Archangel’s Ascension

by Pablo Andrés Wunderlich Padilla

  “What? Don’t you want the Empire to function?”

  Aligar smiled and took out a medal from around his neck. Mérdmerén recognized the crow at once.

  “I belong to the Brotherhood of the Crows, Mérdmerén. Of course, I don’t want the Empire to function. What I want is to overthrow it.”

  Mérdmerén was frozen. At last, so many things were being explained.

  “Three years ago, we brought the Master, our leader, back to life in a distant village: San San-Tera. Ever since then, we’ve been preparing the strongest offensive in history. But that wasn’t enough; we had to weaken the forces of the Empire, and that’s what we’ve been doing. We infiltrated the council: Lord Slither, Loredo, and myself. We bribed and controlled all the other counselors. But the people are a great help too,” Aligar added sarcastically. “The Empire is divided. Everybody wants power, but nobody puts their shoulder to it. In Némaldon, we’ve gathered together the greatest army there has ever been, and in the council, we’ll make sure the Imperial Army isn’t ready. The destruction will be total.”

  “You bastards!” Mérdmerén roared.

  Aligar laughed. “The king is powerless. He won’t be able to decide anything. That’s why we had to stop you. I know you carry a talisman that hides you from us, but you were stupid enough to come to the palace and offer yourself on a platter. You’re the messenger, Ehréledán, the defender of truth. You’re the only person capable of making the king react, and that’s why you’re going to have your head cut off tomorrow. You’re not going to ruin our plans.”

  “You’re a bunch of namby-pambies, hiding like cockroaches. At least I had enough dignity to come out and fight for my principles.”

  “Well, it’s been a pleasure talking to you, Mérdmerén, and telling you about our plans. I can’t talk about this with just anybody,” he said ironically. “Oh, and thank you for being such a fool and turning yourself in. You did us a great favor. Well then, goodbye, Ehréledán. I hope the rats give you some comfort.”

  The counselor turned on his feet, taking the torch with him. Mérdmerén was left in the darkness once again, facing his black future. Tomorrow, his end would come. Seeing his daughter had restored the will to live in him, but he was a prisoner with no possibility of escape, and tomorrow, they would cut his head off.

  Chapter XVI – Family

  A few hours from his death, Mérdmerén confronted the full reality of his situation. Before this, he might have wanted to die, but now he was afraid. He was haunted by the face of his legitimate daughter Ajedrea of the Recesses, by the suffering of his dying wife. But in that complete and absolute darkness, he could do nothing more than recycle his tears and await death. How he wished he had stayed in Nabas!

  “I have to get out of here! I have to get out of here! I have to get out of here!” he shouted like a madman, pulling on the peephole bars which, of course, did not yield to the prisoner’s wrath.

  Of the rats that lived in his cell, one, in particular, kept touching his foot insistently as though to attract his attention. He petted the animal’s head and noticed an odd scar around its neck. He went on feeling the thick mark while the rat allowed him to do so. Surely it must have hurt. Why did it have that scar? One of his nails sank under the edge and penetrated the flesh. He felt a sudden repulsion and instinctively started, but relaxed as the animal did not complain. He repeated the operation, then stuck his nail under the scar and realized it was no such thing. It was a leather cord.

  Mérdmerén felt an overdose of emotion coursing through his veins. He was suddenly nervous. Could it be a messenger rat? Who could have sent it? What was it trying to tell him? He took the rat in his hands, delicately. He went on feeling the leather ring until he found a tiny compartment near its throat. He untied the string, and the creature ran away.

  In the darkness, excitedly, Mérdmerén managed to open the sealed fold. Inside the minute pouch was a very fine chain and a pendant not much bigger than a little fingernail. He took out the necklace and hung it around his neck. He smiled to think that someone had sent him this, even though he might not know what it was or what it was for. At least he would die knowing that someone had remembered him.

  A light was coming down the stairs, along with an echo of heavy boots. Mérdmerén got to his feet nervously. His moment had come. They would hold him like a rabid dog and drag him to the main square, where he would be decapitated in public. He felt a lightning bolt of pain and sadness at the thought of his wife and daughter.

  The hunchbacked guard arrived, his face grave. Mérdmerén held his breath. The guard seemed to be enjoying the prisoner’s anguish. He took a heavy keyring and selected one of the keys on it, the one which opened the door to his cell.

  Mérdmerén became aware of the smell of death. Perhaps Cantus had changed his mind and sent this monster to end his life.

  The jailer was carrying a deep dish of broth that he threw violently onto the floor. He came into the cell, almost touching Mérdmerén, and picked up a stone from the floor. He then began to hit himself on the head with it until he was bleeding. Mérdmerén stared at him in blank amazement.

  “Go up two sets of stairs,” the guard said as he handed him the torch. “Turn left and go straight on. At the end of the corridor, there’s a cell. Stop there and say: Ehréledán is here.”

  Mérdmerén was shaking. His cell was completely open; he could escape, but the guard did not even seem to be thinking of that. He seemed to be giving him… instructions?

  “Send greetings to the Faceless Baron. Now get a move on; there’s no time to lose.”

  The humpbacked man threw himself to the floor. It was the scenario of a prisoner knocking his jailer down and escaping. He hoped it would work; if not, this poor man would be executed for treason. Whatever the case, the news would be a setback for Cantus de Aligar.

  ***

  The Faceless Baron! Mérdmerén felt relief at hearing those words. It was not only Némaldines who were infiltrated in the Empire; there were also the Faceless Baron’s people. The city of the government was a battlefield of spies and traps, while the civil servants were not aware of anything.

  With the torch in his hands, Mérdmerén raced to the stairs, spurred on by a wave of adrenaline that dulled the pain his bare feet must be feeling. Surviving gave him the strength he needed.

  He reached the second set of stairs and went on down the corridor. He heard the snoring of several prisoners, waiting within those walls for time to consume them. Behind a set of bars, he saw a pair of paper-thin hands, more bone than flesh.

  “Alac Arc Ángelo has returned, he has returned,” a wasted voice moaned. “Oh yes, the beautiful god has returned.”

  The God of Light has returned? Impossible! Mérdmerén thought as he approached the end of the corridor. There, sure enough, was a cell. From afar, he heard the echo of other guards cracking jokes. His legs froze with the urgency of the moment: They could catch him again at any time. Fear spurred him on, and he advanced without hesitation towards the door the guard had indicated. And suppose it was all a trap, a last-minute joke by Cantus? What did it matter. He had nothing else to lose. Panic-stricken, he knocked on the door furiously. Behind the bars, a wrinkled face emerged from the shadows.

  “Who is it? What do you want?” came an aggressive, cavernous voice. “Get me out of here!”

  Mérdmerén collapsed. This man was just another prisoner, as desperate and evil-smelling as he was himself. But suppose he tried…?

  “Ehréledán is here.”

  A mechanism was set in motion inside the cell. The wind howled, and several locks grated. The door opened, and four strong arms appeared. They grabbed Mérdmerén and dragged him inside.

  The door closed again.

  ***

  The moment Mérdmerén felt himself a prisoner once again in those arms, the torch went out. He heard the hiss of swords being unsheathed. He kicked out.

  “Easy, friend, you’re in good hands.”

  “Who are you
?”

  “I’m Turi the Crafty. Come on, there’s no time to lose. The Baron wants to see you at once, Ehréledán.”

  Mérdmerén relaxed. The strange thing was that Turi had addressed him with a kind of reverence. Two powerful arms stood him on his feet, and a tall, muscular man placed himself behind him, to protect him.

  “Let’s go!” Turi ordered in the absolute darkness.

  Despite the blackness, the thieves knew the way perfectly well. They moved fast, changing course without hesitation. Luckily for Mérdmerén, the strong man kept him from bumping into walls and corners.

  They went down a flight of stairs. His feet landed in water. Water! But where had they ended up? The water was cold, and it smelt so bad that he almost fainted. The strong man, who had quick reflexes, caught him in time and almost carried him with his feet off the ground the rest of the way. It looked as though the group had to get to wherever they were going at a set time.

  When Mérdmerén felt he was getting over his dizziness, he heard metal locks and doors opening and closing.

  “Ehréledán is here,” Turi announced in front of a stone wall.

  The wall slid back, and the group entered the crack, which closed again immediately.

  Suddenly, there was light. Mérdmerén blinked, unable to believe what he was seeing. Several faces watched him reverently. These must be part of the Dungeon of Thieves, who worked for the Faceless Baron.

  “Hey, cousin, the poor man stinks. He needs a good bath.”

  “I’m coming to that, cousin,” Turi said.

  He was ashamed that all he could offer was this disgraceful image of a messenger to Turi and all those others waiting for him, but Mérdmerén could take no more. His legs were buckling, and the world was spinning around him. He gagged, feeling like emptying himself of all that he had been obliged to swallow during these last few weeks.

  “Cail, call our cousin!” Turi shouted to the young man.

  “Which one of them?”

  “The pretty one; tell her to come and comfort our hero.”

  Mérdmerén did not understand a thing. Who was whose cousin? But he soon heard a voice he recognized.

  “By all the mermaids of the sea—Boss!”

  There was Ságamas’s white-bearded face. He looked well-cared-for, cleaned up, and in good shape. His eyes were happy. The sailor was well, and that eased his mind. And at that moment, free from guilt, anxiety, and fear, the condemned man sighed, closed his eyes, and sank into the blankness of sleep.

  Chapter XVII- The Cousins

  Turi was chewing the last mouthful of grilled lamb ribs he had bought for a few crowns at Thieves’ Market. It was ironic, but they never robbed each other; it was unethical. Beside him was Cail the Intrepid, and they were on their way to the infirmary.

  Those sewers felt like his home. He had become used to moving between the shadows and the torches’ fluctuating light, to breathing that air which was as stagnant as the putrid waters. The Dungeon, on the other hand, was reasonably clean, much more so than many corners of Háztatlon where poverty made its home.

  As good thieves of the Dungeon, Turi and Cail managed with ease in the darkness of the tunnels. The black labyrinth was an appropriate training ground that could be adapted to any subsequent situation or danger. The first thing they learned was to survive: A thief who could not take care of himself was not worthy of the Dungeon.

  The Dungeon of Thieves, like any other city, had its hierarchy. Different groups carried out different functions, such as making and selling food, planning and expanding the Dungeon, keeping watch on the borders, and the Baron’s safety. Many people said that the Baron did not stay hidden but instead walked around freely among them without being recognized. Others claimed that he moved every eight hours to avoid treachery and ambushes. His location was a juicy gobbet of information, and any thief captured by the enemy might give in to torture and end up confessing. That was why not even the thieves had any interest in knowing the Faceless Baron’s whereabouts.

  “When did you meet that man? Ehré…?”

  Turi completed the name for him. “Ehréledán. I met him a month ago. He was at Chauncy’s bar, which is closed now. There used to be an inn above it, the Fucked Up Inn.”

  “I know which one it is,” Cail nodded, chewing with his mouth open.

  The cousins were similar in many ways: noses like rats, faces like eagles, and large black eyes that were wonderfully sharp, like those of an owl. They were both of medium height—about five feet tall—with arms and legs that were thin but agile, slim but strong torsos, and wiry, nimble bodies. If they had been born as birds, they would have been birds of prey and excellent hunters.

  Turi’s only rival among the thieves was Cail, in terms of both skill and speed. Turi had the advantage with his sharp tongue. They both enjoyed the respect of most of the thieves, except the older ones who suspected that they were bewitched. They claimed that their agility was neither human nor divine but infernal. The younger ones, on the other hand, like Turi and Cail, did not believe in the Gods. The Baron had trained them to adore only reason and logic.

  “When I met him,” Turi continued, “Ehréledán called himself Arbitrator. His real name is Mérdmerén, I think. But for us, he’s Ehréledán.”

  “What language is that?”

  “They say the Brotherhood of the Crows called him that. They’re hunting for him eagerly, did you know? It seems there’s a prophecy that talks about his importance for the destiny of the Empire. The Baron’ll know all about those omens.”

  Cail the Intrepid took a last bite from the apple, caramelized with brown sugar. He threw the core into the air, spun around, and opened the back pocket of his trousers to catch the piece of fruit in it.

  The thieves’ clothes were not much to write home about. They did not attach any value to wasting their time preening themselves for other people. As far as they were concerned, having water and food was enough. Everything else was so many useless luxuries for the halfwits of Háztatlon, who frittered away the true sense of life in day-to-day trivialities.

  “Has the sailor told you any stories?” Cail asked.

  “Plenty, cousin. Ságamas talks about nothing but the sea. He’ll never give up yearning for the waters of the Early Sea, the simple things of his old life. We’d be the same if we had to leave the Dungeon.”

  “That’s true,” Cail agreed as he shook his boots at the entrance to the infirmary.

  There was no sign, but the thieves knew every spot exactly. They had to, for their safety. The wall slid open. A woman of fifty or so, round-faced and with a well-upholstered body, welcomed them.

  “Nephews, how nice to see you here again.”

  At the Dungeon of Thieves, it was customary to treat people like family. After all, they were all related through ties of blood, politics, or shared life.

  “Hi there, Wanda,” said Cail.

  The boys went in, and the woman closed the stone door.

  “How are you keeping, Auntie? You look very nice, just like you always do. We must be related,” Turi added jokingly. He liked to play with language and double meanings. He was one of the few thieves who spent his free time reading.

  Wanda burst out laughing. “Oh, Turi, you’re hopeless!”

  Cail smiled jealously. He sometimes envied his cousin’s gift of the gab.

  “How’s my friend?” Turi asked.

  “Much better. Your cousin Atha has done wonders. That girl is very special. And pretty besides; she has a good bottom and good tits,” Wanda said simply as if saying this was the most natural thing in the world.

  Cail blushed, which did not go unnoticed by Turi. Love between cousins was not forbidden in the Dungeon; rather the opposite, as this way the Baron saw the number of his descendants multiplying. Several cousins had already paired off and had children, so far with no undesirable effects.

  Wanda became aware that her remarks about Atha were bothering the boys. “Go on in, he’s in there,” she said enthusia
stically, pointing to one of the many uncomfortable rooms of the infirmary.

  When they went in, they surprised Atha covering her breasts with her cotton blouse. Atha possessed a healing power that involved laying her almost-golden skin and black hair on the patient’s body. To see her took people’s breath away. She was a beauty, no more than eighteen, the result—so it was said—of an affair between the Baron and a Wild Woman. She was well aware of how her body attracted both men and women, and how her sex had some strange healing power. She would not sleep around but would carefully select her mates. No one had ever declined her. Not once. She had declined more than a thousand.

  “Hi there, boys.”

  Half a breast peeped out of the v-neck of her red blouse. Turi and Cail paled, hypnotized by the girl’s charms, although she seemed oblivious to the attraction she exerted on men.

  “H-hello there,” the boys replied in unison.

  Atha noticed both boys’ bulging pants. She cleared her throat and turned back to look at Mérdmerén, whom she had already cleaned up. He now displayed a clean-shaven face, shining hair with no tangles, and was wearing simple cotton clothes. He sat down on the edge of the bed, beaming with emotion and blushing. He looked ten years younger.

  “Thanks, Atha. You’re divine. Your skin is the softest I’ve ever touched. I’m overwhelmed by your graceful tact.”

  The girl blushed. So did Turi and Cail, although it was with rage. Atha liked men who were older and more experienced. Mérdmerén was already a war hero, so she was naturally attracted to him.

  “If I’m with child, I’d have him and name him after you. Your seed is strong, Mérdmerén. He’d make a wonderful thief. Whenever you want me, just ask.” Atha gave him a smile that melted both boys.

  Mérdmerén went on smiling, delighted with the moment he had spent with the girl. He would give this young woman a thousand children if he could. She was delightful. Of the repertoire of women he had possessed in his life, this one was the most beautiful.