Archangel’s Ascension

by Pablo Andrés Wunderlich Padilla

  “Little Father,” came a broken voice.

  The duke was conscious once again, though he was still on the floor, completely overcome.

  “Shall I hand it back to you?” the sacristan offered, feigning helpfulness when what he wanted to do was touch the sword.

  “No. There’s one thing you must understand: Anyone who touches Zarathás’ sword, with or without my permission, will be decapitated and his head hurled into the Fields of Flora with a catapult.”

  The Duke rolled across the floor like bread dough and sat down on a carpet of black wyvern hide. “Sit down on the floor with me, like a good man. Now then. Enough of being formal. We’re among friends here.”

  The protocol puzzled the sacristan; he still did not even know why the duke had summoned him to his rooms or why he had asked to be left alone with him.

  “I tell you, the Gods have sent you to me at the right moment before madness takes hold of me entirely. And d’you know how I know that? Because that’s what happened to my father. Before he died, the same thing happened to him: waste and black moods. I’m about to go completely insane. A little while ago, I spoke to the healer Leandro brought, but all that bastard offered me was strange words, and I don’t want him with me anymore. I’ve come to you, Father, so that you can purify my soul before I’m gone for good, I beg you. Heal the wounds of my soul before my reason leaves me altogether. That’s all I ask of you, all I ask of you. May the Gods forgive me before my death comes.” The duke bent his head and wept.

  Finally, Argbralius understood what he was doing there in his black cassock. There was nothing he would have liked better than to respond to this situation like a true priest, but he was not ready to absolve souls. In any case, the city—like any other in the Empire—must have its own Décamon, priest, and sacristan.

  “It would be an honor for me to absolve you of your sins, milord, but just one question: What about the local sacristan and priest from the local Décamon?”

  The duke raised his tear-stained face, and his gaze turned steel-hard. “I had them decapitated and threw their heads into the Field of Flora. They didn’t know how to heal my soul. They were false, impure, a pair of spies sent to take away my divine sword. But Zarathás is mine and nobody else’s, and the sword never lies.”

  The sacristan swallowed. His neck was in danger. He watched the duke playing with his sword like a child with a wooden stick, throwing it up and down, at times running his fingers along the edge. “Ouch!” He put his thumb in his mouth and sucked. “This bitch sometimes bites!” he said with that crazed expression that came and went.

  He drew a drop of blood from his finger, put it on the blade of the sword, and smeared it along the surface.

  Argbralius did not know how to get away from there. He was sure that challenging the duke would have terrible consequences, such as his execution. “Milord, let us begin to clean your soul right away. We can’t delay.”

  The duke’s eyes sparkled with hope. “Are you serious? By my wives’ cunts, you’re the only one who’s divine. I’m going down on my knees before you this very moment.”

  The duke, shirtless, dressed only in his pants, knelt before the sacristan. His chest was gigantic and bare. “Come on now, stand up,” the duke begged. “You have to be on foot, or else it won’t be real. And you know how I loathe falsehood.”

  Puzzled, the sacristan obeyed. He stretched out his hands and began to move them in circles, hoping to convince the madman and avoid losing his head.

  “Do it now!” the duke shouted. He had lain down with the sword under his head, like a pillow.

  “Blessed be the divine Gods, who send us their celestial strength; purify this noble man of his miseries and those worldly sins we all commit and will continue to commit. Free us from the problems of those doomed to a life of delusion and greed and grant us the humility of your divinity. O Gods, enlighten this man!” Argbralius declaimed, making up every word as he went with confident, serious gestures, even though he was trembling inwardly.

  “I can feel it!” the duke cried, trapped in his madness. “I feel purified already! Ah! Ah! Ah, you divine Gods! You’ve cleansed me!” On his knees, like a devout penitent, he grasped a fold of the black cassock and tugged at it, amazed by the miracle which had just taken place.

  “It is so indeed, son of the Gods,” the sacristan went on, his voice rich with pride and vanity. “The Gods are good and they forgive.”

  “Then has the God of Light returned?” the Duke asked hopefully, like a child waiting for dessert to come.

  Argbralius felt a lightning bolt of jealousy. “Indeed, son of the Gods. The God of Light has returned. And with this absolution, you will be admitted to the Deep Azure of the Heavens.”

  The young man closed his eyes and raised his hands as if he were receiving divine strength. This ritual, which was also made up, was a balm for the soul of the duke, who believed in the divinity of the gesture. Argbralius hoped the truth would not leak out, since if it did so it would be grounds for punishment. Still, he was alone, and there were no witnesses. That feeling of power, of acting as his will dictated, was irresistible. The things you could accomplish by lying.

  Someone knocked loudly on the door, and voices shouted from the other side.

  “What’s this bloody nonsense, you useless bunch of imbeciles? Can’t you see I’m being absolved of my bloody sins?” the duke cried as he got to his feet. He went to the door and kicked it open. “Who dares?” he yelled. His sword was raised, ready to be plunged into whoever had dared to disturb him.

  But he was confronted by a group of very high-ranking people: Leandro, the head mage, the philosopher, and a hooded Wild Man.

  Gáramond, who was looking on curiously, noted the sacristan who had tensed visibly. Strangelus, attracted by some mystical force, could not take his eye off the duke’s sword. Leandro took a step forward and slapped the duke’s face.

  “I want you in one piece!” the general shouted.

  The duke dropped his sword and put a hand to his sore cheek. The general entered the room silently, his team behind him. Leandro was in full gear, newly polished after his escape from San San-Tera. The head mage was full of vigor.

  “They’re close,” Leandro said gravely. “Put on your armor, Thoragón, and summon the army at once. Then you’re to hand over the command to me. I’ll be the leader in the war that’s almost on us.”

  The duke nodded. “I think it’s an excellent idea. And I’m glad indeed that you’re among us.”

  He retrieved the sword calmly and returned it to the black pedestal.

  “Well, that was easy,” the gluttonous philosopher said, sounding pleased. “We thought we’d have to use something more than rational arguments to persuade you, Thoragón. Luckily, you’re sane, even if it is only for a few minutes.” He turned to the others. “You’re all witnesses to the fact that the duke agrees. Right?”

  “There’s a very strange energy in this place,” the mage said, without taking his eyes off the sword.

  “The sword of my ancestors. Zarathás!” the Duke yelled.

  “Zarathás, certainly,” the mage said. “If you would just allow the mages of Omen to study it—”

  “Never! The Sword of Zarathás hasn’t left this city in three hundred years! It won’t leave it anytime soon!”

  The Wild Man pushed back his hood, went up to the sacristan, and gave him a threatening look. “Be careful what you wish for, Argbralius,” Balthazar said. “Be very careful.”

  The atmosphere turned suddenly cold. The sacristan, cowed by the Wild Man, replied with a shrug.

  “What is it, Balthazar?” the general asked.

  “I agree with the mage. There’s very strange energy here…”

  “I’m sure there is. Can we focus on something else now? For the Gods’ sake, we have an army marching against us.”

  “The general’s right,” Gáramond agreed. “Although I, too, have the feeling that strange things are simmering here, there’s a bl
oody legion approaching. No, not a legion, a whole nation that’s been preparing to annihilate us for centuries. Don’t you think we should be devoting our energy to that?”

  “That’s true,” Balthazar said. “Destruction is coming closer. But the duke is still naked, still has not responded.”

  “Oh, shit! Darcy! Darcy!” the duke cried, with a touch of shame in his voice. “My armor, by the lives of my wives in childbirth!”

  Pig-Face came in at a run. “Coming, my lord!”

  Chapter XXI – Kathanas II

  As the Némaldine legions arrived, they stationed themselves at the edge of the Field of Flora. It took them three days to assemble. When they were all there, the sky shone blue, with a patch or two of cloud, and the wind was a cold snake slithering up to the heights.

  “And why don’t we use the catapults to hurl rocks at them?” Elgahar asked from behind his master.

  “You’re young, Elgahar,” Strangelus said. “You haven’t known war, and sadly, you’re going to be initiated into that terrible world with a battle which promises to be a feast of blood. If you look closely, they’re too far away, and the rocks wouldn’t even graze them. It would be a waste of ammunition. Do you know how much it takes to bring those rocks up here? It takes the city a day and a half to get a single shooting stone up here.”

  “And if we run out of ammunition?”

  “It’s never happened. There’s enough rock to keep shooting for hours. I guess if we run out of ammunition, then that’ll be that.”

  Lomans and Gramal were getting ready in a corner, wearing their armor and with the calm of experienced soldiers.

  Gramal had lost his gleaming white armor and claymore by the volcano. He was now fitted with boiled leather armor and chainmail and had been given a large double-handed sword for a weapon. The wound in Lomans’ arm had healed quickly, perhaps thanks to his youth, and although it was still painful, he could wield his morning star without difficulty.

  Lombardo, on the other hand, was moving about with the frenzy of a beginner.

  Deathslayer and the captain of the Kathanas army appeared, walking briskly.

  “Gather round, all of you!” the general ordered.

  Gramal, Lomans, Lombardo, Argbralius, Lulita, Strangelus, Elgahar, and Tomasa came closer. The captain of the Kathanas army was a short man, but as broad-shouldered as Gramal.

  “My friends, we haven’t had time to prepare the way I’d have liked to, but the plan is simple. The battle will consist of three stages. The first will begin when the army advances; we’ll respond with catapults and archers. In the second stage, the enemy will approach with their war machines to climb up the rock towers; it seems an impossible task, but they’re sure to have thought of a way to do it, there’s no doubt about that. The third stage will be the actual battle, man-to-man, once they breach the walls.”

  “How do you know they’ll get here?” asked the captain of the Kathanas Army.

  “What makes you think they won’t, Dartos?” the general shot back.

  “Nobody has ever crossed the boundaries of our city, ever,” he said with a disdainful smile.

  “You’re an imbecile, and if you’re ever as pedantic as that again, I’ll remove you as a captain and hand the command over to Lomans, understood? When those sons of their misbegotten mother come closer, you’ll shit your pants. You have no idea what those bastards can do. If they don’t bring these walls down with their war machines, they’ll fly in on their black wyverns. They’ve spent four centuries preparing, feeding their hatred, training, perfecting their weapons. Hell is attacking us, Captain, and its demons along with it. Lombardo, tell him what just one Grim Shepherd did in your village.”

  “It’s true,” Lombardo said. “Hundreds of them will come, and sáffurtans. They’ve brought their Master Legionaer back to life.”

  “That’s a legend. You can’t seriously believe that, General,”

  The blow left Dartos seeing stars.

  “Don’t insult me. Legionaer has returned, and either he or his most senior follower is the leader of that army that’s set up camp on the border. They waited until they could bring him back before they invaded us.”

  Dartos was rubbing his cheek. Lomans was looking at him with scorn, and he held that challenging gaze.

  “The mages will play an important role,” the general went on. “Luckily, we can count on Strangelus, the one most widely respected in these lands.”

  Gáramond cleared his throat as if trying to draw attention.

  “And the most skillful philosopher,” Deathslayer added to please the thinker. “Strangelus, Elgahar, you’ll be responsible for the sáffurtans and the Grim Shepherds. Counteract their spells and, if you can, launch attacks to take out soldiers. I know it means a lot of effort, but nobody else has the talent or the strength to deal with those bastards.”

  Elgahar, who had lost his staff, lowered his gaze.

  “Lomans.”

  “Yes, General?”

  “You’ll be in charge of the eastern tower. Gramal.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’ll take care of the western tower. Lulita.”

  “Me?” She was surprised.

  “I trust you, I know your skills. You’ll be in charge of the central tower.”

  The grandmother paled, but she accepted the order.

  “I’ll be in the main tower, behind the other three,” Deathslayer said. “Dartos?”

  “Yes, General?”

  “You’ll be with me, making sure all the soldiers are carrying out their particular duties. As for the others, Lombardo, Tomasa, Argbralius… I’m missing one.”

  “Mowriz,” Lulita reminded him.

  “Him. I need him too. That boy fights like a boar. Will you be near him, Lulita?”

  “Well, of course, I will! He defended my Luchy like nobody else. I’ll be at his side, but what are we going to do with your family? And the children of Kathanas? And the elders? Don’t you think you ought to send them to Háztatlon at once?”

  “And the thinkers?” Gáramond added.

  “So you give birth, then, do you?” Lulita burst out. “It’s the women of the Empire who’ll bring new children into this world after the war.”

  The glutton seemed to reflect for a moment, pipe in hand.

  “Right then. Leandro, the most convenient thing would be to send the population north. When they attack, we won’t have any control over the roads.”

  “It’s the right thing to do,” Strangelus agreed. “I do not doubt that Karolina would fight like a fiend, but if she falls, who’ll look after your children? Today’s little ones are tomorrow’s men. And Luchy… that beautiful child will be able to help Karolina look after your children.”

  “There’s Nana Bromelia,” Leandro said, lost in his thoughts.

  “I ain’t stayin’ here,” Tomasa put in. “If Luchy goes, I go too. I take care o’ ma little missy.”

  “The children of Kathanas aren’t going anywhere,” Dartos said.

  They all turned to him, aghast.

  “It’s our culture. The mothers will insult you if you suggest fleeing. No, General. Men, women, children, and old people, everyone in Kathanas is trained to give all they have.”

  Leandro shrugged. “I don’t agree, but I won’t argue either. Whoever wishes to stay can stay.”

  Lulita felt very sad at the thought of saying goodbye to Luchy. Her family was dissolving, but the girl would have to go, and Tomasa as well. Otherwise, they would die.

  “I’m going to miss you, Tomasa. I regard you as my children just like Manchego, even though none of you came from my womb. Ah, my dears, how I’ll miss you. Among all these men, I’m going to feel a little lonely. I can’t see myself in the company of the duke’s wives!”

  “I still haven’t ordered them to leave,” the general said.

  “Leandro, I’ve already suffered several losses; you haven’t. I’m the one who ought to make that decision, don’t you think?”

  Dar
tos gaped at seeing the old woman challenge the general.

  He was silent at her retort. Then he met her gaze. “You’re right, Lulita. Oh, by the Gods!” Deathslayer exclaimed.

  “They’ll be safe in the North,” Gáramond said. “Keeping them close to you would only be for your own benefit, Leandro.”

  “And what if Háztatlon falls?” the general asked.

  “Then we’ll all be dead anyway,” the philosopher concluded. “Nothing would matter by then.”

  The air blew with fury as if it were bringing a foretaste of the war.

  “Then let’s say our farewells,” the general said.

  Lulita hugged Tomasa. “You take care of my other daughter, Tomasa. And you take care of yourself too, my dear. I’ll miss you!”

  “General! General!” the philosopher cried unhappily. “If it’s all right with you, I’d like to leave with your family as well. Someone as useless as I am has nothing to offer.”

  “You’re my counselor, Gáramond. You’ll stay here.”

  “Very well,” the old man said resignedly.

  ***

  Luchy, Tomasa, and Lulita were weeping. They had been united by their loss for years, and they had shared the joy of Manchego’s return.

  “You must be strong, my dear. You’ll be safe in Háztatlon. War is nigh. It’s there waiting on the horizon.”

  The three of them looked into the distance, at the black line threatening the border.

  “I know, Granny,” Luchy said and put her arms around her. “When will we see each other again?”

  Tomasa hugged Lulita too.

  “I don’t know, my dear. I promise to do everything possible to reach Háztatlon alive.”

  “Don’t say that! Just say you’ll get there!”