He was in his tent, smoking tobacco, resting, and trying to recover his energy. The meal had been a decent one. The scarcity of vermin and game had forced the mage to try worm meat and the fungus of the Dakatak. But with a few days of relaxation, he had recovered, and now, his strength was coming back vigorously. He felt older than ever, but he knew that with so much experience added to his arsenal, he had become something more like wine which tastes better the longer it matures.
“What’s the matter, Ulfbar?” Meromérila asked him as she came into the tent after a long day of checking that the construction of her future palace was going according to plan. “Are you getting suspicious again?” She did not like the idea that the mage had turned into an elitist. In any case, he was the one who ought to go to her, not the other way round. But she would do it for Ulfbar since she knew that the mage had given much for the conquest of Flamonia.
The mage exhaled a large cloud of smoke. “It’s something in the air. Do you feel it? It’s as if all of a sudden, terrible energy had invaded the atmosphere.” There was a small table made from a log of wood in the tent and a cot made of dry hay, as well as several books of magic Ulfbar had brought with him.
Meromérila shrugged. She sat down on the log and said, “It might be Flamonia. The place was bedeviled during the last four centuries. It must have left its mark on the land, don’t you think so?”
Meromérila’s eyes lost their brightness as she noticed the concern in the mage’s face. The poor man was gaunt and she felt as if he would never recover from his efforts. The mage was drinking from a small vial.
“It’s a lot more powerful than the aura of negative energy created by Flamonia. This is more negative. Much more so.”
Ulfbar knew that evil emanations did not fluctuate from day to day unless a being of great power was sending them forth. Ever since they had set foot on this land for the first time, the evil energy had stayed balanced and with the same intensity. But this morning he had woken from sleep with a strange premonition, and he felt that the evil energy had intensified. This could only mean that something or someone with great power must have appeared in the vicinity.
“Danger nearby!” someone shouted; a Mandrakian, judging by his accent.
Somebody else yelled. A large shadow passed over the tent where Ulfbar was resting. His white beard, long and thick like that of any mage, could not hide the terror on his thin lips. Until then, he had looked like a feeble old man, but when he leaped up, he showed signs of his renewed energy.
“Go! Flee from here!” he urged the queen.
“Flee from what?” Meromérila asked, looking horrified.
“From the beast. Only one creature is capable of emitting so much evil energy. It has to be Mórgomiel’s dragon. I should have suspected sooner! And now it’s too late! Run!”
The mage put on his blue pointed hat, grabbed his scorched staff, and went outside as quickly as he could.
Above them, a terrible figure was moving through the air, emitting horrifying croaks. The figure was hissing and letting forth pulses of thick black smoke through its mouth and its long, sinuous body left a wake of shadows behind it. It did not take long to fill the sky with that smoke and it became clear that a dark being was riding that enormous beast, wielding a black sword.
Ulfbar had no time to create a counterspell. The powerful smoke of that huge creature fell on the workers and killed several of them at once, charred by the touch of that hot and poisonous smoke. Those who were not touched by the first wave of pyroclastic heat were coughing and choking. The creature’s second pulse of smoke caused further havoc, but this time the mage was ready.
Ulfbar now shone sky-blue and his eyes were two sparkling sapphires. His hat had been thrown back by the buffeting of the wind that surrounded him since the energy he was beginning to accumulate was excessive. Not caring about the result of the spell he was creating, which might very well consume all his energy, he generated a gigantic bubble above the growing palace of resins to protect its workers. The bubble of energy effectively deflected the powerful gust of smoke from the winged monster.
A guffaw of laughter echoed amid the clouds. When the bubble vanished, Ulfbar was left on his knees, his weariness plain to see. He was about to become exhausted which would certainly result in his death.
From the sky descended the beast with a powerful flap of its wings, capturing many living creatures with its claws. It grabbed humans and insects, exulting as its victims’ skin melted and their blood boiled. Ulfbar noticed that Meromérila was whimpering, trying to save several who were asphyxiating. She could not stop coughing and was covered in soot from head to toe.
The God of Chaos leaped gracefully off his dragon.
“The God of Chaos!” cried Ulfbar, still on his knees and holding his scorched staff which was now smoking. The mage’s skin was peeling and on his skin were large blisters filled with a clear liquid about to burst. He was consumed.
Mórgomiel landed and Ulfbar studied his loathsome, yet elegant figure. He was large, three strides or so tall and two from shoulder to shoulder, with long and strong arms, proportionately large legs, and a dark spiked helmet covering his whole head so that his face was invisible. Ulfbar saw that the soil beneath the boots of the God of Chaos was already charring and turning to soot.
When Mórgomiel stopped in front of the mage, the god’s helmet began to change. Before, it had been covered in threatening spikes, but now the helmet vanished and there appeared a face with lips, eyes, and nose. The face never took on the color of a human’s skin but remained jet black, the color of the God of Chaos, and it seemed to absorb every source of light. It was the face of Argbralius. He smiled and then spoke, his deep voice reverberating as if there were walls all around.
“Those who dare oppose me will end up dead, suffering eternal pain like them,” he said and pointed to the ones who had died in the initial attack.
Mórgomiel stretched out his hand, generating a wave of shadow that shot out, touching each one of the dead. Horrified, Ulfbar saw the dead begin to move. Their eyes, dulled by death a moment before, took on the color of burning coals.
Those mutilated bodies were an abomination, moving their jaws, licking their chops, and showing the hunger which had arisen in their dying state.
“Eat of the fruits of war,” Mórgomiel ordered his servants. At once, the walking dead hurled themselves on the living soldiers and, what with both humans and insects, the piled bodies began to shed rivers of blood. Terror arrived suddenly when those who died of the bites, whoever they might have been, became infected by the magic, and their corpses were possessed by a demon. They awoke to become walking corpses.
“The Goddess of Night has been murdered at my hand and her soul now belongs to me,” Mórgomiel said. He showed Ulfbar his sword. “Inside Wrath, her power is mine, and now I manipulate death as never before. The demons that die will never be absolved by her, and in the Interim, their souls will wander to be reused countless times amid the corpses generated after the destruction of those you love most. In this way, you will pay the price for your insult in having dared to attack me and dared to even attempt to besiege my world and take it away from me. Suffer, mage. Your powers are infinitesimal and there is nothing, literally nothing, you can do to avoid the punishment I will impose on you.”
“You will never be able to torture me anymore! I am about to die, and yes, my body may be possessed by one of your demons, but my soul will be free of the terror you will cause!”
“You are arrogant and think I cannot torture your soul. If you believe it is as easy as that, that you will die just like that, you are wrong. Do you know what becomes of the souls I absorb with Wrath?”
Ulfbar paled. His eyes sank so deep into his skull that his head seemed to become smaller.
Mórgomiel showed the mage the sword. “Behold it. Is it not beautiful?”
And truly, it was. The blade was long and straight, and its edge was so finely-honed that it seemed to cut the wind.
But greater than the keenness of that edge or its beauty was the energy it emanated. It was one of torture, malice, and horror. Ulfbar could feel hundreds of thousands of souls trapped in that sword, and he felt pity for all those beings squeezed in there, trapped for all eternity.
“That is the look I like to see,” Mórgomiel said. “It is the look of eternal sorrow when someone understands his doom before he is absorbed by Wrath the Godslayer. So you see, mage, inside Wrath souls suffer all the time, and the worst torture is to feel that their vitality is being used without their consent for malice. Your soul will become one of the many that lie trapped inside my weapon.”
“No! I beg you, no!” Ulfbar howled. The old man tried to cast a spell powerful enough to end his own life but he was so exhausted that all he could do was watch with terrified eyes.
Mórgomiel raised the sword and plunged it into the mage between the jugular notch and torso, burying itself in his chest as far as his guts. A shadow began to dance around the old man’s body and in seconds, he was reduced to ashes. Mórgomiel raised his sword to the sky, celebrating his victory. Around him, the walking dead multiplied moment by moment since more death was being delivered and no-one was able to stop it.
Meromérila was weeping disconsolately. She was trapped in a ring of a hundred soldiers who were trying to defend her. It was only a matter of time before all the living creatures were turned into walking soldiers and their corpses possessed by demons.
Mórgomiel noticed her and went toward her. His strides were long and confident, and every time an insect or a human blocked his way he killed it with a slash of his sword and cut it in half. He was unbeatable.
The expression on his face changed all of a sudden. Górgometh shrieked in alarm and the next moment, the dragon was writhing in pain. He looked up into the sky. What he saw high above him left him paralyzed with terror. Could it be possible? His former enemy, who, together with Alac Arc Ángelo, had helped defeat him? Unease turned to a wave of hatred and with a quick thought, he ordered his winged beast to come down for him. Argbralius’ face disappeared, and his head was once again covered by the spiked helmet.
Górgometh came down from the sky, and his rider leaped onto his seat to lead him into battle.
With Mórgomiel distracted for the moment, the living beings managed to organize themselves into several squads. The captains and their subordinates advanced in an unbeatable wall of swords and shields. Soon, all the dying had been decapitated and buried. The carnage left the flat fields of what had been Flamonia a graveyard the size of a nation.
“It’s impossible! I saw you die!” yelled Mórgomiel. “I took charge of your death myself!”
“You might have killed me, beast, but you didn’t defeat me completely,” came the powerful voice of the Metallic Knight. “As with you, my essence remained latent within my armor for thousands of years waiting for the moment to arise again, when the dark forces emerged anew from their accursed pit and tried their cowardly tricks once more. The Times of Chaos have flourished thanks to your resurrection. That is the reason why we have returned, as the iron union of god and dragon, to stop your advances. You may have stopped the Summoning but you have not ended all the alliances. We will not allow you to take the universe hostage. We did not allow it in the past and we shall stop you once more.”
For Górgometh, there was no nemesis more detestable than Nordost. He had destroyed Róganok thanks to the stupidity of his rider, the immature God of Light. But this god, the Metallic Knight, came charged with wisdom and commanded enough strength to oppose him.
Nordost said, “You are weak, you baleful creature. Your master has surrendered three of his pieces, and without them, you are both weak. You will be easy prey.”
“Take care, lizard,” Górgometh said. “Róganok said the same thing before he died. He decorated his tomb with those very words.”
The Metallic Knight unsheathed the Sword of Stern. Its metallic sound reverberated and the God of Chaos and his evil beast shuddered. Mórgomiel ushered Wrath the Godslayer, a sword capable of bringing any being to its knees, even a god, demigod, or dragon.
Don’t underestimate Górgometh, Nordost communicated to his rider with a thought. And don’t gaze too long into his eyes or he will bewitch you! He’s a rival who will use any trick there is to have his way.
The battle between the colossi began with a detonation that shook the foundations of the planet and caused an earthquake. Dust rose into the air. The land cracked open in several places and the clouds vanished in the intense heat.
Both beasts gave a warcry and, with a single powerful wing beat, they hurled themselves at one another.
The metallic dragon’s claws buried themselves in Górgometh’s side and he howled in pain. The body of the Dragon of Chaos turned into smoke and with his claws, he tried to penetrate the scales of the metal dragon. But he failed, as his claws slipped on his opponent’s metallic body. Nordost bit Górgometh’s face, tearing away part of his snout. Blood in the form of smoke streamed from the wound. The Dragon of Chaos tried to bite in his turn, but with half his face missing, he was unable to.
At the same time, both riders leaped from their seats, carried along on the trajectory their mounts were following. As in ancient times, the clash of gods broke out above the clash of the dragons.
The Sword of Stern struck forcibly, deflecting the black blade of Wrath the Godslayer to one side. Mórgomiel was surprised that his former enemy had reawakened without having lost any speed, having even gained something in his gaze which now seemed deeper. What was it? He accelerated and now his attacks were a mist of curving movements: sword blows and thrusts, each answered to perfection by the Metallic Knight. With his shield, the Knight managed to unbalance Mórgomiel, and, placing the sword on his right shoulder, he slashed, producing a cut that began to smoke.
Mórgomiel howled in pain and from nowhere, he produced his shield to defend himself against that powerful weapon. He had forgotten how deeply the edge of the Sword of Stern could cut.
Underneath the gods, the dragons spat out magic words and launched spells and counterspells, battering one another with claws and tails, and doing everything they could to weaken their opponent. Nordost was winning this fight, thanks in particular to the strength of his metal scales and to the fact that the Dragon of Chaos had lost half his face and could not bite.
Górgometh, in his despair, launched a spell of sadness at Nordost, seeking to discourage him if only for an instant so he could find his weak spot. Nordost’s counterspell made Górgometh lose his strength of will, enough to let Nordost plunge both claws into the other’s chest, seeking his heart.
Górgometh writhed in terror. The pain was one thing, but the fear of having his heart torn out was even greater since he would be useless in death. Nordost was sinking his claws ever deeper into his chest; those claws were sharp and there was nothing Górgometh could do as he was unable to break free. Before he fainted, the Dragon of Chaos saw his only chance of getting out of this fight alive. In the other dragon’s chest, near its neck, was a tiny space where a scale was missing. How could it not have occurred to him to use this weak spot in his favor?
Górgometh twisted with all his might, and, with one of his claws, penetrated the tiny hole. Nordost started in surprise, then writhed in pain. His claws sprang back out of Górgometh’s chest. While the claws of the Dragon of Chaos were buried in Nordost, he launched not one but ten different spells: one of sadness, two of depression, and the rest a medley of nightmares to unsettle his opponent’s mind. Nordost fell from the sky with Górgometh close to him, clinging to this one space he had found and which he was taking advantage of with all his enthusiasm.
Mórgomiel was being stabbed again and again with the Sword of Stern. He had not thought it possible, but he might have been defeated if it had not been for the cunning of his dragon of shadows, who had managed to weaken his metallic opponent. The Metallic Knight leaped to help his beast, but Mórgomiel was not prepared to allow him
to save his dragon. If Nordost died, then the Metallic Knight would lose the supportive strength granted him by the magical beast and he could easily be beaten.
The Metallic Knight plunged at an alarming speed so that Mórgomiel had no chance to take action. With the sword clutched in both hands, the blade fell on Górgometh and buried itself in the point where the dragon’s head joined its backbone with a paralyzing effect. Górgometh stopped fighting, stopped moving, his eyes staring wide as smoke poured from his mouth like blood.
The Metallic Knight took the sword out of the wound, then turned and brought it down on Górgometh’s jaws, cutting off the rest of his snout. He leaped on to his dragon’s body and cut the finger that was buried in Nordost’s flesh, taking out the claw. He felt a colossal relief when he saw Nordost breathing once again, moving once again. But it was obvious that he was gravely wounded.
“They’ve escaped,” Nordost said, once again managing to speak.
A tear ran down the Knight’s cheek. “I couldn’t let you die, brother. Górgometh was cunning and he found your weak spot.”
“We’ve hurt them both,” Nordost said. “At least our attack will delay his advance enough for the one chosen to rescue Alac. I’m weak. I need to rest…”
“Górgometh has been paralyzed.”
“Not for long. He’ll recover, just as I, too, will regain my energies.”
Meromérila’s mouth was still hanging open. The fight between magnificent beasts was nothing new for her, as she had seen Alac Arc Ángelo do battle riding Róganok against Mórgomiel and his beast of smoke in her world. All the others were stunned. It took the survivors a few minutes longer to realize what had happened and that Ulfbar Üdessa, a mage of enormous skill, had been reduced to a mound of ashes.
“I don’t need anybody’s help,” Nordost said exasperatedly. “I can recover from this, but I’ll need plenty of food and water.”
Necromancer’s Sorrow: (Series Finale) Page 35
