Archangel’s Ascension

by Pablo Andrés Wunderlich Padilla

  Though they might live in the sewers, on the fringe of the Empire’s structure, the thieves spoke in a tone of voice that was formal and educated. The Dungeon was not a collection of idiots devoted only to thieving and deceit.

  “Mérdmerén,” Greyson called out.

  “Here I am.”

  “Turi and Cail, you’re the ones designated to protect Ehréledán. His mission is to eliminate one of the most important members of the Brotherhood of the Crows, and it’s not going to be easy. That son of a whore may be protected by powerful spells, and there’s no knowing whether one of the Brotherhood’s murderers will be escorting him.”

  “How should we go about it?” Mérdmerén asked.

  “Follow Turi at all times. Cail will protect your back. Leave now, dawn’s near, and we need to take advantage of what darkness is left to us. Let’s go!”

  ***

  Mérdmerén walked between Turi and Cail. He guessed they must be behind the palace and was surprised by the labyrinths that surrounded it. He wondered how long there had been spies around the crown and concluded that the answer was probably forever.

  They heard voices on the other side of the walls. It was a couple of men talking about trivialities. There was a tapping of spears on the floor.

  ***

  King Aheron III was seated at the grand table of polished wood painted white, like the front of the palace, which could hold thirty guests on each side. In his seat, with its decorations of hydrangeas and swords and its arms lined with purple velvet, the king ate with a healthy appetite and with a broad smile on his face. His wife, the queen, was beside him, together with Princess Hortense, a beautiful child of three with black hair and sky-blue eyes.

  “But I wanna play,” the little girl was saying. She was sitting in a chair adapted to her size and height, although it was as luxurious as her father’s.

  “You’re very quiet today, my darling,” Queen Eulalia said, simply for something to say.

  With her husband’s power shrunk, and under permanent watch by Cantus de Aligar’s men, his affection had lessened. The queen looked beautiful, as always, despite the fine wrinkles on her delicate face. Worry had left its mark on her brow. She was concerned about the future of her daughter, the only one she had had with this man she had learned to love over the years, after an arranged marriage. Perhaps she would never know the meaning of true love, but what she did know was the virtue of being a devoted wife, and this had made her happy for a while.

  “This meat is simply delicious,” the king said enthusiastically.

  He ate carelessly with his mouth full, spitting breadcrumbs and spilling grease all over his front. His wife was astonished; something had changed, though she could not put her finger on what it was.

  “Are you feeling all right?”

  “Papa, I wanna play.”

  “You say want to, honey. You must learn to speak properly.”

  “But I don’t wanna thpeak plopelly, I wanna play!” the child protested, slamming her little hands on the plate so that food flew everywhere.

  The king started to cough violently and clutched his throat with both hands. He was turning purple.

  “My love!” Eulalia cried in sudden panic.

  “Wanna play!”

  “Guards! Guards!”

  The King fell to the floor, kicking desperately. Eulalia rushed to help him, trying to get the food out of his throat or whatever it was that was choking him.

  “Help him!” she demanded.

  The king’s escort arrived, including the guards put in place by Cantus.

  “Move away, my lady!”

  A soldier bent over the king and began to put pressure on the royal chest. It was no good. In seconds, the king was motionless and blue.

  “Noooo!” Eulalia cried, shedding tears of terror on the marble floor.

  ***

  “Dead! It’s impossible!” yelled Cantus de Aligar. He was sitting at his exclusive desk, imported from Vásufeld. If there was one good thing the Empire could accomplish, it was the master craftsmanship of their woodwork.

  The guard on duty opened the door to enter and warn Cantus. He suddenly opened his eyes, terror-stricken, and his voice died away in a moan.

  Behind him, Turi pulled out the dagger he had buried in his heart, and the guard fell to the floor. Aligar did not even have time to stand up. Turi rolled away as they had planned. From behind him, a roar charged with vengeance filled the room.

  A golden imperial spear with a head capable of piercing the hide of a wyvern came through the open front door of his office and, like a maddened wasp, buried itself in Aligar’s abdomen. The counselor, overwhelmed, clutched the spear that had pierced him from side to side. The pain was nothing compared to seeing himself pierced, stuck to the chair. He raised his face to see that of his murderer.

  “It’s impossible. It’s impossible,” mumbled Cantus amid mouthfuls of blood. “Damn you, Mérdmerén. I should’ve killed you, I was an idiot.”

  Turi and Cail were keeping watch. The palace was upside down. People were running along the corridors; everybody was in shock at the news of the king who had just died. The Baron’s masterplan had worked to perfection. Turi closed the door.

  Mérdmerén walked over to his victim. He took pleasure in his enemy’s suffering, looking at him from above with disdain as though at a cockroach.

  “At last my moment has come.” He spun the chair around so that the spear bumped against a corner.

  “Aaah!” Cantus howled.

  Mérdmerén smiled. The day of his revenge had come. He had a sword at his belt, but he would not use it against his greatest enemy. He preferred to use Stern’s dagger, which he kept in a sheath across his chest. He unsheathed it and showed it to his victim.

  “It’s dragon scale, you vile traitor.” Mérdmerén buried the knife in Cantus’s right shoulder, exactly in the joint. He was surprised at how easily it cut the flesh. Aligar growled like a wolf.

  “You bastard! I hope you enjoy yourself, you lump of shit, just as I enjoyed your wife. Yes, you lump of shit. Loredo and I fucked your dear Maria de Los Santos, one after the other, and we gave it to her good and proper.”

  Mérdmerén turned red with rage. He punched the other man in the face ten times. Under his knuckles he felt the man’s nose break, his cheekbones shatter, his enemy’s blood flowing from lips and wounds. Turi and Cail were watching.

  “Bah, her tits were sagging. Pity I didn’t get to try your daughter. I always wanted to fuck her. She made me hot as a rabid dog.” Aligar laughed between bursts of blood. “Kill me, you swine. Or don’t you have the balls to finish me off?”

  Mérdmerén wielded Stern’s dagger and buried it in the other shoulder. The counselor howled. Then, he buried it into one side of the man’s neck and slowly slit his throat. The red blood gushed out on to his elegant clothes. Cantus was smiling as he died.

  The dead man’s pendant snapped and exploded in a small puff of purple smoke.

  “What the—!”

  “He’s a Crow! He’s got that pendant!” yelled Turi.

  “What about the pendant?”

  “It activates on death, and summons—”

  Cantus’s body had begun to twitch. The dead man’s eyes were blank, except for a red light shining in them.

  “Kill it!” shouted Cail.

  Like a cat, Turi reacted instantly and moved to decapitate it. It opened and closed its jaws, snapping like a wild animal. It was impossible to reach its neck.

  “Mother of all the thieves!” Turi roared. “We should have grabbed that pendant as he died! He’s a Crow! All Crows from the Brotherhood of Assassins have a pendant like it that activates on death! Decapitate it to kill it!”

  Mérdmerén was trembling on the bench. It was not the first time he had been present at the resurrection of the dead.

  The body was showing such strength in its throes that trying to decapitate it was going to be risky.

  “Move over!” Mérdmerén shouted.


  The dead body tore itself apart at the waist. The legless torso, with its arms and head attached, was dragging itself along the floor like a snake with disturbing speed and skill. As it moved, it left a trail of fresh intestines and feces. It grabbed Turi’s boot, ready to bite him.

  “Cousin!” Cail shouted in warning.

  Mérdmerén hurled himself like a dart at the dead man, seized Stern’s dagger, and buried it in the slashed nape of the neck. The slash was a single swoop that severed his head from his spine.

  The corpse stopped moving. Mérdmerén collapsed onto the floor with the counselor’s head in his hand. Cail crouched down beside them.

  Turi was still shaking. “He’s a misbegotten son of a bitch! Remember, friends, if you’re dealing with an assassin from the Brotherhood of the Crows, you have to pluck the pendant, preferably before death. As I said, it activates a spell which brings them back to life as animated corpses!”

  “What now?” Mérdmerén asked.

  “Now we need to get out of here as soon as possible and make sure Loredo and Slither don’t have a pendant,” said Mérdmerén.

  “Our cousins would know better,” assured Turi.

  “And the corpse?”

  “Let it rot right here,” said Mérdmerén. He got to his feet, put the dagger back in its sheath, and noticed the sticky blood on his clothes. “I think I need a hot bath.”

  “You must be kidding,” Turi snapped. “Let’s get out of here fast. We can’t afford to get caught here with the body. We’ve got to take advantage of the chaos in the palace while it still lasts!”

  “Yes, let’s go!” Cail added.

  Mérdmerén took a deep breath. His mission as Ehréledán had hardly begun. Long past was the day when Innominatus had entrusted him with delivering a message. Now came the most difficult part: taking control of the Empire. That is, if he survived the imminent attack of the legions of the South.

  Part III –Kathanas

  Chapter XX – Kathanas I

  The sacristan, whose upbringing in Ágamgor had been simple and who had never dreamed about setting foot beyond the streets around his own home, was now in the topmost castle of the four tall rock towers that made up the geography of Kathanas.

  A few days earlier, he had had time to enjoy these rock towers from afar as they marched along the Path of the Fallen to the west of the Fields of Flora. He would never forget the majestic landscape: three giant rock towers, like bishops escorting the largest one behind them. The fourth rock tower was the highest, the widest, and certainly the most impressive. If the first three towers were the bishops, the fourth was the queen.

  On each tower, there rose a castle that was built into the rock itself. The one on the fourth tower was higher than it was wide with multiple towers dotted with an array of catapults, so old that they could have told the whole military history of the Empire ever since the time of the Battle of Maúralgum. Many of these would be near-useless, but even so, they could hurl rocks out to the Field of Flora.

  Argbralius was looking out at the landscape from his room, in one of the many towers of that monumental castle. Duke Thoragón Roam had put himself out for him. The general and his family had been sent to another rock tower which housed the Center for Command and Strategies. Balthazar, Lomans, Gramal, and Lombardo were being housed very near the leader of the army. Luchy, Lulita, Tomasa, and Mowriz were in another rock tower along with the mad duke. And I’m the only one who’s been invited to stay with the duke. I wonder why? the sacristan thought as he scanned the horizon in search of the enemy who would soon attack them.

  The news that Ágamgor had been devastated broke his heart. He hated the city because both his mother and father had died there as well as his mentor, Vurgomm. But that place was indelibly linked to Trumbar and his macabre lessons, to a dark era which he felt was his father’s fault. If he could, he would have gone back to take his revenge over and over again.

  The soldiers guarding the rock tower wandered along the corridor outside his room. Argbralius had heard them talk about many other southern cities that had also been devastated. Némaldon was coming in strength and would not stop until it reached Kathanas. The horizon was still clear, even though the plain in front of the rock towers stretched leagues upon leagues.

  “You’re summoned,” a voice announced behind him.

  The sacristan was wearing a new black cassock, black being the color of priests even though the Perfect Pontiff had not yet named him as such. When he had been given it, he had thought that putting it on would be blasphemy, but his own was thick with blood, sweat, and excrement.

  “I’m ready,” he said. “Where are we going?”

  The soldier was wearing armor. On his breastplate was the emblem of the Roam family, who had ruled over Kathanas for three consecutive centuries. But just as the Roams had inherited the rule of the city, they had also inherited the strange illness which drove them incurably mad.

  “To the rooms of the Supreme Duke, Lord Roam.”

  The sacristan bent his head in respect. “My lord’s will is my own.”

  It was said that the Roams died with their eyes turned inward and mumbling unintelligible things, completely insane. That was why they had so many children. The eldest, besides the doom of madness, knew himself to be the heir to the throne and his father’s possessions, among which was the most precious family weapon: the Sword of Zarathás.

  The afternoon wore on. In the distance, the cloak of darkness could already be seen descending over the plain. The guard led the young man of faith down the many corridors of the tower until they came to its very center, the public area which gave access to the living quarters of the duke and his thirteen wives. The story went that the duke wanted to have at least three children by each of them, to test the resistance of the accursed gene of the Roams. With this insane scheme, the duke was already showing his lack of judgment.

  When he entered the castle’s public area, Argbralius was awed by its vast size. Its height was that of several ceibas trees and its width that of a hill. Everywhere was the noise of conversation and footsteps. Torches burnt on the columns, projecting a play of light and shadow on the walls.

  The sacristan could not avoid noticing various women who passed him, despite his vow of chastity and the fact that these women were dressed with less ostentation than in other cities of the Empire. They went up several flights of stairs to an area with several guards, who moved aside when they saw the soldier leading the sacristan dressed as a priest. Argbralius took great pleasure in the respect the soldiers showed him.

  Two thick doors of carved wood opened. In the center had been engraved the emblem of the Roam family: the fierce Sword of Zarathás, which was shown piercing the highest of the four rock towers. The room was huge with flamboyant decorations that clashed with the customs of this region of the Empire. Hunting trophies caught his eye: the heads of bears, lions, and other animals. The carpets were sewn from the furs of these animals. The enormous bed was occupied by several women and a man with a long white beard and equally snowy hair. His eyes were as blue as a spring sky, and his smile showed his total bliss.

  The women were naked. The sacristan could not help seeing breasts, buttocks, and the odd pubis, perfectly shaved. Argbralius remembered his vow of chastity and repressed his desire to take pleasure in the spectacle. He lowered his gaze to the floor.

  “The Décamon priest has come to visit us. That’s good news,” the duke said cheerfully. “I feel honored by the Gods. By the way, is the rumor true? They’re saying Alac Arc Ángelo has r-r-returned, eh? Has he? Eh?”

  “He’s a sacristan, milord,” said an individual in black from the side of the lord’s bed. He was short and fat, pig-faced, with his hair combed back as if a cow had licked it.

  “Shut your ass, you son of a bitch, or I’ll skin you before my little whores. He’s a priest because I say so, d’you hear me? That’s why I’ve given him a black cassock. He doesn’t need the Perfect Pontiff to earn it for hims
elf, d’you hear me?”

  “Yes, milord,” Pig-Face replied without interest.

  The women paid little attention to the duke’s shouting. They must have been used to it.

  “Father, I have a lot to tell you. My health—” the duke began, then stopped to take a swig out of a bottle of wine.

  No wonder he was acting so strangely. He was already drunk. And that on top of the illness which was consuming his brains.

  “Out!” the duke ordered.

  The thirteen women obeyed at once. Breasts and buttocks bounced out before the eager eyes of the young man of faith. The man in black, who seemed to be the duke’s butler or counselor, whispered something in his ear and then went out in his turn.

  “You’ve been sent by the God of Light himself, I’m sure,” the duke said as he emerged from the sheets, revealing himself in all his nakedness with rolls of fat hanging from his waist and his manhood limp and hanging disgustingly.

  The sacristan averted his gaze. The Duke put on his pants and went to a pedestal of black stone that showed his precious sword. Now that Argbralius was able to notice—no longer distracted by that collection of breasts and naked skin—that black stone was a monument in itself. The duke took the sword by the hilt and unsheathed it from the pedestal with a quick move which showed his quality as a warrior.

  “Zarathás!” he shouted at the top of his voice, at the same time threatening the sacristan with the point. “Are you real, or are you a son of a bitch like all the others?”

  “Um… I’m a sacristan.”

  “Priest! I said you’re a priest, dammit! And a priest you’ll be until… until…”

  The duke swung from side to side like a pendulum, but his legs gave way and he fell backward to the floor. When the sword hit a wooden table, Argbralius realized that its metal was not the normal one. What was it made of? Curiosity pricked him. The duke was lying on the floor, snoring like a pig. The young man went carefully up to the sword. It was genuinely wonderful. The blade seemed to be made of ice, and the surface did not reflect the light, seeming to absorb it into its depths. The sacristan was utterly hypnotized. Unaware of his movement, he reached out his hand, unable to restrain himself.