Necromancer’s Sorrow: (Series Finale)

by Pablo Andrés Wunderlich Padilla

  Luchy looked warmly at him. Seeing a friend brought out positive feelings in her. But her smile soon vanished, which impressed Turi. As far as the thief was concerned, Luchy had always been someone with a ready smile. But now her face was shadowed. He felt for her and wanted to help her be happy again.

  She returned the courtesy. “Greetings, Turi the Crafty,” she said.

  He smiled proudly. “Now I’m Turi the Esquire.”

  “You changed your name?”

  “I’m the king’s esquire now! That’s how I came by the new name. I think it suits me.” The lad looked ridiculous in his clothes. He wore tight pants of coffee-colored leather, well-polished boots, and a loose silk shirt that appeared to float over his thin, wiry body like a cloud.

  “And this big guy?” the lad said, offering him his hand. “Hi there. Turi.” The thief had befriended men his size before, including Greyson his uncle, but this Wild Man was different.

  “His name’s Mojak,” Luchy explained.

  “Greetings, Mojak,” Turi said with his hand still outstretched.

  Mojak did not flinch. His great face and square jaw remained unmoved. He seemed barely to be breathing. The huge mace at his belt was expressive, as were his Wild Man’s clothes of wyvern leather. Turi had never seen a bald Wild Man. The man’s scalp reflected the evening sun. How did it manage to avoid freezing in winter?

  “They cut off his tongue in Árath where he was a slave. He’s mute,” Luchy said expressionlessly. Turi withdrew his hand and shrugged.

  Turi’s eyes widened. “Anyway, a pleasure meeting you, Mojak. Welcome to the Imperial Palace. I guess it’s the big guy’s first visit. In we go.”

  Turi opened the double door and invited the travelers to come inside. The Imperial Palace, as always, was busy with endless negotiators, politicians, and architects carrying out their various tasks inside the palace. The building was dotted everywhere with imperial guards, revealing that security was in a state of alarm after the recent war.

  Turi led them down elegant corridors. Luchy knew the place well, having been there for the coronation of Lion’s Fist and Ajedrea’s wedding. When they entered the king’s hall and were led to the throne, the travelers allowed themselves to be carried away by the splendor. Only Luchy showed this by marveling at it all, open-mouthed. Mojak remained expressionless, although his eyes scanned everything around him.

  The corridor led them to a great hall where a long, narrow carpet stretched for several strides up to a platform of white stone. On top of it stood a luxurious throne.

  It was made of the same clean white marble, it's surface both straight and wavy with a variety of decorations carved on its surface. Some parts were broken, others deeply-furrowed, showing the wear and tear of four centuries of use.

  The ceiling was even more impressive than the throne. Given the polytheistic religion of the Empire, it took the form of a dome decorated with minutely-detailed paintings. The images in these depicted the ten essences of the Decamic religion. There were the Goddesses of Night, Water, Fire, Earth, and the God of Light. In another part was Aryan Vetala, the first evangelizer, and in another, Eryund des Guillioth, the first monarch. Around those figures were three cities. Each one was placed in a corner, forming a triangle of imaginary lines, thus representing the Stratta Trigonosphere, the three original cities of the Empire.

  Turi walked as if in his own home, which indeed he was, and stopped beside the king. Luchy noticed that there were many soldiers at various strategic points of the sovereign’s chamber.

  When the girl was close to the throne, she was able to appreciate the friendly expression on the face of the ruler of the kingdom. The sovereign’s gaze was paternal. It was obvious that Mérdmerén knew about the details of her mission; she realized this from the way he was looking closely at her and because he showed no surprise at seeing Mojak. Turi had noticed that several of the soldiers were nervous in the presence of a Wild Man.

  Up until then, Luchy had begun to form some idea of Mojak’s personality and one of the most important aspects of it was the impression he created in those who looked at him. But sometimes even she forgot that the big man was beside her. His silence, she had noticed, was comfortable; apart from the fact that someone so big could walk so quietly. His footsteps made no sound.

  She stopped when the carpet ended half a stride away from the marble platform with the throne on it.

  Mérdmerén stood up, his esquire now behind him, to stir the king’s long purple mantle into movement. The king was wearing his usual black attire. A mystical dagger was sheathed in a scabbard of the same color. The scabbard was kept in place by a cinch that allowed the weapon to cross his chest diagonally, with the pommel pointing to his right shoulder and the point toward his left hip. On his head, he wore the simple golden crown, his long hair the color of a crow with some grey hairs in it. Mérdmerén was almost sixty years old.

  The king did not say a word. He came down from the dais and the first thing he did was to embrace Luchy with a warmth that surprised the girl.

  She resisted at first, more because of the unlikeliness of the gesture, but after a few seconds, she relaxed and allowed the king to embrace her.

  It reminded her of her daddy’s hugs, so she returned the embrace with the same affection. It had been years since she had felt like a daughter and today, those feelings resurfaced with the bitter-sweetness of the memory. The girl allowed a couple of tears to trickle down her cheeks but no more than that, although a knot in her throat swallowed up the words she was about to say.

  Mérdmerén moved away from her to study her face, then embraced her again affectionately and said, “Everything’s going to be all right. Everything’s going to be all right. Everything’s all right. There, girl, there… Everything’s going to be all right.”

  Luchy was not his daughter, but she liked being treated like one by this man. She broke into a steady, sorrowful sobbing which lasted no more than five minutes after which this outpouring of her emotions ceased.

  “Now then, follow me to the dining room. Dinner’s ready and I’d like you to be my graceful companion.”

  ***

  To Luchy’s surprise, they did not dine in the Imperial Dining Hall, where meetings usually took place around a very long table. Instead, they gathered in the kitchen, round the table used by the cooks and the workers.

  “This is how you know when someone really likes you,” Mérdmerén said as he sat down, greeting the cooks as he did so as if they were old friends who shared a lineage. The nobles and the dukes did not approve of this behavior. Macadamio had almost fainted when he found out that the king ate with the lower-caste workers. But, and there were no surprises here, the people loved the gesture and the rumor spread that the king was “one of us.”

  The king always managed to create conversation and friendship with whomever he pleased. He enjoyed making friends with cooks, decent working men and women; it made him feel like he was one of the people.

  “When you’re accepted in the kitchen it’s because you’re special.” He turned to one of the cooks. “Isn’t that so, Chana?”

  A very fat woman with red cheeks smiled at him and went on stirring aromatic soup in a huge cauldron.

  “There’s nothing like being with the people, being able to live with them, smelling the odor of the crowd.” The king inhaled and exhaled slowly. “It’s a treat.”

  They sat down at a round table of worm-eaten wood. There were six places on it; Turi took his place beside the king after hanging his purple cloak on a hook. The esquire ceased to act like a functionary and relaxed into his usual self. He took the bread from the center of the table, broke off a piece, and put it in his mouth.

  Luchy was speechless. Mojak, to one side, seemed to be sniffing the bread curiously. Mérdmerén noticed and put a loaf as big as a man’s head in front of him.

  “All yours, my friend. I know you’re a Wild Man chosen by Balthazar to guard this princess while she carries out an important missio
n. A very, very important mission.”

  Mérdmerén let his gaze wander down the table, then stared at Mojak as he devoured the bread in a couple of bites.

  Luchy was impressed. “It’s the first time I’ve seen him react in any manner,” she said.

  “Balthazar told me he’s an introverted kind of guy, but an excellent guardian. The sorcerer told me he’d personally trained him for this mission.”

  “What mission?” Turi asked.

  “The only mission that matters, apart from summoning other worlds to stop you-know-who,” Mérdmerén said. He picked up a bottle of cheap wine, opened it with a corkscrew, and drank straight from the bottle. He passed it to Turi and the young thief, in turn, drank from it.

  “Is it the mission that—”

  Mérdmerén interrupted him. “That very one.”

  “When do we start?” the girl asked.

  “Tomorrow at dawn. Your grandmother sent me a letter with Gerardo and asked me to look after you at least for one night. If it were up to you you’d be on your way to the mission already, but your grandmother wanted you to enjoy our hospitality before you set off on a great adventure.”

  Great adventure, Luchy thought. Great torture, maybe. This isn’t any kind of adventure. She sighed and gave the trace of a smile, grateful for having a grandmother like Lulita and friends like Turi and Mérdmerén.

  “The message birds have arrived. Némaldon has been sacked, its demons annihilated and the underground castle conquered. Némaldon is ours! Those arid lands will now be the territory of the Dakatak and there, they’ll found a new nation.”

  The cooks cheered, although this had not been Mérdmerén’s intention. He laughed under his breath and went on eating bread.

  “How are Ajedrea and Lombardo?” Luchy asked with the ghost of a smile on her pale face.

  “They’ve sent letters saying that things are going very well. Their honeymoon was quite a spectacle.”

  Luchy turned to Turi. “And you?”

  “Me? Well…”

  “What have you been doing, I mean?”

  “Aaah.” Turi was caught by surprise by the question, more so because he was already feeling the winds of change stirring in the current of his life. He had often thought about finding a mate and settling down.

  “Turi is being trained to become one of my most important emissaries,” Mérdmerén said. “His job will be nothing less than to travel to other worlds as my representative.”

  Turi blushed. “What?”

  “I’ve discussed it thoroughly with the Baron, Turi. You’re the chosen one.”

  “But I’m just a simple thief, there’s no way I could be your representative. No, no, no, no, no! I’m your—your esquire!” Turi found difficulty at those moments when he did not know whether to treat Mérdmerén as his friend or his king. In fact, they had become friendly since coming back from the adventure that had taken them to the other side of the Early Sea.

  “It’s an order, you little imp,” Mérdmerén said with a half-smile. He kept the game of respect and courtesy going on purpose, which confused Turi. Of course, they were friends, but when he gave him an order he wanted him to obey.

  Turi lowered his gaze and said, “Yes, my King.”

  Luchy felt the tension change. The king knew how to play the cards of power.

  “While you’re acting as an emissary, I need to stay in the Meridian, which will soon become the political center of a range of nations and cultures of other worlds.”

  “And who else will come with me, my King?” Turi asked respectfully.

  Luchy watched the exchange. Their expressions and gestures made her giggle. In a way, they were like father and son. The girl turned round to see that Mojak was sitting with his arms crossed, watching and listening to everything. For a moment, she had forgotten he was there.

  “Elgahar Üdessa, Funia of the Dungeon of Thieves, Chirllrp the Mílikin, Khad’Un of Doolm-Ondor, Merkas of Moragald’Burg, Amon Ras of the Divine Providence, Ushka the Dakatak, and Unna of Devnóngaron will be the other emissaries. A representative of each species, nation, and power. And you’ll represent the Mandrake Empire. That’s quite a position! How come it doesn’t thrill you?”

  Turi thought for some time. Mérdmerén, apparently unworried about his esquire, went on eating bread. Meanwhile, Chana began to serve the stew in wooden bowls from which the guests and government servants ate with relish. In Luchy’s opinion, it was the best stew she had eaten in years.

  “Very well, my king. I’ll do it. I’m grateful that you’ve chosen me for a position like that. It’s an honor.”

  Luchy looked up to see Turi rolling his eyes, muttering something else that nobody understood. His unease went unnoticed by Mérdmerén, who was too busy eating.

  “That’s great, Turi. You’ll see that you’ll be wonderful at it. You’re very good at traveling to other worlds and getting to know other lands. I know you better than you think.”

  And it was true. For Turi, traveling and coming to know other cultures was a real privilege.

  Chapter VIII — Darkness

  Mórgomiel felt a strange heaviness at the thought of Mortis Depthos, which had been destroyed by the God of Light and Róganok. The chaotic planet had always been his shelter, the place where he knew he could return peacefully, no matter what difficulties he might have to confront.

  I was never safe at home. There was always violence wherever I set foot and now my world is destroyed, Mórgomiel thought—or was it Argbralius? You bloody God of Light, you bloody Róganok. At least you’re dead. Dead. Frozen. Consumed. I’m glad you’ve suffered and it gives me joy to think of your abysmal destruction. You should have seen your face when I killed your dragon! You should have seen your dragon’s eyes when I cut off his snout! You should have seen yourself defeated, frozen, dead.

  The thoughts of the soul of the human he had conquered had been invading his conscience. The strange thing was that however tiny the human’s soul might be in comparison with the sea of malice in his chaotic one, the human seemed to be gaining power in his mind. He was doing it in sudden fits and starts, without permission or limits. The worst of it was that Mórgomiel could not stop it despite his great power. Why? The God of Chaos thought he had seen and resolved all the enigmas of this universe, but the fact that the human’s soul was invading his consciousness eluded his understanding. He did not know what to do about it.

  Because of this invasion of Argbralius’s soul into his consciousness, Mórgomiel found himself obeying those thoughts and it was all because he was unable to distinguish between his own and those of Argbralius. He must learn to control this or else he would go crazy.

  Maybe I should have been reincarnated in another kind of being, he thought. Not a human. An elf, perhaps? Bah! An orc? A wyvern?

  He knew how futile it was even to think about it. What was done was done, and there was no turning back.

  Making his way along the River of Time, Mórgomiel recognized many of the hidden paths, having visited more than a hundred thousand worlds since he had eliminated Alac Arc Ángelo. By doing that, he had aroused the fury of his followers who had been preparing the armies for when he was ready to begin the conquest of the universe.

  The calculations were simple. One hundred thousand worlds, each with at least a million soldiers and demons of all kinds. One hundred thousand million soldiers was a formidable army to conquer the universe with and for this, he would site his command base in the Meridian, the world he had conquered long ago and where he had built Kanumorsus.

  At the moment, his camp was in Eorta. Évulath the Brave had ruled ever since he had torn the breastplate out of Évulath the Chimera and with the government under his command, the chieftain had enlarged the army of the Ámaranth enormously. His army numbered two million.

  He emerged from the River of Time, expelled by a violet vortex. The solar system of Eorta appeared, the red world shimmering with the fires of universal military activity. The whole world was militarized
and the same thing had happened in the other hundred thousand worlds he had visited. There were a thousand or so of those which he had had to reduce to dust, not without previously sacrificing every one of their living creatures so that his sword might be fed.

  Why didn’t you feed the sword with the soul of the God of Light? asked his dragon. There was an emphasis in its voice.

  You question me, serpent?

  It would have served us well. He is frozen. He is dead, yes. But allowing his body to float into the sun was a mistake. The sun cannot absorb his soul! Your sword could have.

  He is dead. Shut your snout and do not question me, snapped the God of Chaos. In truth, he was not entirely sure why he allowed the God of Light to remain frozen so that a star could consume his body when he could have absorbed his soul with his sword. Had it been a mistake? Had it been Argbralius’s fault? There was no easy answer and this was not the time to meddle in those matters.

  Wrath the Godslayer needed nourishment, to feed on souls, and although the souls of mere mortals did not provide it with much power, grain by grain it gained strength. Feeding on the souls of gods was the best source of power. Having wasted that of the God of Light surely would set him back.

  When a world of rebels opposed to the supremacy of Chaos submitted to his control, Mórgomiel pardoned half of them and sacrificed the other.

  Górgometh loved to devour beings whole and feel their skin melting in his chaotic jaws; sometimes he enjoyed spewing a cloud of pyroclastic smoke at his victims to watch them die slowly. Another of his great delights was the destruction of worlds. But his favorite pastime by far was to torture souls with his evil riddles and psychological tricks. Górgometh was excellent at creating mental traps and ensnaring his victims in the madness that ended up destroying them. Sometimes, he enjoyed offering his prey the hope of survival if they solved his riddles. He liked to invent enormously difficult enigmas and once, a sphinx had managed to solve his riddle. On that occasion, the fact of having come across such an intelligent being caused him such jealousy that he ended up devouring it anyway. The creatures he tortured with his tricks longed to die by Mórgomiel’s sword simply to stop being tortured. Górgometh relished this because it told him that his mental tricks were more terrifying than his master’s sword.