Archangel’s Ascension

by Pablo Andrés Wunderlich Padilla

  She had overheard her husband’s conversation with Lulita and was very worried, both for herself and the Empire. If it was true that the king had left the Imperial Army headless with a purpose, that purpose could only be for ill. She knew very well that the Council of Kings was likely to be the source of that betrayal. It had to be. However, they were hundreds of leagues far from the capital of the Empire, and finding out that sort of information would be very difficult at such a distance. She swallowed her anxiety and tried to remain calm. The chaos in the village was not helping her. The soldiers had rattled the villagers, who were barely emerging from their stupor. And now this? She could see how the villagers would react badly to the sudden threat of Némaldines about to overrun the village. But was it real? Even she doubted it. It seemed to have happened so fast. It was so surreal. It had to be true. That carrier pigeon’s note was evidence enough.

  “It looks as though you haven’t got a fever any longer. How do you feel?”

  “Water.”

  Karolina reached for a wineskin and poured the liquid into the young man’s mouth. She held his head to help him drink.

  “I’d say we could untie him now,” Karolina suggested. “The poor sacristan, he hasn’t been here a week and he’s already feeling the full consequences of the village curse.”

  Meanwhile, the general was already in full gear. “There’s no time for that! Keep him tied to the saddle! We’re on our way! Get the priest!”

  Karolina went back to her crying children. The village was a chaos of people running to and fro. The soldiers had spread the word that everyone must flee north. To the general’s surprise, the villagers were lingering, as if they wanted to stay despite the imminent threat. But why? He had heard stories of how people who live in misery eventually need that misery to carry on with life. It would be as though the curse and misery had become part of their comfort so they both loved and hated their existence; without that misery, life would be dull.

  There was no time to wait for the villagers, the general thought. If he was to survive, he had to flee now! But he couldn’t just leave them! He saw children crying, girls tugging at their parent’s trousers as the soldiers forced the villagers to flee. But those children did not want to leave their filthy homes behind. He had to help them.

  ***

  Lulita and Luchy had to escape and quickly. The destination would be nothing less than the city known for protecting the realm against evil: Kathanas, the city built among rock towers.

  Lulita was heartbroken. Leaving would mean abandoning the home they had rebuilt so painfully, where they had finally put down roots. Eromes and his ancestors were buried in the graveyard! The land itself seemed to have absorbed the radiance of the souls of those who had lived on it.

  She went through the house, every corner of it, with a heavy heart. In the kitchen, she sat down to see if her spirit would grow calmer. She wept. She had to assume they would have no choice but to leave.

  Tomasa was the first one ready. She had her pickaxe over her shoulder, the one she had used during the Massacre of San San-Tera to crack skulls. She was ready for war. If anything, she was ready to avenge the fallen, her dead master Eromes, the ravaged Manchego even though he was alive. Tomasa’s gigantic arm muscles were bulging. Her large belly made her seem like some giant mercenary who drank too much beer. The Wild Woman liked to eat too much corn for her own good. She was unusually fat for a wild-born, but underneath the layer of fat were very large and powerful muscles. The additional weight granted her more momentum at the moment of wielding her weapon of choice: the pickaxe. Not an ax of the wild-born, not a sword of the Empire, but a hybrid.

  “We must go. The general is waiting,” said Tomasa in her thick accent.

  Lulita glowered at the large Wild Woman as if leaving was her fault. Tomasa held her gaze.

  Lulita caved and said, “I know. It’s just so hard.”

  “Death is harder,” said Tomasa.

  “Well if you put it that way…”

  “The corpses stiffen. Don’t want to see you walking like the dead, would hate to cave in your skull with this.” Tomasa grinned, glancing at her pickaxe.

  “All right, let’s go,” said Lulita decisively. “Enough waiting!” She picked up her weapons, hung the battle-ax on her belt, put on her wyvern skin armor, and hung the longbow across her chest.

  Luchy arrived. She had been to the observatory and the stable. She hugged her grandmother, weeping silently. They stayed silent for a short time. They had to digest all the news and events of the last few hours and the change of course for the entire Empire.

  Luchy could not speak, nor would she. A powerful emotion had clutched her throat tight, barely letting her breathe. But one thing had reassured her: Manchego was alive! What he was going to do did not matter, nor what shape he had taken on. He was alive. Her suspicions were true. She had always felt them be true.

  “Goodbye, home,” said Luchy as she left the house, weeping.

  ***

  Manchego was flying calmly, Teitú at his side. He was not aware of how close danger was to the village, that his home would soon be overrun by demons.

  I enjoyed meeting your family, Alac. Lulita and Luchy are as kind as you told me they were. Now I feel I love them too. They’re very important to you, aren’t they? I know that’s why you want to save the Empire.

  Manchego thought about his heart and his feelings. The beings of Celestial Divinity had created him as a demigod, in other words, a powerful being with the emotions of a normal human. Was it fair that someone else should have decided his destiny, burdened him with a commitment of that scale without asking him? He felt honored, but he could not forget the pain, the suffering, or the fact that he would have refused had they proposed him to be the incarnation of the God of Light.

  The setting sun shone full on his face. In the distance, the golden orb melted away on the cold rocks of the mountain. The light was a balm for his worries. He could have gone on toward the horizon, but there was something he had to do. Like an arrow, he plunged rapidly headlong toward the entrance to Kanumorsus, the tunnels of the green infernal light.

  Teitú, do you know the way to the Interim?

  I think so, but be careful. It might hurt.

  Hurt?

  He felt it. It was as if it was sucking out his life, as if he were falling uncontrollably although he was motionless. He saw the green light of Kanumorsus; the tunnels and the portals to other worlds.

  There’s danger coming toward us! Teitú warned him, emitting a fiery red glow as he did so.

  Alac brought his spear, shield, and helmet into being; his body covered itself in armor once again. He prepared to defend himself, all his muscles tense. He heard a deep guttural croak coming from one of the many tunnels of the cavern and heavy footsteps.

  There emerged a huge beast whose body was insubstantial, made of smoke, with two horns of fire on its head. It wielded a long sword made of flame. The monster howled, revealing jaws that gave out a scorching heat. It had more than a thousand legs like a worm manifested from some supremely evil mind.

  What’s that? Teitú shouted.

  It looks like a sentinel of the Interim. But when we came the first time it wasn’t here.

  Maybe because you were weak, and that made you invisible. Now you’re back—it must have been summoned by your presence!

  The conversation was cut short when the demon launched an attack on the God of Light’s head. Alac just managed to dodge it—he had not expected the attack—and felt that the danger he was exposed to was beyond the reach of his training. This rival might kill him.

  Metal clashed. Alac began to shine. From his hands there burst an intense light that bathed his armor, his shield, and his sword. Something inside him which he had not previously known shot out a bolt of angelical light which tore off the monster’s legs and arms. The beast fell to the floor, bleeding smoke. The God of Light brandished his spear and buried it in the monster’s head. The corpse vanished into thin
air.

  Once the threat had been eliminated, Alac ceased to shine, and his weapons vanished, leaving him in the same old rags he had never changed. Teitú relaxed, and his color returned to its usual serene pink.

  That was close, said the young man. He was impressed by his abilities. Those attacks, they had not been his own to coordinate. It was as if the God of Light himself had directed the defense! It was very strange to think he was two beings in one, using the same head to think.

  I’m afraid that beast was just the starter, and the main dishes are still to come.

  It’s more than likely, Teitú, but we must go on. We’ve already delayed too long. Plus, I’m not good at fighting at all. I don’t want to die either!

  There. Teitú was beaming at a tunnel that led to the portal to Degoflórefor. We’ll look for the only person who might be able to help us there. Do you remember Meromerilá? She’s a princess with certain powers and a lot of information. Do you remember she saw us?

  Alac felt a wave of fear at the memory of that magnificent being, beautiful and enchanting. He imagined himself once again facing those deep eyes, the interest he had noticed in them, and his nerves became raw. He would not know how to deal with that attention; he was not used to awaking the admiration of the opposite sex, human or otherwise.

  Let’s be on our way.

  Chapter XI – To Arms

  Mórgomiel was sitting on a black stone, staring out at the universe. In the infinite depth, thousands of galaxies were born, and their planets filled themselves with life. He had not resigned himself to being alone in that darkness. He took flight and traveled until he found a solitary planet orbiting a blue sun. The planet had no moons, and its surface was made of black, barren earth, and strewn with volcanoes.

  A powerful croak, as if a cavern were crying out, shook the ground. An explosion of burning magma burst forth in a vertical column. Mórgomiel was enthralled: This was poetry.

  The planet shook, and a loud noise came out of the deep. A thick blanket of smoke covered everything. Then a steely, cavernous voice was heard.

  “Who dares summon me?”

  Mórgomiel was aghast. The smoke was addressing him! He did not even know what it was like to communicate with another being, but he tried.

  “I’m Mórgomiel, God of Chaos. I was flying, then I saw this planet and felt attracted to it at once. It’s poetic. Charming. It reminds me of my home, Mortis Depthos. It’s a planet made of black matter.”

  The smoke began to circle Mórgomiel, like a snake measuring its prey. Gradually, it took on shape until it had turned into a long sinuous form with a triangular face, horns of smoke, and a pair of intense red eyes. Two enormous wings kept it suspended above the ground.

  Mórgomiel was spellbound.

  “My name is Górgometh,” said the dragon of smoke. “I am your son.”

  Mórgomiel was taken aback.

  “I was born from the interaction and later conglomeration of dark energies, dark matter, and anti-matter. In essence, I am the result of your power, my lord.”

  The dragon had finally become solid. It had even taken on a glow. Its black scales reflected the magma.

  “Admire me, my lord,” the dragon said, stretching to its full length so that its creator could take a good look at it. “I am faithful to your strength, although I admit I hadn’t imagined you like this. Meaning no offense, you look like a traveler who doesn’t understand where he’s supposed to be going.”

  Mórgomiel considered this. He looked at his hands and legs and compared himself with the dragon, which was fifteen times his size and whose claw would kill him with a single swipe. And this mighty creature had subjected itself to him.

  “I thought life would never spring from my hands,” the God of Chaos murmured. “I touched life and it died.”

  “Some gods are destined to produce life, others not,” Górgometh said, gazing in the direction of the infinite. “Each one must discover his mission in this universe.”

  Hearing that he could not engender life, Mórgomiel was hurt.

  “My lord doesn’t seem pleased. Have I said the wrong thing?”

  “Look at me. I haven’t a single quality that might make me worthy of admiration. Unlike you.”

  “It’s only a question of wishing for it. Your creative power is indeed limited, but everything is possible with the right mental direction.”

  Mórgomiel recovered. The fact that his will might impose itself on that of the magnificent dragon encouraged him. He began to explore inside himself to search for his deepest wishes, those which had not even revealed themselves yet. The black matter around him reorganized itself in the form of dense plates that then melted until they became a thin but resistant film that stuck to his body. He wanted wings, like those of his faithful servant. Immediately they sprang out like a fan. And as he did not have eyes, he summoned up two deep gray ones.

  The dragon was right. Mórgomiel could create! Nothing would come between his dreams and the world. He looked at the beast and concentrated on making a saddle on its back.

  “How is it that a creation of mine knows more about me than I do myself? And you are my creation, which means I have created something.”

  “Indeed, my lord. I am a dragon, a cunning creation filled with self-regard. I do not know you better than yourself, but what I do have is the ability to ask you questions to stir your mind. Dragons are known to be able to manipulate even their creators.”

  “I can see you are filled with pride, Górgometh. I can sense your manipulation of me. The fact that you have been created by the forces I represent in this universe makes me think we can grow together. Come.

  “We’re going to travel through the universe and the River of Time. Other worlds will wish to be part of our iron union, will bow before our power, and follow in our footsteps.”

  The black dragon lowered its forelegs, chest, and head so that its master could mount. Once the God of Chaos was settled, the animal took off, beating its wings to leave a trail of black smoke behind it.

  ****

  “Untie me!” yelled Argbralius from where he was hanging from the saddle. He felt helpless tied to the mount. Chaos surrounded him. A soldier came by and cut the ropes loose.

  “Get going, little man! Haven’t you heard the general’s orders? We’re leaving for Kathanas right away!”

  “What?”

  “Hurry up, man! If we don’t leave now, they’ll catch us.”

  Argbralius slumped over the mount and fell on his arse. He stood up with difficulty and immediately set off for the Décamon. He had to warn the priest! Father Crisondo needed to evacuate immediately!

  As he walked through a maze of confused villagers, a realization came to his mind which left him in no doubt: All this is because of the God of Light. He clenched his fists, his knuckles whitening. The God of Light had deprived him of his great role as a savior of that cursed village. And now what? What was left for him? He wondered, feeling a bitterness he knew well. As a child, he had already come to feel this deeply-entrenched hatred for the God of Light.

  When he gathered his strength and reached the Décamon, he found the oratory empty and clean, almost sad. Outside, people were running here and there in a state of alarm. He needed someone to give him a proper explanation of what was going on. Further ahead, he saw Father Crisondo sunk in a kind of trance with his gaze lost in the white, celestial image which shone in the stained glass window of the God of Light. Argbralius felt loathing. He longed to give the priest a lethal blow on the back of his neck.

  “It’s a miracle, Argbralius,” Father Crisondo said without turning around. “But his return has turned everything upside-down. Everything. General Deathslayer has ordered the immediate evacuation of the village. They haven’t given us any explanation, but the rumor is that the Master has come back too. That catastrophe three years ago was all to bring him back to life. I don’t know how I never guessed it, Argbralius,” he reproached himself. “Those bastards sacrificed so many
souls. They say the demons from the South have overrun Ágamgor and are now coming for us.”

  When Crisondo stopped to take a breath, Argbralius half-closed his eyes. The clear light of the stained-glass windows was blinding him.

  “Quite honestly, I’m too old for all this fleeing, killing, and this business of evil, Argbralius. I lived through the destruction of my village, I saw thousands of dead people walk to the Cursed Pit at the mercy of evil, like so many bloody puppets, and I couldn’t do a thing. It grieves me to think it could all happen again. I think I’ve given up.”

  “Just a moment, Crisondo. You say the Master was brought back to life, and that’s what destroyed the village? It doesn’t make sense.”

  Every boy and girl in the Empire knew about the Times of Köel, the great war that had ensued after the war that had overtaken Flamonia more than four hundred years before. Most people knew there was a Master, and whenever someone mentioned that title it referred to the leader of the Némaldines in the south. The lore of those times might be deeply engraved in the minds of the Empire’s citizens, yet no one truly understood the implications of having the Master back in the world. It was definitely ominous.

  “That doesn’t matter,” Crisondo said with a disheartened gesture. “What’s important is that the general received a message which said that the evil army’s on the move. The hosts of Némaldon have set out on their mission of re-conquering what they lost four hundred years ago. Now, we’re lost.”

  “Don’t talk like that!” Argbralius cried. He would have slapped him with pleasure. “If the order’s to escape, however cowardly it might seem to me, that’s what we have to do, Father. Don’t stay behind!” he shouted, gasping, his forehead pearled with sweat.