Leandro felt a twinge of guilt. Fatherhood had certainly softened the general. But there was more. The king himself did not seem in a hurry to solve things. The Council of Kings seemed to be taking the matter easily. They had sent him south to the village, together with the most powerful mage of the Empire and the philosopher, to understand the phenomenon. Something was badly amiss. How could he have been so stupid to not have seen there was something afoot? He felt used. Someone had fed the general’s desire to be a father above all else and blinded him to the Empire’s needs.
And here was the Empire’s most powerful soldier, who could command the Imperial Army, many hundreds of leagues away from the military city of Omen. He felt like a puppet. The Empire was in deep turmoil. Its southern borders were under serious threat, and here in San San-Tera, a horrible thing had happened. Yet, the government wanted nothing more than to divide the Empire’s forces. Why?
Divide and conquer: the oldest military rule of all. Even wild animals hunting their prey knew this simple yet powerful principle. How then was it possible for the general of the Imperial Army to have been fooled? It could only mean one thing: He was prey. Who was his hunter? A shiver ran down the general’s spine as he considered the implications.
It was worse than that, even. Leandro was simply following orders. At the end of the day, no matter how high his rank, he was still a cog in the wheels of a war machine. Even if he had opposed the decision to come south, he would still have come out of sheer obedience. But perhaps if he had stayed clear-eyed and clear-headed he would have noticed the oddity of things long before Lulita had told them about the terrible things that had happened in this town.
“My friends,” said Leandro, “I fear we’ve been tricked. The Black Arts are among us. I can’t even say whether I was under a spell or not.”
“Necromancy!” the mage cried out in horror. Leandro noticed that the mage felt the same rage, the same sense of having been fooled.
“You’ve been here for three years!” snapped Luchy. “What did you think had happened when you saw this tomb of a village with a pit the size of a town hall full of corpses? You thought we villagers did it all on our own?”
The girl had a sudden realization that people are just people, no matter what their rank or position in society. She had thought that the king’s general, the senior mage, and the philosopher would have more wits about them than the average man. But she was wrong. People are just people, and these people from the North made the mistake of assuming the pit was some sort of creation of ours. The mistake was in making the assumption.
“Oh, girl,” said Gáramond. “You’ve stuck a knife deep into my soul. How stupid of us it was to stay dormant. And all this while, for three long years, it seems that evil has been running amok while we, the king’s emissaries, were idle in our task of protecting the realm. I’ll be the first to admit we’ve failed you.”
Strangelus’s pupil came into the hall. He carried a staff and a book on the Conjuring Arts.
“Sir, there’s something I must tell you.”
“Speak, Elgahar, speak.”
“I saw an angel with wings of white feathers. He drew a bright spear out of the air and spoke to the retarded one as if he knew him or was his confidant. I swear I didn’t imagine this.”
The philosopher and the mage looked at one another.
“You say you saw an angel? That’s impossible.”
“I’m not lying,” the pupil insisted.
“I saw it too,” Luchy said as she stood up.
“So did I,” Lulita said. “Leandro, the angel this young man is describing exists. It’s the God of Light, who has returned.”
Leandro too rose from his seat. Before he could speak, Lulita cut in.
“He’s charged us with giving you a message.”
“What? How?”
“Némaldon is amassing legions of soldiers to invade our lands,” snapped Lulita. “You must go back north as soon as possible to lead the Imperial Army. You’ve been stationed a long way from your command post for a reason! Oh, I can see it all so clearly now. I’m sure Némaldon foresaw this, and now they have two of the most powerful soldiers of the Empire leagues away from Omen! You fools!”
Leandro exhaled, feeling the sting of defeat. “I’m afraid you are right,” he said.
The guards were alarmed. They were not supposed to listen to the general’s conversations, but to ignore his statements would be foolish.
A soldier came running in, pale as a corpse. “General! General!”
Leandro spun around to meet the soldier. “Speak! What is it?”
The soldier came forward, shaking. “This has just arrived!” He was carrying something folded between his bloodied hands. It was the body of a bird: a carrier pigeon.
The general took the bird’s leg, which had a small leather ring round it. It held a rolled-up note with the emblem of Ágamgor and the seal of Nurimitzu Loyola, the duke of that city. Leandro took the note warily and with distaste. After all that had been said just now, the arrival of this note was ominous.
THE DEMONS HAVE RISEN!
To whoever reads this message, be it village, city, soldier or trader, mercenary or deserter, know that we are under siege by the legions of the enemy. Némaldon has crossed the borders of Aegrimonia and is marching in such force that we will be overrun in less than a day. I fear that by the time this letter is read, we will all be dead. Flee to the North! Notify the king! The Imperial Army must make itself ready!
The Master has been brought back to life and is leading his minions to a certain victory.
Nurimitzu Loyola, Duke of Ágamgor.
Leandro raised his eyes from the paper. The others were waiting for some gesture, some command. He held back, realizing at the same moment that everything was falling on him at the same time. Three years of relative peace were over in an instant. Whoever had orchestrated this grand move to divide the Empire had succeeded. The Master had returned, and Ágamgor was already suffering the first attack.
He read it again but this time aloud for the rest to hear.
“By the Gods!” yelled the mage.
“Impossible,” barked the philosopher.
“The attackers must be close!” said Leandro. “Where did you find the pigeon?”
“A league south! We were scouting as ordered. We came back immediately when we found it!”
“The demons must be on your heels!”
He looked through the window towards the horizon with a bitter foretaste of the battle that was about to hit them unawares. Terror was about to arrive with its horde of demons, drums of panic, and rivers of blood and pain. He must stay cool like the man of war he was: calculating and determined. He had been tricked and used, utterly played for a fool. He felt weak and beaten. But he would not allow defeat to master him. He would rise to the challenge. The general grew somber, then a strange look occupied his once-soft features. Here was a man made of determination as solid as cold steel.
They had to get moving and go north to warn the king. The enemy was not going to wait for them or stop.
General Leandro Deathslayer took a step forward, clenched his sweaty fists, and composed his square face with his jaw tight.
“Get the carrier pigeons ready,” he said in a voice as firm as his thoughts. “Inform the king and the dukes of the Empire that war has broken out. The Empire is in danger. Run! We flee immediately!”
“But there’s proper decorum to be observed!” said the captain. “We can’t just flee like Deserters!”
“Lomans, my dear Captain, proper decorum goes into the latrine the moment proper decorum costs you your life. Now be off and don’t question me again!”
The massive captain ran off.
Nobody was ready. Everyone was living in a drunken reality. But for those who ignore reality and live in the world of the subjective, there is nothing more objectifying than death itself as a brutal reminder that reality has come back to bite the butt of those who decided to ignore it.
Luchy and Lulita held each other tightly. War had begun again, and this time it would be far worse.
Without another word, Leandro left in search of his wife and children. The person or persons who had planned his visit to the South must surely know his precise location. He was sure that San San-Tera would be overrun very soon.
Chapter IX – Honoring the Devil
Argbralius was assisting the priest at the Holy Mass. He had still not shaken off that hatred which had stirred in him at the good news of the God of Light’s return, but he knew this was the reason for his unease. Inside, he was squirming like a worm stuck on a hook. It was that black flower, that stain which had driven him to kill Trumbar and the Deserters. It vibrated with a rebellious impulse he was unable to control.
“That’s why we thank the Gods,” Crisondo was saying, “for the return of the King of the Heavens, of light and hope. The god Alac Arc Ángelo is back with us. We couldn’t be more grateful. Thank you! Oh, thank you, Gods of Eternity! Peace has come back to us!”
Argbralius gagged. Bile came up his gullet, and he swallowed it. He wished he could also swallow this irrepressible craving to do evil which was stirring in his soul.
“The skies shine again, the fields are fertile. The Gods have given us a second opportunity, brothers and sisters. The God of Light will protect us from ruin.”
Argbralius sank into himself and abandoned reality. He found himself in a corridor of cold, black rock. The walls oozed evil. He felt comfortable there.
He came to a garden of black soil, enclosed by pickets of rotten wood. A flower emerged, shut within a bud like the mouth of a viper that comes out as it locates its prey. Within it, the flower opened its jaws, anxious to seize its prey. Like a child hungry for affection, Argbralius spread his arms wide and begged the flower to take him with it, far from this world of light and good news. All he wanted was the eternal shadow.
The flower, like a cobra studying its prey before it swallows it, swayed from side to side. It opened its petals and fell on the young man. With a single gulp, it swallowed him.
Now, he was floating in space. It was not the first time he had seen a being with black wings, riding a dragon made wholly of a substance both dark and uncertain. The image could not have been more beautiful.
The evil being on the dragon disappeared only to return later with a victorious smile. In its hand, it carried a still-beating heart; from its mouth trickled streaks of fresh blood.
The winged being flew past Argbralius. The sacristan followed him with his eyes, fascinated. In those deep gray eyes, he saw that it had the power to penetrate deeper into him. He also saw a long, shining sword, together with black armor which left him choking with enthusiasm.
“Wake up! Wake up, by the Gods!”
The voice came and went. Argbralius had a feeling of heat, then of asphyxia. He tried to gulp air but was unable to.
“Call the healer! Quick!” cried Crisondo.
Argbralius was in convulsions on the floor. His hands, now transformed into claws, were trying to clutch a lifeboat. He had bitten his tongue, and blood was streaming from his mouth. His eyes had turned inward in their sockets and now were merely white orbs. His legs were shaking uncontrollably. It looked like a case of diabolic possession.
Halfway through the Mass, he had collapsed with no control over his body. Some of the attendants had run out for help; those who had remained covered their mouths and faces at the horrible sight.
Savarb rushed to him and stuffed a rag into his mouth so that he would not tear his tongue out. All they could do was wait for him to calm down.
When the convulsions were over, Argbralius opened his eyes. He felt weak, light. Dozens of faces were watching him from above with horror; despite this, he could not have been more pleased. That vision had conquered him, and he knew that to experience it in his flesh, all he needed to do was let himself be carried by the dark seed which was lodged in his soul. That world was becoming more familiar to him, and the one he had been born and grown up in was becoming stranger. He needed time and patience to dominate this other dimension; then the convulsions would end, along with the bleeding and the loss of control.
“Straighten his legs, for the Gods’ sake! And his hands! They look like claws!” a woman cried.
“He’s very strong! We’d better call a healer who knows what he’s about! This boy’s possessed!”
“Someone do something!” a man shouted.
“Abandon the village! By the general’s orders! We must march north to Kathanas!”
Chaos reigned within the religious sanctuary as soldiers entered in a frenzy, pushing and shoving people to react to the incoming threat.
“What is the meaning of this! Holy Mass is in progress!” yelled Crisondo.
“The rage of Némaldon is loose! We must abandon the village and make to the North!” yelled a soldier in his face.
“That is not possible! The God of Light! His Light shines upon us!”
Argbralius was coming and going between the two dimensions. It seemed that his soul was enjoying getting rid of this body it knew to be temporary.
“The village is about to fall! The demons are marching! We must leave immediately!”
Sound evaporated. There was nothing left but the soothing echoes of silence…
Mórgomiel, the God of Chaos, studied the universe which was being created before his eyes. The light of the new-born cosmos awed him. And this made him go back over his origin.
When the ancient gods Désofor and Mórofos gave birth to the new ones, they changed their names. Désofor became Sarc-Splelendor. Mórofos became Ashamsham’Krönus.
Mórgomiel was the product of the fission of Ashamsham’Krönus that gave rise to other gods. Mórgomiel was given the realm of black energy and antimatter. The dark side was necessary as the inevitable opposite of all reality; if they wanted a world of light, there had to be one of shadow. Thus Mórgomiel’s end was to realize his nature to provide balance in the universe.
The gods who were born from Sarc-Splelendor were destined to become light, the generation of clouds, suns, and billions of galaxies, each one with thousands of stars.
In those days of creation, light and darkness had no meaning beyond nature. Those were days devoted exclusively to creation. The concepts of good and evil did not even exist.
Millions of years went by. Mórgomiel watched existence from the planet he inhabited, formed of black matter and chaos that orbited a red giant. In Mortis Depthos life did not blossom, nor was there any need for it to. The simplicity of that blackness gave him pleasure, but that was about to change.
His planet, unlike others, had a nucleus of black energy which caused volcanic eruptions, which, at times, were disastrous for the matter of the cosmos. On one occasion, when Mórgomiel was traveling through the universe, he saw his reflection on a metallic planet. He was afraid, and this emotion was a novelty to him. He touched his face, his body. He was a bipedal creature with long arms and legs and a wide torso. His entire body was opaque like his energy. His head was made of the same material, but here something was missing. The problem was the lack of expression.
With a strange churning within him, he continued his journey, feeding a subconscious hatred.
Later, Mórgomiel encountered different galaxies, shining and filled with something he did not know. He journeyed to one of these galaxies and was deeply impressed. Several planets rotated around a young yellow star at different speeds. Each displayed different colors and singular beauty. This, the contemplation of beauty, troubled him. He had never been in the presence of aesthetic perfection, poetry, pleasure, and sweetness. He wanted to know more about their origin and nature.
He went on to a blue planet. Here, he landed on brown earth, fertile and full of life. Around were mountains, volcanoes, trees, plants, and animals. He was shaken by a confused attack of pain and was unable to avoid the inevitable: He compared his planet with the one he was admiring and felt himself to be condemne
d to a desolate world. He, too, wanted that brightness, that outburst of life.
An inquisitive animal approached him. The God of Chaos, moved by the approach of this being, stretched out his black, opaque hand and touched it. The howl of the animal was intense, deafening, a lament of pain and entreaty that rent the air. The lifeless body of the animal turned to dust and evaporated into the air. Mórgomiel, horrified, understood that his nature was one of destruction, and in direct opposition to his condition, he felt guilty. He had destroyed that harmless creature with a simple gesture without intending to.
When he returned to his world, he sank into a deep sadness—into oblivion and the void. The barrenness of his planet hurt those feelings that had blossomed in him. He realized that he, unlike the other gods, would never have access to the riches of the universe, and he was filled with rancor toward Ashamsham’Krönus, the god who had created him. This resentment took root, grew, and blossomed into hatred.
And thus, evil was born.
Chapter X – The God of Light
Argbralius opened his eyes. He was tied onto a saddle with his arms and legs tied to the sides of the mount. His head hurt, but he was aware that he had traveled through time, to a past so remote that he found it impossible to determine.
His mouth felt full of something, apparently a gag. He spat and tried to speak, but words would not come out, only a guttural sound that attracted the attention of the person who was looking after him. His tongue was sore, and he was aware of the metallic taste of blood.
Karolina came over to him and felt his forehead. She nodded in satisfaction. She had to admit that the sacristan looked ridiculous lolling on the back of a horse. But there was no time to waste. They could not afford to put him in a cot to recover. They had to march immediately. She was very anxious, mostly for her children. She had seen her husband in and out of battles, returning with incredible tales of war. The mention of the walking dead was not foreign to her, although it always gave her chills no matter how old the news might be.
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