Archangel’s Ascension

by Pablo Andrés Wunderlich Padilla

  When the girl had left, Mérdmerén and the boys were left in uncomfortable silence. The condemned man immediately became aware of the jealousy; it seemed logical enough to him.

  “Turi, it’s good to see you again!”

  “Mérdmerén.” As if he had just woken up from a dream, the thief regained his poise. “Mérdmerén! How’re you keeping, my friend?”

  Turi smiled at him. Cail relaxed.

  “This is Cail the Intrepid.”

  “You look alike,” Mérdmerén said.

  His face, though clean, was now very thin. His eyes were sunk in their sockets, and his cheekbones stood out, stretching a thin, wrinkled skin.

  “It’s a long story, Mérdmerén. I’ll tell you when we have time for trivialities. For the moment, you need to understand what’s happened to you and why.”

  “That rat with the collar,” murmured Mérdmerén.

  “Alfred. I trained him myself,” Turi explained with a smile.

  “What was that thing? Why a jewel?”

  Turi laughed.

  “It’s a pendant like the one the witch gave you when you escaped from the Brotherhood of the Crows. To rescue you, we needed you to be undetectable to those assassins and their magical methods. Without that pendant—” he indicated Mérdmerén’s neck, “—they’d already have caught you, and us too. We have to protect you; you’re very valuable. You’re a responsibility of the Baron’s now. Ever since you came to Háztatlon, he’s been following your trail. Now more than ever.”

  “Everybody knows you’re a great hero,” Cail the Intrepid said reverently. “The Baron’s ordered us to protect you at all costs. You’re Ehréledán.”

  “I never understood what that’s supposed to mean,” Mérdmerén said.

  “The virtuous messenger,” Turi explained. “You’re very special as far as the Baron’s concerned, and that’s all we know. That’s why we risked so much for you. By the way,” he added in a different tone of voice. “Can you imagine Cantus’ face when they don’t find you in that dungeon? With everybody waiting for you in the square?”

  “How did you find all that out?”

  “I told you when we met: There’s not much the Baron doesn’t know. He has eyes and ears everywhere.”

  “And the guard of my cell?”

  “He’s one of ours. I hope they don’t cut his head off for incompetence.” Turi bent his head, concerned about his uncle.

  Mérdmerén was hunched with fear. “Do you think they’ll kill him?”

  “It’s a risk. The guard knew the price he might have to pay for letting you go. But that’s how we work in the Dungeon of Thieves: loyalty and commitment are the basis of our organization. The guard knew your death would mean great danger for the Empire.”

  “I don’t see—”

  “Neither do I, my friend, but perhaps the Faceless Baron’ll explain. He’s invited you to dinner at his private headquarters.”

  “What?” howled Cail. “Nobody has that privilege!”

  “Privilege?” Mérdmerén repeated blankly, more confused than before.

  “Nobody gets into the Baron’s private headquarters,” Turi explained. “He moves as often as he can. He’s harder to pin down than air.”

  “Why?”

  “He needs to protect himself; it’s been his method for a long time. So what now, then? Shall we go?”

  “I need some shoes. My poor feet can’t take any more.”

  Cail asked Wanda for shoes on the Baron’s account, and the nurse brought them a package.

  “A gift from the Baron. Take it as a gesture of welcome,” she said with a smile, then left the room.

  Mérdmerén opened the wooden box. Inside was a pair of well-polished black boots, a completely black suit of cloth and suede, a shirt of white cotton, and, best of all, a belt with a dagger in it. Mérdmerén took the weapon in his hands happily. Nabas, that beautiful village, came back to his mind. He unsheathed the dagger. The black blade dazzled the young men.

  “Stern’s dagger,” Mérdmerén said with deep satisfaction. “The Baron’s a man of resources.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Turi said.

  Mérdmerén moved the dagger, exposing it to the light of the torches. The surface gleamed.

  “It’s made of dragon scale,” he said, without taking his eyes off the knife. “It’s said to have more edge than a metal blade. Maybe one day the Brotherhood of the Crows will find that out.”

  ***

  “Hello there, Uncle,” Turi said to a tall, well-built man. He was bald, with a long mustache. He was a gorilla stationed there to scare the living daylights out of anyone who dared approach the Baron.

  “Uncle?” Mérdmerén asked.

  “We’re all relatives here,” Turi explained with a smile. “And I don’t just mean we have a good relationship; we’re literally family. My cousin and I—” he gave Cail a friendly jab with his elbow, “—we have the same father: the Baron.”

  “Then you’re half-brothers, not cousins.”

  “That’s right,” Turi said, sounding troubled. “But we call each other ‘cousin.’ It’s more like what our relationship really is. ‘Brothers’ sounds very strange.”

  Turi and Cail exchanged apprehensive glances. Although Mérdmerén noticed similarities between Turi and Cail, he saw none with the man they had called uncle.

  “And him? Is he your uncle?”

  “My name’s Greyson,” the bald man said. “I’m from the generation before the current Faceless Baron. That means the same generation as these kids’ grandparents. There’s no blood connection between Turi and me. But hey, here we’re all family: You insult my family and you insult me.” He combed his mustache with his saliva-wet fingers and turned to the boy. “Turi, you know that from this point on there’s no access for you.”

  They were in the Thieves’ Market. He could smell the succulent dishes, freshly-cooked, but he had to wait until he met the Baron. The meeting with this all-powerful man intrigued him. And the intrigue had led him to his daughter, his wife, and his most dangerous enemies. Cantus de Aligar, trusting the prisoner’s irrevocable death sentence, had told him plans and secrets, and Mérdmerén was ready to share them with whoever was capable of saving his family and the Empire.

  “On we go, Ehréledán,” Greyson urged him. “The Baron’s waiting for you.”

  He led Mérdmerén down a flight of stairs into the darkness of several tunnels, where the massive strongman showed a skill which fascinated Mérdmerén.

  Chapter XVIII – Strategies

  Without knowing where they were going, Mérdmerén trusted Greyson blindly. That blackness was the best way of losing the inquisitive. The stench of the sewers and the screeching of the extensive population of rats hardly encouraged any exploration of that labyrinth.

  He touched the pendant and remembered the rescue plan Turi had told him about. Today, he should have died in the main square. He would have loved to have seen Cantus’s face when they told him of his disappearance.

  Walking in the dark calmed him more than he would ever have imagined. Then, Greyson stopped and began to make guttural sounds, like an animal communicating with its fellows. A wall of stone slid open, and two strong arms gripped him hard. The wall slid shut again, and another wall, in front, slid to the left. Faint candlelight guided him to a vast room, so vast he could not see how far it extended. There was a rectangular wooden table with two candles at each end and two chairs. He knew there were guards behind those candles; he felt them, but being unable to see them made him nervous. The only thing he could hear was his rapid breathing.

  An affable face with hazel eyes and curly hair appeared from among the shadows. It was a man of medium height, who now sat down at one end of the table.

  “Please sit down, Mérdmerén.”

  “Faceless Baron?”

  “I might say I am,” the man replied without moving his lips.

  “What kind of witchcraft is this? How do you manage to speak without moving your
lips? Your voice is everywhere in this room…”

  “Let’s say I’m in this room,” the Baron said, once again without moving his lips. He was smiling sarcastically. “I’m on the other side of the light, Mérdmerén. It won’t be me you’ll see but one of my men.”

  “How?”

  “Experience has shown us that our guests react better if they have a face to look at while I speak. Hence, I am the Faceless Baron.”

  The Baron’s voice was deep but not rough; firm but friendly. The organization and safety this man had created in the sewers left no doubt about his intelligence and capacity.

  “I guess it’s more comfortable speaking to a face than to a shadow. May I address you frankly?” Mérdmerén asked nervously.

  “We’re similar in many ways, Mérdmerén. We’ll speak together like friends and the allies we are in a battle that grows more serious by the second. The moment has arrived when you must play your part in the unfolding of events, silent until now. We’ve been fighting against the Brotherhood of the Crows forever, and they’ve been after you for months. Thanks to Turi, you’re safe.”

  When the Baron spoke of the boy, his tone of voice revealed far more than mere kinship.

  “Getting you out of that dungeon has been our most significant victory up till now. These are violent times. You may hardly understand the gravity of my words, Mérdmerén, but you should know that we’re entering an era of terror.”

  “Please explain that.”

  “With pleasure. Wine? Lamb? I assume you must be ravenous. Atha has confirmed your recovery from your ill-treatment. She’s a beautiful woman, isn’t she? I’m sure you noticed her surprising skills. Her mother was as beautiful.”

  “Atha treated me with great kindness. And yes, I am very hungry and thirsty. Thanks.”

  Two hooded men in armor and wearing swords set the table. First, they spread a brownish-blue tablecloth, then added simple mats. On those, wooden plates, each with its own set of cutlery. Finally, ceramic goblets. The Baron’s representative, apparently happy, never took his eyes off his place setting. Mérdmerén guessed that this particular thief was not in the habit of attending celebrations like this (another security measure on the Baron’s part) and that turning his head toward his leader, perhaps to catch a glimpse of his face, might cost him his life.

  The hooded men served wine. Then they brought a platter of lamb ribs and chops, accompanied by roasted onions and potatoes. The smell overcame Mérdmerén. He had not had such a full meal since he had dined with Don Trágalar Maximus, and it seemed an eternity since then.

  “Enjoy,” said the Baron from the shadows. “The spread is simple, but I can assure you that my cooks are of the highest quality. Eat. While you do that, I’ll explain.”

  Mérdmerén seized a rack of lamb ribs and sank his teeth into it. The fatty gravy ran down his wrists, but he did not mind. By the Gods, this meat was delicious! He took a deep swig of wine and felt as though the liquid was boiling in his veins.

  “What has been a silent battle up till now,” the Baron went on, “will soon bring about rivers of blood. The Brotherhood of the Crows is our oldest enemy, as I told you. We’ve been fighting them for two hundred years, from the time when they started to infiltrate the Council of Kings. They’ve corroded the Empire and have succeeded in making the king irrelevant. As Aligar explained so well to you, the intention is that the Empire will be unable to react to the advance of the hosts from Némaldon, and so will ensure the victory they’ve been seeking for four hundred years. This is why the Council of Kings sent the general, the head mage, and the philosopher on the ludicrous mission of investigating what occurred in San San-Tera three years ago. The intention was to leave the Imperial Army headless.”

  Mérdmerén was surprised at how well-informed the Baron was. He seemed more capable than the King himself.

  “You might be wondering how the Dungeon of Thieves came to be formed.”

  Mérdmerén nodded, his mouth full of meat and shiny with gravy.

  “The Dungeon of Thieves was founded at the same time as the Council of Kings, about two hundred years ago, to do something more than thieving. The Baron of those days suspected that the path the Empire was taking was already foreshadowing the decline in the power of the crown. A group of free, independent men gathered together: men who wanted to live on the fringes of the government and under their very noses. They wanted to show the people that they’d given up their freedom and will to rulers who were only concerned with their own interests. After two centuries, the Empire is about to be annihilated, and we’ll be ready to take the reins when everything falls apart.” The Baron, hidden in the shadows, let his deep feeling reveal itself in the shades of his voice. “When the Empire and the crown fall, we’ll go for the Council of Kings and take over the power of the Mandrake Empire.”

  Mérdmerén coughed, and a cloud of wine erupted. He had drunk so much that he was conscious of lassitude in both mind and body. “Do you want blood to be shed?”

  “It’s inevitable,” the Faceless Baron said calmly. “We can’t avoid a war that’s been brewing for four centuries, but we can take advantage of it. The Empire is more corrupt than a body infested with parasites. There are so many counselors up to their necks in the dirt that the only way to get rid of them is by bringing down the structure of government. And I’m not only talking about the counselors from Némaldon, like Cantus, Loredo, and Slither. Corruption has spread like an evil disease and caused deep damage. Nowadays, there are even counselors prepared to murder to advance their interests. No, Mérdmerén, it’s time to eliminate them all and start again from scratch. I’m talking about completely dismantling the system of government, and we’ll do it under cover of the destruction of this war that’s about to break out.”

  Mérdmerén cleared his throat. “That’s a very ambitious plan. You’ll need more than just a band of ragamuffins.”

  “Don’t insult my men,” the Baron warned him. “The Dungeon of Thieves will go on working as before, even after the dissolution of the Empire. Its purpose will always be to keep the government in check. Those who rule need to have constant opposition. If not, they lower their guard and do whatever they want without any check.”

  “I don’t see why this affects me,” Mérdmerén said. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand, which was also greasy, and helped himself to a third portion of meat.

  “And so we come to the heart of the matter, Mérdmerén. Why do you think the Brotherhood of the Crows is after you?”

  Mérdmerén remembered Innonimatus. The Wild Man had persuaded him that he had to come back to the North and regain what he had lost, and the journey had instilled a strong sense of justice in him.

  “Because I’m a man who could damage any sovereign by using logical words.”

  “The Némaldines have the figure of the Grim Shepherd; the Empire has you. You are the chosen one: Ehréledán.”

  Mérdmerén shivered.

  “Turi gave you a pendant that will protect you from the spells of the Némaldines. That way, they won’t be able to find you. You’re the bulwark of this mission, Mérdmerén; this is something you need to understand. If we, the Dungeon of Thieves, are the body that will carry out the plan of total reform, you’re the fist, the dagger, the spear. For us, your code name will be Lion Fist.”

  Mérdmerén lost some of his appetite, but a good draft of wine brought his energy back again. “Spell it out, with no ifs, ands, or buts. I know I’m an instrument, and hence the special treatment, but I need to know exactly what you plan to do with me.”

  “Don’t insult me, Mérdmerén. The special treatment comes from the respect I have for you. Like any good leader, you’ve seen and suffered a great deal; like any good politician, you also have a very sharp tongue that’s never quiet. You, too, allowed yourself to be corrupted, but exile straightened you out, and missing your family made you value what matters in life. The leader of an Empire of free people can’t be greedy or think only of his own benefit.
A good leader knows what’s valuable and how to get others to appreciate what matters. You know very well that all riches are trivial if you have no one to share them with and that if they were ill-gained, they can’t be honorably enjoyed.

  “You’re a man who sees beyond the materialism of the common man. You value freedom and justice more than anything else. That’s why you’re dangerous to Némaldon because you can forge the change and make the Empire into an entire rock with no cracks. If the Empire defeats Némaldon a second time, it will crown itself as the most virtuous power on the land. And on this journey, you’re vital, Mérdmerén. You are Ehréledán.”

  The room fell silent. Even the man dining with Mérdmerén stopped chewing to gape at the Baron’s guest.

  “What I’m proposing to you, Mérdmerén, is that we work together on total reform. We’ve infiltrated several spies into the government who are awaiting our signal. It’s a question of playing our cards well and waiting for you to give the final push.”

  Mérdmerén was left dumbfounded. The wine was beginning to take its toll on his thinking processes. “But I still don’t see—the king is the king. I can’t turn up and demand the scepter and crown just like that. And don’t forget my enemies; they’re waiting to grab my neck. It’s impossible. The palace is ruled by Cantus and his minions. There’s nothing we can do to dislodge them. When the Némaldine army comes, then your plan will have a chance.”

  “That would be true in the worst possible case,” the Baron said.

  Mérdmerén was eating onions, sucking their juice noisily.

  “If we let Némaldon advance, our chances are nonexistent.”

  “But there’s no other option. Cantus told me so in the dungeon: The king can’t summon the Imperial Army. He’s completely beaten. You said it yourself: The general and the head mage are out of the game.” Mérdmerén poured himself what was left of the wine. One of the hooded men brought another bottle to the table and suavely uncorked it.