ll flee to the North!”
“I’m not sure that’ll help.”
“Then I’m doomed to have that evil spirit pursuing me for all eternity?”
“We could cast a spell. Summon the spirit and ask it why it’s after you. It might answer.”
“Let’s do it.”
“It will have to be at night; I can’t concentrate during the day. Besides, those spirits show themselves more clearly at night. The sun, with its warmth and light, blocks the flow of the dark energies.”
“So, what can we do now?” Mérdmerén felt defeated.
“Nothing at all. We’ll go on and find some wide-open space to camp.”
“Witch, we’re about to enter the Irontangle Mountains. I don’t know whether you know this place, but around here there’s no such thing as a wide-open space.”
“There’s a place where you can keep an eye on the plateau,” said the witch.
“Seriously? How do you know?”
“I know my geography, nimwits. I’ve been alive longer than you lot.”
Mérdmerén looked at the sailor, who shrugged. The man had turned even more pale at the mention of spirits and occult forces. It was obvious that he was having doubts about his decision to join the deserter.
“It’s the Shelter, a watch post in the shape of a round open space that is protected by irontangles. In the past, there was a tower in the middle. The imperial soldiers stopped using this border post nearly four hundred years ago, but that doesn’t mean we can’t make use of it now. Besides, we can summon the wraith from there.”
“Shit,” muttered Mérdmerén. “All right, then. Let’s go.”
And so the men and the witch mounted their horses and began the laborious climb up the Irontangle Mountains.
Chapter XVII – When Spirits Weep
“It’s impossible,” the sailor gasped. “The horses won’t stand up to it. We’d better go back.”
“But in this fog, it’ll be impossible to go down unless you want to die,” Mérdmerén said, noticing the despair in his voice.
They went on, but it was not long before Mérdmerén’s horse stopped moving and then the other two. They refused to go on. He did not want to force them. He knew the way was difficult, so he had no choice but to dismount and guide the animal.
“Come on, little horse. I haven’t given you a name yet, and that’s unusual for me. I give a name to everything I love. Yes, my little horse, we’ll reach our goal, we’ll do it, I promise you. I’ll call you Valens, ’cause you’re valiant and powerful. Courage, Valens, you can do it! This path won’t stop us!” Mérdmerén urged.
The sky was covered by a gray shroud, so thick that not a single beam of light could penetrate it. The temperature was falling dizzyingly fast. The wind whipped at the horses and unbalanced them so that they neighed in panic. The irontangles, twisted, rough, and calloused, seemed to scorn the weakness of the travelers. It would soon be the deepest night.
One, two bolts of lightning crossed the sky and flashed into the distance. The group would have leaped with joy had they had more strength. Before them was the Shelter. It was a flat area with a lookout tower, eroded by the passage of time.
It started to rain, and the ground soon turned to mud. The horses were neighing madly. Mérdmerén went on pushing, his face serene, teeth clenched, and eyes fixed on their destination.
When they reached the Shelter, they noticed that the wind was now blowing less aggressively, although it was still raining torrentially.
“Let’s go to the base of the lookout!” he cried. “We might find some sort of roof there!”
They went in. Above their heads, there was nothing solid, but at least there were masses of bushes and dead plants, as well as remnants of rock and wooden planks, all of which served as a barrier against the downpour. The travelers found shelter and tied the reins to branches protected from the storm. When they were beginning to relax, they heard a horrifying noise like someone in terrible suffering.
“What’s that noise?” the sailor asked in a troubled voice.
Mérdmerén shrugged. “Must be the wind blowing through the branches.”
“It’s the wraith!” cried the witch.
Mérdmerén and the sailor tensed, and the witch prepared herself for an attack.
“Is it close?” the leader asked.
“It’s outside the Shelter! Hell!” The witch was annoyed. She could have faced the spirit if they had had time to get a fire going, but the wraith was on their heels.
“What do we do?” Mérdmerén asked, feeling the grip of fear. The noise the wraith made was terrifying. They could now hear it clearly. It was like the weeping of a little girl with a hoarse voice, a scream for help filled with deep hatred. The horses were nervous and would not stay still.
“Do something, old woman! You’re the witch!” Mérdmerén shouted, taking his sword from his belt. Ságamas followed his example and aimed his harpoon-tipped spear at the entrance to the lookout.
“Weapons won’t do anything to it, you idiot!” Hexilda scoffed. “This is going to be a battle between forces of a higher order.”
The witch took off the cloak that covered her bony arms and skinny body. She raised her staff with the wyvern claw and began to chant an unintelligible murmur. Something seemed to be surrounding her. It was energy in a pure state.
Something black and ominous became visible around the edges, howling like a wolf that has found its prey at last. The horses neighed. The men were horrified, cornered as they were in the lookout and facing a presence of unknown strength which would soon make its way into the tower. The thing was approaching. It was big, like the shadow of a tree in the evening with soft edges like a bubble losing its shape. The thing seemed to suck all the light around it. It was darker than darkness itself.
“Come, creature of the underworld!” the crone exhorted. “Come in and show yourself before our eyes!”
The creature brayed. Its shriek was like that of a thousand beings being tortured simultaneously.
The spirit and the barrier of energy collided brutally. A purple radiance broke out in which the wyvern’s claw shone, emitting streaks of light, rabidly red. The wraith revealed itself. It was a man with a worm-eaten face and long beard, from whose eyes two snakes were emerging. He was possessed by a demon filled with hate.
“Mérdmerén!” the spirit was crying in an echo of misery. “Mérdmerén! Mérdmerén!”
“Stay, evil spirit! Stop and you will be absolved; your soul will be freed from the demon and find peace,” Hexilda said. The flashes from the claw turned black. Something imploded and changed the pressure around them. The spirit was hurling itself on its aggressor. Mérdmerén covered his ears, overcome by the pain of the increasing pressure and afraid of being deafened.
Silence.
***
He felt a ray of light piercing his eye. Someone moaned; someone else coughed. He opened his eyes slowly as if his lids were stuck together. Dawn was beginning to announce a new day with a completely clear sky.
The sun was warming the irontangles, causing the mud to slowly cake beneath them. The wraith! Mérdmerén felt himself, looking for some fatal injury, but found he was still in one piece. He looked around him.
Hexilda was lying on the ground, clutching her staff firmly. The claw was burned in parts. The sailor was resting, face down. He looked dead. Mérdmerén started but soon noticed that the man was breathing.
He emerged from the tower. The wind was icy. It eddied around his neck and slipped inside, giving him delightful shivers. There was no sign of the wraith except for a black spot on the soil, which could have been a cons
equence of an explosion or something similar. He could not get over his surprise.
“Bárfalas.” He had recognized him at once. Why would he be pursuing me?
He focused on his surroundings. The view from the Shelter was splendid. He turned his gaze on the path they had come by and was surprised that they had passed the test. He looked northward. There was the path, clearly drawn, narrow, and with several checkpoints.
To the northeast, he glimpsed the Fields of Flora, which, at this time of the morning, seemed like a sea of green dotted with drops of color. The plain seemed endless were it not for the high, inhospitable mountains which rose to the north. Kathanas, he thought. Down there, at the far end, lay the city although he could not see it.
He heard footsteps behind him. It was the unmistakable drag of Ságamas’ wooden leg. His face was a mixture of emotions. Perhaps this magnificent view of the plain reminded him of the sea.
“What a view. This alone’s enough for me for today, Deserter. By the bastard mermaids, this is a real pearl! A beauty!” the man enthused as he spread his arms wide and closed his eyes.
A taciturn presence interrupted their contemplation of the landscape. They turned and saw the witch who was walking towards them with a hand to her head, massaging her temple. “Bloody hell, what a headache!” the old woman grumbled.
“Is it really painful?” Mérdmerén asked, feigning concern. “Thanks once again for saving our lives. That claw; I never imagined it would be capable of so much.”
“I know. You gave me a wonder, Deserter. The long and the short of it is that I have a hangover, gentlemen. Doing magic is like drinking too much liquor: it takes life and energy from you. Now I feel stunned but fine. You owe me two, Mérdmerén, and so do you, Ságamas. I’ve rid you of the spirit. Did you get a good look at it? Do you know who it is?” she asked Mérdmerén.
“Yes. His name was Bárfalas. He died almost two decades ago; a band killed him. They wanted to rob him of something I’d sold to him and send me a warning at the same time.”
“Someone knows you well and wants to murder you,” the crone said, scratching her big nose. “If they’ve sent you a wraith, that means big trouble. Maybe the one responsible is the Grim Shepherd we saw in the cauldron. They want you dead, and we still don’t know why.”
Mérdmerén had no idea why witches and shamans alike all grew long noses over time. It wasn’t a large nose like an aristocrat’s but long and puffy, almost red, and as if the meat around it had grown. Was it a side effect of wielding magic? Or some sort of skin ailment? He did not know and made a point in not staring at the witch’s nose anymore, as it disgusted him more often than not.
“Right now, I’m completely incapable of understanding anything. I’ve been a bandit, I’ve done things I’m not proud of, but I haven’t offended any wizard or demon. Maybe a sorcerer I named Innonimatus, but he doesn’t count because he wants to help me. Could it have something to do with the sáffurtan we came across?”
Why does Innonimatus not have a large nose too? thought Mérdmerén to himself.
“I doubt it very much. This seems to be more of a coincidence. What I am sure about is that they’re after you. We’ll find out what’s behind it soon enough.” The old crone turned toward the landscape. Her rags were now more torn than before. The men could now see more of her chest. Where once breasts grew, there was skin on bone. The ribs were finely drawn on the skin. She was skinny as hell!
“What a view!” said the crone. “The Fields of Flora are a gem. One day, I’d love to visit the Mires of Maúralgum. They killed so many. You can kidnap those spirits to generate spells of great power. Well, comrades, are you ready for the rigors of the North?”
Mérdmerén and Ságamas looked at one another and laughed nervously.
“You’re right. If the South is full of deserters and layabouts, in the North, we’ll find another culture and another way of dealing with things. There are deserters but of a different breed. More than once, I thought we wouldn’t make it, but here we are, about to cross the Kathanas border and enter the North officially. Let’s start on our way as soon as possible. In two or three days, we’ll have crossed the mountains and reached the beginning of the Stratta Trigonosphere. It’ll be easy to find a village to rest for a few days.”
The sailor smoothed his white beard, impatient to be ever closer to his destination. The witch went back into the tower to gather together her belongings. The rock was still impregnated with the shadow of the spirit she had dispelled.
Mérdmerén looked at the horizon, trying to penetrate the distance. He was struck by a wayward memory of his wife and daughter. He smiled. His mission was beginning to make sense.
Chapter XVIII – The Silent Language of a Cloud
The route north was a constant up and down. To the right, there stretched a rough cliff that was impossible to climb. To the left, the slopes of the mountains were long and quiet. For hundreds of years, armies had taken advantage of this particular area of relief to plan strategies for attack and ambush.
Those who had left Flamonia soon realized the advantages of the place as a defense against Némaldon. They settled in the plateaus north of the plain and, from there, waged the battle of Maúralgum.
They founded a city which they called Kathanas, which in the Flamonian language means unbreakable shield. Its inhabitants had the idea of digging into the plateaus and growing vertically down, into the earth. It turned out to be a stroke of genius, as thanks to this, Kathanas became invincible.
Its walls had the solidity of the mountains themselves, and its foundations had the depth of the volcanoes. Kathanas rose as the guardian city, the most important defense base of the empire of Mandragora, which already promised a great future. The founders, Eryund des Guillioth (the first king) and Aryan Vetala (the first evangelizer), never imagined that the Empire would turn into a giant with more than ten powerful cities, each with exceptional military capacity. Nor, of course, did they ever imagine the political, economic, and social disasters that were now well-established.
Nobody foresaw this, but it was obvious enough since where there is freedom, there are those who abuse it. Least of all was it foreseen there would be a rivalry between the North and South that would come to a climax in a growing atmosphere of tension and the threat of a civil war that their enemies might take advantage of to checkmate them.
Mérdmerén imagined those men of the past fighting on the plain, trotting around the base of the mountains and warring, as he solemnly admired the superb landscape. From up here, he could see the crops; it seemed to be grass, flowers, small bushes, and other plants which grew there. And yet on this land, not a single tree grew, something nobody could ever explain. A tree planted was a tree that died for no apparent reason. All the same, it was never thoroughly investigated since the Kathanas strategists preferred to keep the area free of trees to be able to spy out danger from afar.
Although it had been several centuries since anybody had threatened the Fields of Flora, those plateaus were eternally watched over, particularly with an enemy like Némaldon with whom they did not dare lower their guard.
The path was bordered by small rocks. Its width only allowed a single rider to pass with his horse or two soldiers. To the right, there was no escape route because of the cliff. To the left was the constant vigilance of the watchtowers on the upland.
A little further on was a sentry post. The travelers marched steadily on with the assurance lent them by their elegant clothes, solid armor, fine swords, and purebred horses. The guards would take them for a group of wealthy traders, though they might suspect the sailor’s wooden leg and the witch-like air the old woman did not attempt to hide.
The soldiers were hesitant because they were preparing their bows and spears.
“Listen to me,” Mérdmerén whispered. “Call me Arbitrator. I’m a landowner from the lands of the QuepeK’Baj, and we’re going to Merromer to negotiate exports to Grizna. Understood?”
“And I’ll be
the captain of the Stingray,” Ságamas replied, delighted.
“And I’ll be your mother,” Hexilda said reluctantly. She did not like the role of mother, but to announce herself as a witch would be unwise. Mérdmerén was not happy with the idea either, but he had neither the will nor the energy to contradict her. If these men had any experience with shamans or witches, they would soon enough notice the witch's rags, crane, long meaty nose, and unhealthy, skinny body. But in the North, witches were less popular than in the South, mostly because people persecuted them more often and hung them. In the South, a witch was able to find suitable customers in search of a remedy or potion of healing.
Ahead of them, Kathanas was approaching.
“Halt! You’re stepping on lands that belong to Duke Thoragon of the Roam family. What’s your business?”
Mérdmerén was surprised that the soldiers did not mention King Aheron III or his lineage. Could they be thinking of seeking independence? If Kathanas separates from the empire, it’ll be a problem, he thought, seeing the proud faces of the soldiers. Could the duke be testing the ground? Whichever way, the Roam family is cursed. Madness runs through the veins of all their generations. Maybe the duke is entering the final, unavoidable cycle of this evil and giving absurd orders.
Mérdmerén raised his hands. Ságamas and Hexilda did the same.
“We come with no hostile intention and without making any special claims. We’re a group of travelers looking to do business in Merromer. I wish to export my goods, the merchandise I produce in the QuepeK’Baj. My name is Arbitrator, from the estate of… the Fertile Corner.” It was the first name that came to his mind, but he thought it was not bad at all.
The one who seemed to be the captain, a man with a thick beard and a dark, circumspect gaze, who was protected by the silver armor of Kathanas—the coat of arms was a castle on a highland—became impatient.
“Here, I’m the one who decides who’s what, traveler. You’re in the lands of Duke Thoragon now, and if you want to go on, you’ll have to pay the appropriate tribute. That is, supposing you pass inspection by my soldiers.”
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