Archangel’s Ascension

by Pablo Andrés Wunderlich Padilla

  ***

  “You’ve lost your armor, you idiot,” said Rorklak, one of Gramal’s best friends in the military school of Omen. Rorklak was a large, dark-skinned man. His color was said to have been a legacy of his parents who had migrated from Grizna, a land across the Early Sea, many centuries back. Rorklak was a head shorter than Gramal but stocky and built like a bull.

  “Keep quiet, both of you idiots!” cried Yorlag, another of Gramal’s friends. Yorlag was the son of a wild-born and a woman of the Empire. His mother was a cook in Duke Hakama’s kitchen. The massive boy had grown into a man of very large proportions, and his size had been one reason why Hakama had lured him into the Brutal Fark-Amon division.

  “Why don’t you both shut up and concentrate on the enemy,” said Gramal with distress. After fighting in Kathanas, and before that near the Marsemayo Volcano, he was drained of most of his mana. Brutal Fark-Amon soldiers were not like mages. They rarely took any potions to restore health or mana; it was seen as a sign of weakness. As soldiers weakly wielding the Conjuring Arts, they had no idea how to make their own potions, and buying them from witches was strictly forbidden. Too many lives had been lost by purchasing potions from the wrong source. One could never trust a witch!

  “Finally, action once again!” said Rorklak with a grin, invisible to his friends thanks to the all-white metal helmet which covered his face. “Demons here and there, a handful of godforsaken orcs, but never a lot like these! Look at that horde of demons! By the Gods! I’ll finally be able to shine the way I was born to!”

  “Gramal here will need your help,” said Yorlag. “Looks as though losing his armor has taken away his enthusiasm. Hakama would have you by the balls, brother, if we weren’t in a war like this. Sure you don’t need a hand with the killing?”

  “I need you to be quiet!” said Gramal.

  “Brutal Fark-Amon! Hold and defend!” yelled Hakama from the frontlines. “Another wave is on its way!”

  “Unison! Embestia!” yelled Hakama. It was the word of power.

  Gramal’s arduous training kicked in at this point. He was already unified, sharing his mana with his brothers through the faint blue channel of power between them. When his captain’s order came, they all reacted quickly to the word of power and channeled their force towards the leader of the phalanx.

  “Embestia!” yelled two hundred soldiers at the same time. The word of power hung in the air like thick smoke. Light blue energy funneled from each soldier and concentrated on Hakama. The captain at the head of the phalanx led the defensive line.

  Hakama, temporarily surrounded by dense blue energy, jumped together with the surge of power. He became a weapon shaped like a spearhead with the soldiers in the rearguard pushing him onwards like a hammer beating in a nail.

  Three warhogs fell, pierced by the group enchantment. When the force of the initial spearhead enchantment was complete, its resonating power exploded in a radiating fan of energy. The blast of energy managed to obliterate more than a hundred orcs in a single pass, rupturing membranes and dismembering them on the spot.

  “Terrotara!” yelled Hakama. Once again, the two hundred Brutal Fark-Amon responded in unison, and channels of energy funneled as the words of power hung in the air. Hakama jumped again as the funneled energy flowed through him. Like a hammer, the energy delivered him to the ground with a pounding force. The captain’s claymore shone bright blue with energy and buried the blade in the ground. The concussive force sent ripples and waves of destructive energy towards the enemy lines, toppling over war machines, fracturing legs, and tearing the muscles of the advancing army.

  “Muralla!” yelled Hakama. The force of massive soldiers, previously organized as a phalanx, quickly reorganized as the enemy attack slackened. A hundred soldiers came to stand in front of a rearguard of another hundred.

  The Brutal Fark-Amon soldiers in the front line held the tips of their enchanted claymores in front of them. Those in the rearguard raised their swords in the air as if piercing the sky.

  “Muralla!” they yelled. The word of power rang in the air, and mana channeled through them to manifest itself in reality as a string of celestial energy. The unison between the soldiers created a huge rectangular wall of energy.

  The enemy’s advancing in full force, thought Hakama at the front of the wall of energy. You’ll eat this!

  “Ancora!” yelled Hakama. Two hundred Brutal Fark-Amon repeated the word of power in a yell. The rectangular wall of energy was directed, then shot at the advancing enemy. It destroyed many thousands of orcs instantly, consuming their lives as they were caught in the energy field.

  Gramal was nearing exhaustion, and he could tell his battle-brothers were on the brink of a state of mana depletion. But they had been trained to destroy the first waves of a large army. This was the first time in four hundred years that the Brutal Fark-Amon had been deployed to fulfill their destiny as the heavy force of the Empire. They would die here if that was their destiny. As Brutal Fark-Amon, they were charged with the responsibility of defending the royal city at all costs. Even if that cost was life itself.

  ***

  The duj, with their huge horns and thick bodies like minotaurs, charged the horses, bringing down their riders and gutting them with long maces. The voj hurled black halberds and toppled the riders from their horses with impeccable marksmanship.

  The rain went on falling. The field was a mudhole that hampered the soldiers’ movements. All of them fought with whatever they had to hand, and if this did not include weapons, they used their fists, knees, and teeth. As the bodies, entrails, and blood piled up, the ground became a trap as dangerous as the charging monsters of Némaldon. The wyverns began to descend and spit, not even bothering whether they directed their corrosive acids at their opponents or their own side. As the smell of scorched flesh excited their appetite, they hurled themselves on the bodies, dead or alive, starting with the entrails and continuing with the rest.

  The Empire's forces were proving inadequate, and Legionaer, encouraged by the scent of blood and the rumor of death, was already advancing. A thousand sáffurtans followed him and two hundred Grim Shepherds accompanied him to conjure up the disaster which would bury the Mandrake Empire once and for all. At the Master’s passing, the dead rose and joined the leader’s progress. A black light shone behind him and spewed lightning. The orcs moved out of his way; any unfortunate one who failed to do so in time was run over by the evil one who tore off their heads. Nobody dared get between him and his victory over the enemy who had defeated him in the last war. Already, he could taste his revenge, and it was sweet.

  When he reached the front of the battle, he gave a malevolent smile. He raised his hands, which were now claws, and generated a source of malignant energy that began to launch deafening bolts. Both sides were shaken by the effects. That black energy disintegrated the flesh of all in its path.

  The mages were struck by the dark bolt. Their death shields proved useless against the dark energy. Pupils and veteran mages exploded as the dark bolt pierced them. Elgahar fell to the ground.

  It was Ulfbar who stood strong and cried, “Energy shields!”

  The old mage was already suffering from the draining of his energy pool. But the old wizard stood strong.

  “Light spells!” he ordered.

  Veteran mages cast an array of light spells. A gigantic paw of energy swept through the field and ripped through more than fifty of the walking dead. Another mage summoned a great white familiar in the form of a scorpion, which struck down many of the warhogs with its huge tail and pincers. The familiar was brought down by a sáffurtan who cast a powerful death pulse and caused the light enchantment to collapse.

  Two mages fell dead as their energy pool was suddenly consumed by excess summoning. Ulfbar held his ground and downed two elixirs of restoration, then sipped on the purple vial. He attacked Legionaer with his most powerful spell.

  “Magnasia!” he yelled as the words of power delivered the spell. A spear
of celestial light clashed against Legionaer and burst in a brilliant explosion. There was a faint cheer, which died very rapidly. Legionaer was intact. His energy shield had collapsed in the attack but had managed to deflect it.

  Ulfbar’s shield held as Legionaer's counterattack reached him. But two of his veteran mages were consumed in a skin-melting energy spell. Ulfbar collapsed in exhaustion.

  Hakama summoned Hurracana, a powerful spell that would turn him into a whirlwind. Legionaer leaped from his position and advanced with lightning speed on the Brutal Fark-Amon. He was well aware of their weakness. Without their captain, one of his faithful infiltrators in the Empire had told him, unison would be broken. Legionaer suffered a minor wound to the shoulder as an energy dart from a weak mage pierced him. But it was worth the sacrifice. Avoiding the effort of defending himself allowed him to concentrate his dark energy in a haste spell that propelled him to the Brutal Fark-Amon frontlines.

  “I see you!” yelled Legionaer. Hakama’s eyes, seen through the visor of his gleaming white helmet, grew abnormally large. Legionaer lunged and plunged his claws into Hakama’s eyes. The sudden disruption of the enchantment caused the collapse of the fusion state Hakama and his soldiers were in, causing a whiplash effect on the mana concentration. More than one hundred Brutal Fark-Amon died, as they were on the brink of exhausting their mana stores. Their chests exploded in a brilliant surge of energy as they were consumed by the whiplash effect. Gramal barely held his ground. He collapsed to his knees, raising his head in time to see the execution of his captain.

  Legionaer cast a brutal death spell, summoning dark spirits. The death energy was fired from his hand into Hakama’s chest, destroying the gleaming white breastplate and consuming the flesh within it until only bones and dry skin remained.

  “Retreat!” Leandro yelled as he saw the Brutal Fark-Amon defense fall.

  The losses on their side were growing. Distant now were those times when Mandrake had imposed itself on Némaldon. Now, things had changed. Revenge had been woven with patience and time, and now it was being served effectively.

  “Get back!” the general repeated from his horse. “They’re annihilating us!”

  A wyvern swooped down on him like a storm but missed its exact aim. It bit the horse on the neck, and Deathslayer fell to the ground, face down in the mud. A group of orcs and the dead surrounded him, sharpening their fangs. Kathas, one of the last dethis of the first generation—direct descendants of the God of Chaos—hurled herself on Leandro before anybody could bite him.

  “The legendary Leandro Deathslayer,” the dethis hissed with a smile that twisted her animal beauty, showing a pair of predatory fangs. “The general who has won innumerable battles against the South. The implacable, the untamed, the very one who now lies at my feet.”

  “You’ll never win,” the general muttered. Blood was pouring from his mouth.

  The evil one put a finger into his chest wound. “And so says a man with his throat cut?”

  Deathslayer moaned. It was all he could do; his body, instead of responding to his will to fight, would not move. Kathas opened her jaws like a viper to swallow her prey. When she was about to bury her fangs, an ax pierced her chest and sent her flying several yards away. It was Balthazar. The air around him smelt of eucalyptus.

  “Thanks to the blood of Devnóngaron, the dethis were subjugated four hundred years ago,” he said.

  Kathas was howling with pain, but she managed to get to her feet. She screamed, her face twisted as if a storm of nightmares had awakened within her. The dethis yanked the ax free from her chest; her armor had defended her vital organs.

  From behind her, she pulled out two very thin swords. The Wild Man accepted the challenge. He tapped the ground twice with his right foot, as was the custom among the Wild People when they danced the death dance. He picked up a spear from the ground.

  Both of them ran and clashed violently. Once, twice, the dethis missed her thrusts at the Wild Man’s neck by inches. Balthazar moved through the mud confidently. With a sideways movement, he stabbed her eye, then finished off the attack by burying the spear in her skull. The demon convulsed for a few seconds on the ground, and the Wild Man yelled to the heavens in celebration of his victory. He seized his ax from the ground and decapitated Kathas. Blood splashed his forehead. He wetted his fingers in his victim’s neck and painted his face with her blood.

  His senses warned him of another attack. He moved forward and avoided the claw slash that would have torn off his head. Legionaer had torn his back, and the wound was deep enough to have touched his lungs. Balthazar was gasping. He greeted death when he saw the leader of Némaldon coming toward him with his chest swelling.

  The demon was tall and handsome. His armor accentuated his rounded, powerful muscles.

  “The Wild People will pay a high price when Mandrake falls. Mother, that fucking nature of yours, will burn when the flames of destruction destroy the land of Devnóngaron. Now die, you cursed shaman.”

  Legionaer had left Hakama’s corpse behind and now intended to destroy this strange Wild Man who had dared to defeat one of his dethis. Legionaer began to concentrate black energy in his hands, ready to release a powerful spell that would finish off the powerful sorcerer. A threatening croak distracted him, and he turned to look just in time to avoid a red wyvern coming straight to tear his throat. The demon cursed at the sight of the sky filled with a flock of more than two hundred red wyverns on their way to help the Mandrake Empire.

  “Mother… you listened,” Balthazar said gratefully. “You’ve sent me the reinforcements I asked you for.”

  A loud concert of barking flooded the battlefield. The Némaldines were paralyzed. They knew what that meant, and after the barking came the voices of men seeking war.

  “Ready yourselves!” Legionaer roared.

  From the darkness there emerged more than a thousand Devonic Shepherds followed by a horde of Wild Men and Women. They clashed with spears and axes, arms, legs, and teeth. The evil army lost more than three thousand of its soldiers, orcs, humans, demons, and sáffurtans in that initial encounter.

  “Retreat!” the general cried from the ground.

  Two strong golden-skinned arms lifted him to carry him away from there. He could not feel his body, which was a good thing since, otherwise, his fractures would have left him in agony.

  “Thanks to the Gods, Devnóngaron has joined the battle,” Deathslayer said joyfully. “Otherwise, we’d be looking at the end. We have to go back to the Imperial Palace to confront them there. That way, they’ll find it very difficult to defeat us.”

  “Retreat!” Lulita cried, echoing the general’s orders.

  “To the palace! To the palace!” the soldiers repeated.

  The Wild People helped the army to retreat, but not without great losses.

  Although the evil army had suffered many losses, it was so vast that they hardly needed more than a moment of relaxation to recover and march again.

  The Empire had won that battle, but it was only the first one of many.

  Chapter XXXV – Besieged by the Devil

  “Disaster is very close,” Ságamas predicted.

  He was accompanying Mérdmerén, his daughter Ajedrea, and his dying wife. Maria de Los Santos was breathing with difficulty but peacefully, knowing that she could leave this world after resolving the great tragedy of her life. Her torturer Cantus de Aligar was dead and the great love of her life had returned to be with her in her last moments. She had been treated with milk of Brugmansia and was at ease, free from agony.

  “I’m sure the Imperial Army’s suffering enormous losses,” Mérdmerén was saying, his gaze tense as he contemplated and caressed his wife.

  From time to time they felt tremors, a sign that a great catastrophe was unfolding outside. Mérdmerén and Ságamas, who had already seen what the Némaldines were capable of, suspected that the dead were already beginning to walk.

  “Farewell, Mother,” Ajedrea murmured, sitting on one
side of her mother’s bed.

  “There… there. I love you both. Never… grow apart,” Maria mumbled.

  “It’s time,” Ságamas said and tapped out his pipe. He took off the beret he normally wore now instead of the three-cornered hat and held it to his chest as a sign of respect. His square-cut beard, dense as the sea he longed for, hid his saddened lips. He had loved often enough in his life to know what love meant. He had lost much and had also won. Some scars would never heal, like those of love. Because of this, he was sad on behalf of his friend. He had been with him through his spiritual journey from beaten criminal to virtuous man, and if all went well, he would be named the leader of a renewed nation.

  “Oh, my sweetheart,” Mérdmerén wept, his voice broken by tears. “My very dearest! I’ll never forget you. We didn’t share much time, but I’ll cherish the sweetest moments in my heart.”

  Maria tried to say something, but no sound would come out. The muscles of her face relaxed and her breathing stopped. She died with her eyes open. Ságamas went up to her, closed her eyelids, and arranged her hair around her face.

  Mérdmerén burst out weeping, repenting his wicked life once again. More than twenty years had had to go by, not to mention many obstacles, for him to learn the lesson at the cost of a path through life strewn with pain and offenses which he would never manage to rise above. But in the end, he had turned himself around, and now he would work for good and justice.

  The heavens thundered, the floor shook. The fate of the Empire was claiming Mérdmerén. He stood up with a start, his body tense as a cobra ready to pounce on his enemy.

  “Lion Fist,” he muttered under his breath, his eyes deep and dark as tunnels.

  Greyson came in at that moment, followed by Turi and Cail. The three were panting, pale as corpses.

  “The dead have risen. They’re walking toward the palace. We’re surrounded by evil. The hour has come. The general’s seriously injured and a black wyvern has devoured Hakama. The people are running in panic, directionless. We have to set the master plan in motion, it’s time for Lion Fist to come out and take the throne, Ehréledán.”