Archangel’s Ascension
(Fallen Gods Book 4)
Pablo Andrés Wunderlich Padilla
Synopsis:
The archangel rises from the depths of a strange dimension known as the Interim to retake his failed quest. He wears a strange spirit-form which has him trapped in an insubstantial state—and in another dimension.
The memory of being defeated and cast into the abyss by the newly reincarnated Legionaer haunts him. He was close to defeating evil reincarnate! But alas, he was weak as a newly formed semi-god. He should have been smarter, he should have lived to fight another day. But he was flung into battle unprepared.
Not all is lost. The archangel has escaped Tempus Frontus and is now back in the world once known as home. However, in this spirit-form state, he is unable to interact with reality.
He must find answers—and quickly. Evil has been allowed to thrive unrestrained. But even before the archangel embarks on his mission, he must first conquer the great enigma of his state of existence. Coming out of Tempus Frontus was just the first step. He must now confront his own self to achieve integration.
© 2021 Pablo Andrés Wunderlich Padilla . All rights reserved.
It is absolutely forbidden to reproduce this text without the explicit permission of the author.
All the characters in this work are products of the imagination.
Part I – Hell
Chapter I – Hell
Gusts of icy wind edged their way through the old mountain wall which made up the Devonic Range of Simrar. There the winds carried thoughts and voices to bear their message to whoever wanted to hear them, whether human, elves, or Wild Men.
There are always souls wounded by bitter memories who fail to flow with those mysterious currents. It was night, and one soul sighed on top of a hill, leaning against the Great Pine. In the distance, everything was the same: the blue and purple mountains, and the rising sun that was beginning to awake nature, but that horizon had lost the meaning that same sun had given it. In its absence, sunrises and sunsets were not special.
“Oh, Mancheguito,” Luchy sighed, yearning for the kisses they had never given each other and without the comfort of the tears she had already exhausted. Two fingers of light peeked over the crest of the range. Watching the dawn caused her pain, but she could not hold herself back. She reminded herself that she had survived a bloody and devastating war, that many had been left behind, and others would never recover. Like Lulita. The old woman bore the burden of having witnessed the deaths of her husband and then her grandson, both brought on by the same evil.
A powerful light, like a silent explosion, burst out on the horizon. The fire made its way through the lazy clouds and bathed the fields. Luchy received the blessing of the sun with her eyes closed, letting the light penetrate all her pores. She had to forget him and leave the past behind, but how? She sank her head between her shoulders and let one tear escape. There she was, as she was every day, letting herself be carried along by the inertia of the days with no will of her own. How much she detested this indolence. Had she let herself be imprisoned in a destructive routine?
“Breakfast’s readyyyyyy!” Lulita shouted.
Luchy smiled; this woman was all she had in this world.
Lulita’s eyes lingered on the girl as she walked back. She had turned into a very beautiful young woman despite that far-away air. She walked with her hands together, as though begging that things could be different. Lulita wished for the same thing. She leaned against the door of the ranch she had built herself. Feeling those walls, knowing her home had risen again, was one of the few things which made her go on despite everything.
The girl reached the house at last. She still had those same large eyes, green as emeralds, with a gaze both curious and deeply intelligent. Her long, silky chestnut-brown hair came down to her waist. At sixteen winters, the girl had developed a shapely figure: Her hips had rounded into seductive curves. Her legs were long, and her breasts stood erect under her clothes with the insolence of youth. Her face had hardened, with clear-cut features, full lips, haughty nose. Luchy promised to be the most dazzling beauty of the whole region. She was of proper childbearing age, and many men had already tried their luck with her to no avail.
But that was not her main virtue. She also showed a delicate sensitivity and fine intelligence.
“Oh, my precious,” Lulita said when she saw her. “I can’t believe how little King Aheron III has done to help us after the destruction of the village.”
After three years of siege, the king had sent hardly any reinforcements, and nobody understood why. The survivors had organized themselves as best they could, and trade continued, but crime had become rampant. Poverty and misfortune reigned and made visits to the village a dangerous adventure. But there are lessons to be learned from everything, so Lulita had managed to gather together supplies and plan an escape route if war should return.
The two women went to the round table to have breakfast, each immersed in her thoughts: Lulita meditating for the umpteenth time on the possibility of moving to another village, Luchy guessing what the older woman was thinking and knowing she would never be able to leave the ranch behind with all its precious memories.
Luchy did not want to leave either. She had not given up hope of seeing Manchego again.
“Come back home, my darling,” the girl would say, looking into the distance and hoping that a smiling face would appear before her.
“Oh, little one, the things that happened… the village is a graveyard,” the grandmother said. Topics were scarce, and they talked about the same thing more often than not. Luchy contributed a piece of gossip she had picked up at the Décamon.
“Lulita, have you heard? A new sacristan’s due to arrive, and they say he’s the best of the best. I hope it’s true. This village needs comfort and a guide in this Village of Hell.”
This was how the inhabitants of the area referred to the times they found themselves in after the Massacre of San San-Tera.
“Father Crisondo needs help. Three years without a sacristan is too long,” the girl went on.
Lulita’s gaze was distant as she drank from her mug. “The Cursed Pit is still there. The general and his officers were supposed to have come to solve the mystery, but it looks to me as though the leader’s more concerned with his family life than anything else,” she said in an apathetic voice. She sipped her coffee and leaned back in her chair.
“Don’t you think Leandro and the mage might be able to help us? There seems to be a philosopher with them as well—”
“Never!” Lulita cried with a start. “That gang won’t be able to do anything for us! Nobody can. Leandro and his retinue will be away from here soon with the same conclusion all the rest of us have reached: there’s no saying what happened here!”
Luchy nodded. Grandmother was right. Everything was lost. Everything.
“Leandro Deathslayer’s a great man and a first-rate general, but he’s wasting his time. And the philosopher with him, fat as a lump of bread-dough, hasn’t any theories at all. Besides, the mage is older than this ranch. Mark my words: they can’t help us. It’s best if they leave us in peace, to die in peace, and to suffer our woes in peace. All that’s left for us is to weep for our dead. And that’s that.”
Luchy did not agree with Lulita on this point, but she was not going to contradict her, nor did she feel like going on with the subject.
“Even Rufus doesn’t come to visit us,” the grandmother said. “Ever since Manchego died, he hasn’t so much as set foot in the ranch. I guess now he belongs to the general’s children, and it’s better that way.”
Sometimes, when Luchy watched those children playing
with the dog she had come to love so much, she felt jealous. She noticed that the dog would look at her helplessly; maybe he too suffered from his memories.
“We’re lost, Luchy, don’t you forget that. This village will die of sorrow and then rot before anybody can save it. Suicide’s one way—”
“Don’t ever say that!” Luchy cried, infuriated by her words. It was not the first time something like this had come up, and to some extent she understood; every once in a while a family would take their own lives.
“Lately, I’ve been feeling a strange force,” the old woman said, changing the subject. “It’s his presence, you know? I’m sure it’s him, Manchego.”
“I think it’s time to—we ought to let him go.”
Lulita turned to her in fury and slammed her hands on the table with a crash, visibly upset, and rose. “If you don’t mind,” was all she said as she turned, carrying on her bent back all the woes that weighed so heavily on her. She sat down in the rocking chair and started to knit.
Luchy pondered on her own words, wondering whether they had been necessary. Three years of deep sadness had gone by, a sadness that enveloped everything. But she could not go on like this. A spark lit in her soul and grew. Soon, the flame became an intense fire that escaped through a gaze of passionate conviction.
***
Luchy rode the mare at a gentle trot along the Avenue of the Ranchers. She was enjoying the sun, the shadows of the trees and their branches, and the wind which glided over the plains. In the distance, she saw a cart pulled by a fine orange horse. The rider was not so bad to look at either. Luchy readied herself for the encounter.
“Good morning,” Lombardo said, gazing brightly at Luchy and going on his way.
“Good morning,” Luchy replied, feeling her cheeks redden. Luckily, Lombardo was already behind her, and he could not be aware of the impression he was making on her.
“Someday, will you take up my invitation for a walk in the country?” Lombardo shouted.
Luchy turned around. There was that big young man with his broad smile. He was attractive. His square face was framed by short straight hair, and his hazel eyes were striking. He was well-seated on his horse, his strong broad chest straight and his height noticeable. At his back, he carried a long sword, and his body was protected with leather armor. He was a born warrior. Besides which, every pore of his skin exuded the virtues of a good rancher.
“Maybe. Though, I’m not best-placed for going walking with anybody.”
Luchy went on her way with her heart trembling. She was in love with Manchego, and she was not going to forget him. She had made the mistake of accepting this fact too late, and now she was not going to fail him by putting him aside in some corner of her soul.
Somewhat later, her path crossed with another cart, pulled by two black mares: Jacinta and Naya.
“Good morning,” said Gramal Gard, an immigrant from Omen who had looked after her uncle’s properties after the destruction of the farms. The young man was a warrior who united magic and strength. Gramal was a high-ranking soldier under Hakama, leader of the Brutal Fark-Amon division in the military. With Leandro Deathslayer in the cursed village of San San-Tera, it was easy for Hakama to allow Gramal to tend to his family’s estate. “Go and lay eyes on that cursed land,” Hakama had said upon granting Gramal permission. “Be sure the general is safe.”
“Good morning,” Luchy said amiably.
“You look beautiful this morning. What brings you here?” Gramal asked eagerly.
Luchy was uneasy but tried to hide the fact. “Not much; I’m just out for a stroll. I’ve been in the house for months, and I’m getting a bit bored.”
“It’s true we can’t go out much nowadays; the village isn’t the most appropriate place for it. I might come with you. Would you let me? I’d love to.”
The girl felt flattered, but her convictions were strong. She was not ready for courtship either with Lombardo or this man, who was also good-looking with blond shoulder-length hair, a square face, blue eyes, and a long nose. A cotton tunic covered his tall, lean body.
“No, thank you,” she said without hesitation. “I appreciate it, Gramal. I wish you a very good day. So long.”
She left without waiting for a reply. The soldier followed her with a gaze full of intrigue and hurt pride.
She continued at a gentle trot under a warm sun and left through the red and crumbling sentry posts of the Avenue of the Ranchers. She passed the outbound sentry post, which was now open with neither guards nor gates. After the destruction, not even deserters wanted to go near it. Besides, the rumor had spread that the village was cursed and that even the soil had been contaminated. Nobody did anything to solve the situation or even to find out what had happened. Everything was lamentation, like hers and Lulita’s. Those who could not bear it any longer killed themselves.
For men like Gramal, it was worse. The girls in the village were as cursed as the land itself. A young and attractive man like him could have sought entertainment with the daughter of the smith or the baker. Luchy did not know any maidens other than herself in the surroundings of the village.
Guess I’m one of the lucky girls who’s not cursed, she thought. Or maybe I am cursed by being the only pretty one left so that all any man wants with me is to make up to me. I won’t have it! All my life I’ve been seen as “that pretty girl who’s too pretty for her own good.” I need to toughen up.
There were no zones in the village anymore, either rich or poor; there were only survivors. The streets were dirty; nobody had removed the rubble left by the war.
Determined to change the course of things, Luchy headed to the center where General Leandro Deathslayer and his officers had settled themselves. As she passed, a door would open, someone would peek out, probably surprised by the noise in that mute and forgotten place, and to do something other than passing the hours doing nothing. Others, those who were homeless and lying in the streets, followed her with their gaze; they were destitute beyond even the hope of begging. Luchy shivered. Those people deprived of hope had once been lively traders and cheerful stallholders but were now inert, devoid of feeling, expression, and vitality. She, too, had experienced the same catatonic state, but not anymore. She would change that today.
***
The general and his group of analysts had taken up residence near what had been the Central Market. The area had been cleared and was guarded by several soldiers with long halberds and heavy metal armor. Nowhere else in the village was properly looked after.
In the distance, Luchy heard the barking of an old friend running toward her. She jumped off Sureña, knelt, and welcomed Rufus with open arms. She received every one of his licks with delight, and with the tickling and the dog’s weight, the girl fell backward. When the animal had finished showing his affection, Luchy became aware of his disappointment: he was looking for Manchego.
A few steps away, two little boys were laughing, full of health, and with no trace of worry. They ran to Luchy, and after them came a lady with a massive bust and heavy hips. The children threw themselves on Rufus. Luchy watched them with pleasure and a smile she was unable to restrain. The dog was delighted, rolling on the ground between the boys.
“Gabriel and Nickolathius!” the lady exclaimed in the unmistakable accent of the northern lands of Háztatlon. “Oh my, you’ll be the death of me one of these days, you really will. And your poor dog’s going to die with all this abuse. Forgive them, young lady.” The woman blinked when she came close to Luchy. “But, you look like a princess!”
Luchy lowered her head and blushed.
“My name is Nana Bromelia, although these little ones call me Nanita. You, my little princess, can call me whatever you like best. Oh my, what beautiful eyes. If these boys were bigger, I’d be recommending them to you already,” she said with a wink. “Little lady, you’re so pretty you don’t need to have princes introduced to you.” Coming close enough to whisper in her ear, she added roguishly, “Although it’s n
ot just titles and class you have to take into account, there are bedroom skills too.”
The girl could not hold back a sudden feeling of disgust. “A pleasure, Nanita. My name is Luciella, but everybody calls me Luchy.”
“Pleased to meet you, sweetie. And what brings you here?”
“I’m looking for General Deathslayer, his philosopher, and his mage. I’d like to speak to them. It’s urgent.”
Nana made the faintest of gestures, but it was enough to prompt Luchy to explain herself.
“This village is rotting. I want to know what happened here three years ago, and whether I can do anything for my people.”
Nana Bromelia nodded. “With pleasure, young lady. I’ll tell the general myself that you’re looking for him.”
They walked together for a moment until they came upon a man wearing a straw hat and muddy shirt; he was barefoot, and his pants were rolled up around his ankles. He seemed to be tending his garden. The powerfully built man straightened when he saw them. He was about forty and of average height, with dark hair and eyes.
“What is it?”
He put his hand to his face to wipe away the sweat and smeared mud on himself. In his other hand, he was holding a pick and a small shovel. The garden of tomatoes and radishes did not look impressive. He greeted Luchy with a swift wave of his hands.
“A lot of people say this soil is contaminated,” he said, indicating the plot he was working on. “It wouldn’t surprise me at all.”
This was no ordinary farmer. He was educated, with a northern accent, and spoke with the confidence of one used to giving orders. Luchy felt as though she had been slapped; she wanted to reply but swallowed her words. Nana Bromelia, too, was silent. The farmer dropped his tools, and at a silent order, two soldiers came running with a cloth and a jug of water. He moistened the cloth and wiped his face.
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