“We measure time with the Sands,” he said. Luchy remembered the phenomenon of the Sands and the explanation Karsa had given her. It was a concept both fascinating and utterly unsettling, the fact that other species on other planets and in other lands measured time in such different ways.
“Time has been measured by the passing of the Sands for the whole of Allündel’s existence. But the age of the elves can’t be measured by the Sands because it’s a system that measures time from moment to moment, so we use the ancient method to measure our age. We use centuries, which are a little over a hundred thousand thousand Sands. I’m just over a century old, so I’m considered an adolescent in Allündel. The Bell of Töll sounds every time a hundred thousand thousand Sands have passed, to let us know a century has passed.”
That explains it all, thought Luchy. He might be an elf from a wise race and all that, but this guy was immature compared to a human eighty years younger. Perhaps it was because humans were exposed from childhood to a world that was rough, tough, and violent. Perhaps humans would become equally soft and emotional in Allündel. Perhaps the same thing would happen to anybody on Allündel, isolated from the rest of the universe.
The scene was phantasmagoric. The forest was made up of trunks reduced to burnt stumps, still standing. How on earth was she going to find any animals in a place like this?
After half an hour of walking through the landscape, she noticed that it was not completely desolate. There were several bushes full of life and thick flowering creepers where surely there must be some lair or other where they could find some creature to serve as food. She picked berries and small fruits and put one in her mouth, finding that it tasted very like almonds. She passed a berry to the elf, who chewed it suspiciously, swallowed it, and then asked for another.
With a swift movement, Luchy stabbed an iguana that was sunning itself in what little sun there was.
“You’re pretty fast with that sword,” the elf commented ironically. “I’d better be careful with you.”
“I think it’s the bracelets Lohrén gave me.”
“Courted by an old man like him,” Flóregund teased. “You know, I’d never seen our general submit himself the way he did with you. You certainly made an impression.” You made the same impression on me too, he thought, unable to admit that he was attracted to her.
“Well, I have a fiancée already. I love one person and one only. So as for you, don’t you even try.” Luchy jabbed a finger at his face.
Flóregund blushed. “But I—I never—!” he mumbled.
“Oh, come on,” Luchy said, with the dead iguana in one hand and the sword in the other. “I’m not stupid. I recognize that look of yours. And more than once I’ve caught you staring at my breasts. When I bend over, you can’t help but stare at my bottom.”
Flóregund turned redder than a tomato. “It’s not true! Well… maybe. I’m sorry! I only stared a little! It’s just that you’re very attractive!”
Luchy doubled up with laughter and said, “You’re funny, Flóregund. You really are like a child. Let’s go back. Mojak needs us. And I mean it, don’t try your luck with me. I’m telling you once and for all, you’ll be disappointed.”
The girl smiled to herself knowing that she was finally standing up for herself. Manchego would be proud of her, she knew.
***
The meal was a limited one, as the iguana was no bigger than Luchy’s arm but it was something. They divided the food and Mojak gulped down most of it without wasting anything. The fire of old wood gave it a strange taste, but the roast meat was worth it.
Mojak slept day and night and by the next morning, when Luchy and Flóregund woke up, they saw that the Wild Man had not only hunted a giant boar but had also skinned it, cut it, and cooked it for breakfast. He also got enough water for the three water-skins and the canteen he carried at his belt. Much of the meat was drying in the open air, coated in some mineral Luchy was unfamiliar with. It must have been the same mountain salt he had used before to cure the lion meat.
Eat, drink, and get ready for more adventures, said Alaris, communicating Mojak’s thoughts. A few leagues ahead are the ruins of Flamonia, which we have to pass to reach the remains of Tutonticám.
Flóregund smiled, hearing Mojak’s words in his mind. At last he felt he was gaining the giant’s trust, although he had not done anything or brought anything to earn it.
He stood up and arranged his hair. “I’m sorry I haven’t been much use so far. I’m sorry I froze when we appeared in Kanumorsus and never helped you in the fight. It won’t happen again, I promise. I wasn’t ready for horrors like this. Luchy, forgive me. Mojak, I beg your pardon.”
Mojak walked over to the elf and put one of his huge hands on his shoulder. Leave aside those pretensions of yours and that know-it-all act, Flóregund. You are a young elf and you know nothing of the violence or terror that is coming. You have no idea what it was to be a prisoner in Árath most of my life, a slave to the demons. I will offer you the choice once and once only: either you join or you give up. If you give up, I will ask Alaris to go back with you to Allündel. But if you come with us, I do not want to see you competing with me for Luchy’s attention or panicking because you see a corpse. Things will get much worse from now on. Decide.
Luchy had heard all this, as Alaris had communicated it to her as well. She thought it was fair that the elf should be put in his place once and for all.
“I’ll join you. I think I’m ready,” the elf said. “I promise I won’t freeze again. It won’t happen again! By Nimyaya! If only Lumibel and Alambam can hear me!”
Without another word, Mojak set off for Tutonticám followed by Luchy and Flóregund with Alaris floating among them with every step.
Chapter XXVIII — The Power of Metal
“Come on, then,” Mérdmerén said. “Once more.” The king was wearing his heavy iron armor, its edges decorated with gold and a badge in the middle with the symbol of the classic mandrake. The mysterious, legendary flower that, in earlier times, had been used to make healing potions revealed its four petals spread out like the rays of a sun with the central nucleus enclosing a star within.
Leandro was facing him, exhausted. They were both managing their swords fairly well. But it was obvious to Mérdmerén that Leandro had lost some of his vigors given his complete dedication to his wife and children. The excess pounds were obvious in the general, as was shown by how tightly his practice armor fit him.
Leandro launched into a surprise attack, trying to catch the king unawares. The thrust was met by a heavy shield and using its inertia, Mérdmerén countered, striking a forceful blow on the general’s helmet which unhinged the grid and exposed his face.
“Hell!” Leandro shouted. “I yield! I yield! Where on earth do you get so much energy from, King?”
The king’s soldiers cheered, although Mérdmerén knew that most of them did so because he was the king and not because they were on his side. If he had lost they would have cheered just the same, with the same energy.
“Back to the palace,” Lion’s Fist said. “There’s too much there waiting to be done.” He handed his shield to one of his squires and the sword to a soldier. He took off his breastplate and grieves, leaving him in his classic attire of black tanned leather, with the Dagger of Stern crossing his chest.
“With pleasure, my lord,” Leandro said and led the other soldiers and the king’s guard back to the palace.
Mérdmerén draped his purple cloak over his shoulders. According to Macadamio the king ought to wear the appropriate costume consisting of a long-sleeved tulle shirt, silk pants, and pointed boots. But Lion’s Fist loved the leather outfit he wore every day. His servants had to clean it every day so that it did not begin to smell. The only thing he changed was his underwear. Twice, Macadamio had offered to have at least two suits of tanned leather made for him by the palace stylists, but Mérdmerén had refused, protesting that he would only wear his usual attire and that it could be washed dail
y. So it must be. If he disobeyed, he would string him up by the ears. The matter was never mentioned again.
A messenger arrived at the Sovereign’s room.
“My King,” he said.
Greyson intercepted him, stopping him with his massive hand before he could approach the king. There was something odd about his appearance.
Greyson had been a thief of the Dungeon all his life. His sharp senses knew instinctively who was to be trusted and who might pose a danger. Something about the messenger who had just come to the king’s room did not fit; he was not accompanied by any guard, which was odd in itself. Any messenger had to be watched all the time and, what was more, this one gave him a feeling of unease. It was his gaze. The man had dilated pupils and his nose seemed to be sweating as though he had just made some great effort. What kind of messenger needed to make so much effort that he sweated? Could he have run all the way?
Mérdmerén studied the messenger with the same distrust. “Let him speak.”
“Your daughter Ajedrea has come to visit you, my King.” The way he said My King did not fit. Greyson noticed that Mérdmerén too had detected the oddness.
“My daughter, my dear messenger, is in the North between Merromer and Háztatlon and every time she comes, she makes sure I know beforehand so that I may have at least a couple of days to prepare for her arrival. What’s your name? I’ve never seen you in these halls. Indeed, I don’t know all the staff around me, still less all the servants in charge of cleaning out and scrubbing floors. Who are you?”
The messenger took a step back. His face was suddenly covered with pearls of perspiration and yet his eyes showed no fear. Instead, they showed a carefully-concealed fury.
“My name is Andrés. No, my name is Paolo. No, my name might be Rodrigo or Alejandro or even Greyson. How about, my name is Mérdmerén? Or better still, I can pass for Lombardo. I’m one. I’m all. We’re several. I’m no-one.”
The smile on the messenger’s face froze the king’s blood. Suddenly, the messenger was holding a dagger in each hand intending to throw them at Mérdmerén to kill him, but he was swiftly brought down by Cail the Intrepid, who, all this time, had been hiding around a corner. Greyson stepped in a moment later.
The messenger, now trapped, began to laugh. “Let me go!” he cried, his eyes roving from side to side. “Let me go! Aaha ha! Ha ha ha! You’re finished, Mérdmerén! The palace has been infiltrated by my master Mórgomiel’s servants and we’re not going to stop until you and all your little friends from the other nations are dead.”
There was a scream outside Mérdmerén’s room. “He’s dead!” someone else howled.
Mérdmerén’s face hardened. Something was going on. For a few seconds, he wondered whether the messenger was crazy, or if perhaps he had drunk too much Burgmansia. But when he heard those cries, all of a sudden the suggestion that the palace had been infiltrated came home to him. He ought to have been prepared, he ought to have been more proactive in filtering the people who had been taken on for cleaning, kitchen work, and other jobs, as that was where someone must have slipped in.
“Take him to the dungeons for interrogation,” he yelled. “I want to know what the hell this piece of shit is talking about!”
“Mórgomiel sends his greetings,” the messenger said when he was allowed to his feet. He began to chew something energetically. Suddenly all his muscles went stiff and he began to shake violently.
Greyson felt his neck for a pulse. A white foam dribbled from the assassin’s mouth. “He’s dead,” he said. “Nobody touches that foam, it might be poisonous. Bring the healers. Get them to take him away and make a detailed examination of the body.”
“Yes, sir,” said another guard and went to fetch the healers.
More guards came into Mérdmerén’s room, several of them with pale faces pearled with perspiration and panting like horses after a gallop. Luckily, he knew who they were; the Boss’s men. He trusted them with his life.
“The general has been attacked, my King,” said one of them with deep feeling. “I regret to inform you that it’s fairly serious.”
“Leandro!”
Mérdmerén wanted to run to him, but Greyson and the others stopped him. It took four of them to hold the sovereign back with all their might.
“It’s not safe, my King! Protect the king! Sound the alarm! Light the beacons!”
Mérdmerén felt tears of frustration flooding his eyes. His general, the soldier he had been sparring with for practice in swordsmanship to prepare for the arrival of the war, was wounded and in pain.
“Leandro’s being taken to the infirmary,” Greyson said. Mérdmerén saw Karolina go by with her hands to her mouth. She was weeping openly, following her husband’s limp body, which was being tended by the highest-ranking healers in the palace.
Mérdmerén collapsed back on to his legs, feeling utterly useless. His guards stopped struggling with him but stayed alert to whatever might be going on.
He recovered, managing to stand up and analyze the situation. With a sense of shock, he concluded that if anyone were to attack the Mandrake Empire by surprise, it would be a short and easy battle for the enemy, since they were at a disadvantage with their most powerful soldiers, like Elgahar and Ulfbar, a long way away. It had never occurred to him that the enemy might attack them like this. Perhaps he ought to have planned his strategy twice because now the palace was easy prey.
This had been one of the Baron’s fears; the enemy would get ahead of them and take advantage of their vulnerability.
“I need to see the Baron,” he said to his guard.
A shadow landed on the palace. The roof of the gigantic structure, together with its towers and its columns, were suddenly engulfed by a terrifying presence.
They were all left petrified, unable to breathe. The air turned cold and even the particles in the air appeared to be static. A loathsome shadow and a depressing presence were filtering through the cracks in the walls, invading the space. The atmosphere was now toxic. Fear began to take hold, unease invaded hopeful hearts, and feelings of safety shattered into fragments of despair.
Mérdmerén felt the hair on the nape of his neck standing on end. His eyes stared wide as he recognized the force which surrounded him. It was the Black Arts. He had learned to recognize them when he had fled for leagues on end from the assassins of the Brotherhood of the Crows. Suddenly, his memories of Hexilda returned—she had made the talisman out of the wyvern claw to protect him from the Black Arts. Luckily, he put on the pendant every day alongside the Dagger of Stern, the two objects he never went without.
Nobody moved a finger. The shadow disappeared suddenly. The sunlight shone again, although less brightly as if the shadow had permanently contaminated the sky over the Imperial Palace. One, two, four shadows passed rapidly over them. It was as if large birds had blocked the light.
There were screams outside the Imperial Palace. A cloud of smoke billowed from several points across the city.
Chaos had broken out among the people. The king’s guard stayed where they were around the sovereign.
A panicking soldier rushed in. “What the hell’s happened?” he cried. His eyes were as wide as saucers, searching around as if he sensed the presence of a demon.
“Calm down, for the love of the Gods!” Greyson shouted. “If you panic you won’t be able to defend the king!”
“A curse has landed on the palace!” cried another soldier. “We’ve got to get out of here right now!”
“My armor!” the king shouted. “You’ve got to bring me my armor!” The clamor outside the palace told him that a battle was unfolding.
“My King, we—” Greyson never finished the sentence, as through the open window, he became aware of a figure flying across the sky with a breath of fire and black smoke surging from its mouth like pure chaos. The body of that infernal creature was sinuous and shadows emanated from its body. On its back was a rider wielding a black sword that seemed to absorb the sun’s energy.
>
Mérdmerén followed Greyson’s gaze and his heart sank when he saw the terror that was attacking them.
A shadow entered the palace like lightning and moved among the humans like a lizard. The presence was a shadow in the form of a man’s silhouette but unlike a human, it seemed to be distorting space and time, changing the balance between the dimension of the tangible and the dimension of ghosts. The shriek the shadow gave deafened all who were there and the next moment, it lunged at its first victim. The first soldier to be touched by that shadow began to scream with pain and writhe as though someone had stabbed him in the guts with a red-hot iron. The poor soldier of the king’s guard began to melt, his body shedding its skin before his very eyes. The shadow appeared to grow as it fed on the living being.
A brave soldier tried to defend his colleague. When the iron sword touched the shadow, it was as though it had struck stone. To the horror of the soldier who had tried to defend his friend, the shadow touched his face. Immediately, he began to suffer the same torture as his unfortunate partner, who by now had been reduced to a heap of dust.
“Defend the king!”
“Protect the king!”
The king looked like a porcupine, surrounded by so many soldiers pointing their weapons in all directions. The shadow gave another screech, and for fragments of seconds, the soldiers were horrified to see the silhouette giving a sinister smile. With another shriek, it went on to torture two more men.
“We’re lost,” Mérdmerén said as if speaking to the air, his gaze focused on nothing. “They’ve caught us out and found us. They know about our plans and they’re coming to annihilate us before we can set up a defense against the bastards.”
Then, between the shrieks of the demon that was destroying his guard two by two, he said, “It was worth trying, my friends. But even if there were thousands of us, we could never win against creatures like these.” Seeing his men reduced to ashes, the men who had defended him so valiantly, caused deep pain in his soul.
Necromancer’s Sorrow: (Series Finale) Page 22
