“Indeed, Naevas Aedán. Nordost is the guardian of Tempus Frontus, and Exzalsor has been the guardian of Tempus Novus for many millennia.”
There was fear in Astherion’s eyes. “What in the name of sanity is this place? Is this where you pray to the God of Chaos?” He had never felt so alienated, so far from home. Mojak went to the centaur and laid a hand on his shoulder. They were the same height, although, of course, the centaur’s massive body was longer. Flóregund was waiting expectantly. He did not even know what to expect. But if Luchy was convinced they had arrived, then they must have done just that.
Riziel rose to his hind legs, stretching himself to his maximum height. He towered over Mojak and Astherion by a couple of heads. The centaur’s eyes were wide open, fearing the worst. To his surprise, the bear’s gaze seemed to have changed and was now looking blank as though someone had robbed him of his soul. He stood there, still as a statue.
Flóregund turned to the centaur and Mojak. “What’s the matter with the bear now?” he asked. Seeing both of them staring intensely at the Gurtha, he turned to the bear, caught his breath, and clapped his hands to his mouth.
In Riziel’s chest, a light began to emerge and soon split down the middle. The split worked its way deeper into the skin, becoming a trench that opened up his thorax in two, creating a deep wound and two flaps of skin as if a double door had opened outwards.
The bear’s ribcage opened and the ribs themselves separated. Where there should have been a heart and lungs, there was a face instead. The face of a centaur! Astherion nearly fainted. He had never seen anything like this. This was blasphemy or something like it! Pure heresy!
“Thousands of years ago, the mages were exiled and hunted mercilessly,” the face said. It was pale with its flesh eaten away as though it were dead and animated by occult powers. “I, Exzalsor, was a direct pupil of Merrem during his days of glory. Before he died, Merrem gave me an important task: re-establishing communication with Tempus Frontus and with Nordost himself. The Terigión has always been the only world capable of communicating with that higher dimension, where only gods and dragons are permitted. But the Gods are intelligent and the Beings of the Celestial Divinity even more so. It is always important to keep a secondary entrance in case something goes wrong and someone who is neither a god nor a dragon needs to enter Tempus Frontus. Such is the case now.” The grey corpse’s eyes were looking fixedly at Luchy.
“Thousands of years ago, I sacrificed everything to be able to open the portal. The magic was so powerful that it consumed my body and I died. During the painful process of my death, I made a deal with one of my pupils, Riziel. If he accepted that my body might enter his—that we might become a chimera—I would pass on all my knowledge to him in exchange for my being permitted to live through this day. Today you appear at last. Let the chosen one come forth.”
Luchy was staring in amazement. Despite her fear, she went closer to the chimera. She was tapping the pommel of the sword Limleiyón had given her, although deep down she knew she was not going to use it.
“You are brave, little one. It is your heart that guides you and love itself that has given you so much strength. With your word, the portal will open. This will come to pass even in the knowledge that after your request, the portal to Tempus Frontus shall open, I will die, and Riziel will take my place as the keeper of the higher dimension. Such is the price that must be paid for the opening of this vortex.”
Luchy was not happy with this exchange. But life had taught her that everything has a price. The limited life that remained to the mage in exchange for the opening of the portal would allow her to save the universe by rescuing Manchego. It sounded cruel, but it had to happen. There was no other way. The page could not be turned back.
“Open the portal,” she said. “I’m ready. We’re ready.”
“So be it,” Exzalsor said.
Part IV
Chapter LIII — The Portal Of The Worlds
Leandro climbed the platform on which the Portal of the Worlds stood. It was wooden, a square frame with a flat surface on which the portal was set and a ramp that came down to the ground so that those crossing the threshold would have easy access to the other side. The structure was some two strides high.
The general’s steely gaze surveyed his audience, a sea of soldiers that spread all around the Portal of the Worlds. Haziiz Farçia, leader of the Divine Providence, was there and behind him, a hundred thousand soldiers, his entire legion, in golden costumes and turbans with scimitars for swords and long shields that covered them from feet to neck.
There were the Catalgar as well, one of the species that had arrived less than two days before led by the Centurion Valímidos. He was in command of fifty thousand giant he-goats wielding long halberds. The soldiers from the planet Farwas were covered in iron from head to hoof and had elegant cloaks over their hindquarters. The enormous size of the he-goats intimidated most people there, particularly because they spoke the common language of Mandrake. Also because of their eyes with their horizontal pupils, so different from those of humans. The domesticated horses of the knights of the Mandrake Empire were not comfortable with the sight of the giant he-goats, who, although similar in tail and chest to horses, were very different, particularly because of their human torsos, arms, hands, and goat’s muzzles with large curling horns on their heads.
The legion of ten thousand elves was ready, their elemín armor flashing in the evening sun, a diluted shade of peach which would soon fade into twilight. Lohrén, their general, wore a helmet that covered his head, his temples, and part of his neck, but left his face with its perfect features exposed. His eyes were hard and he was ready to give everything, even his own life.
The Council of Mages was missing two of its members: Ulfbar the leader, rumored to have died trying to conquer the Old World, and Sendar, who had gotten lost in the North while fleeing like a coward from the battle that was looming. Those remaining—Blalock, Mirkhon, Hemock, Demeclin, Raigan, Troikar, Landos, and Mathos—were assembled near Leandro. It had been established that they would be his right hand and support during the attack. The mages had argued that it was a bad idea to be all there together in the same place at the same time in case of attack, as they would be easy prey. But Leandro had insisted that he wanted them all near him.
Mathos Üdessa had taken the lead as the next in rank and experience in the Council. The mages had not been ready for either Strangelus’ death or the loss of Ulfbar, nor had they been at all pleased by Elgahar’s recent rebellion. The Council of Mages did nothing much except talk and eat, and they had not practiced a single spell in decades. In the Battle of Háztatlon, for example, the most they had done was hide to avoid being mowed down.
The ruins of Kathanas were visible from the Portal of the Worlds. Two of its four rock towers had been fractured during the assault by Legionaer and his army. The highest and largest rock tower, though, was still standing, and its soldiers had come down proudly, contributing twenty thousand battle-ready soldiers dressed in iron and leather armor in the Kathanian style.
There were not many Mílikin and a hundred or so Dakatak, only those who had been chosen to guard the Portal when the decision had been made to protect the area. The rest of the Mílikin, it was rumored, had fallen during their attempt to conquer the Old World, and many of the insects that had migrated north to help them establish a new Gardak had also died. Queen Meromérila was nowhere to be found, and so far, nobody had been able to tell Leandro where she might be.
Added to the hundred thousand soldiers were the monoliths of the world Crallys, a culture named Cristalur. These were large crystals with multiple filaments issuing from their bodies to represent arms and legs. At the center of each monolith shone a red light. They were ready to give their all.
Around all these armies, a vast sea of four hundred thousand Mandrakians surrounded the Portal of the Worlds, spread out over the plains of the Fields of Flora and along the Path of the Fallen, the nearby cliff to the
west. The dukes of each of the great cities except for Démanon, a religious enclave, had responded to the summons. Every army from each city was led by its own duke. The Imperial Army was under the command of General Leandro Deathslayer. From Érliadon had come Philip Góndola and his extensive army, wearing well-designed metal armor, as could be expected of him as his city was regarded as the most stylish in the Empire. From Vásufeld had come the gigantic leader of the city, Tenos Domaryath, with his army of experienced soldiers. Behind Leor Buvarzo was his army from Bónufor, spread out like a metal cloak. From Merromer, Duke Togo Hull had sent nobody because the maritime city had no army as such. From Aldebarán had come Joaquin Murayas with his entire army. And finally came Rigobert Arendis, Duke of Narkalagh, with the thousands of soldiers from his city.
Many volunteers had come from several towns and villages, wishing to serve under the command of the legendary Leandro Deathslayer. Anybody would gladly give his life to fight alongside him, and there was no leader more widely respected.
Where was Sokomonoko when she was needed? She had been present at the Assembly and had not refused her support. Leandro was not pleased with the absence of the Queen of Gardak and the Empress of Grizna. He understood why Othus the Benevolent of Moragald’Burg and Düll Donn of Doolm-Ondor had left, as he had deliberately severed ties with them.
Leandro shrugged. Sooner or later he would kill Meromérila and Sokomonoko. He knew Mórgomiel would be pleased with him if he could only see the field before his eye, filled with the soldiers whose intention was to make him fight the God of Chaos. How easy it had been to convince them to march in haste to the Portal of the Worlds! The trap was set.
“Soon, those who seek to destroy us will arrive. As they cross the Portal, we’ll cut them to pieces and show them that we won’t be manipulated by evil. We’ll fight with everything we have! And yes, we may all fall during this battle! But we’ll fight with honor and passion! If death is to be our fate, we’ll die with no trace of cowardice!”
His voice was carried by the echo generated by the plain, although he was sure that most of them would not listen to his words. If the leaders, mages, generals, and dukes of every city listened, it would be enough to make them command their forces with absolute commitment.
Leandro was wearing his full armor. His helmet bore a horsetail plume painted red that moved in the undulations of the wind. For the moment, its visor was drawn back. He wore his lightest armor in shades of purple and platinum. The badge of the Empire had been engraved on the metal of his breastplate by the finest craftsmen of Érliadon, showing a mandrake flower with its four petals and two swords forming an X behind it. All the borders of his armor were decorated in platinum so that he shone, elegant and daring, in the failing daylight. At his belt, he wore two swords, the long one on his left and the short one on his right. On this occasion, he was not carrying a shield.
At any moment now, milord, the general suggested in thought, communicating with the lord of the shadows through the Black Arts. I think you should attack now. The mages must have been aware of the spell, but by now, he did not care whether he was found out or not. When he looked at them, he saw that the old men were toying with their beards and chatting about trivialities. How pathetic!
The moment has come, he heard in Mórgomiel’s voice.
Leandro smiled to himself. “Into battle!” he shouted.
He turned to the Portal and drew his long sword. It shone twice. The first was a powerful flash, the second a bolt of brilliant light. The sound of a hundred footsteps filled the air, and before anybody realized what was happening, the first soldier fell, impaled by a spear. The second one was cut in half by two short swords.
“Attack with everything you’ve got!” Leandro cried. “Draw your weapons!”
Chaos arrived unexpectedly and it was ruthless.
Haziiz Farçia, Valímidos, Lohrén, the dukes of every city with their armies, every house and its private militia, the Duke of Omen, Gendor, Mathos Üdessa, and the monoliths were horrified to see an endless river of soldiers in black armor emerging from the Portal. The mass of the enemy fell upon them like a deluge. Not even two seconds had passed and the Portal of the Worlds became a bloodbath.
“Attack! Attack!” shouted the leaders of each army. Lohrén could not believe his eyes. This was madness, suicide. Those soldiers had come so fast that they had caught them totally unawares, and now they were killing them with the utmost ease. It was a massacre.
The human lines broke ranks. Riders were brought down, horses and all. The crystals advanced like a storm, their filaments destroying the enemy, but they were not enough to stop the stream of soldiers emerging from the Portal.
He sent the Amaranth first! Leandro shouted in celebration, proudly watching as the defending armies were swiftly butchered by the first wave of the attack.
The few soldiers who noticed Leandro smiling and celebrating as the defense of the Meridian died were cut down so fast that nobody had the chance to sound the alarm. What in the name of sanity was the general doing? Why was he laughing like a madman? Had he lost his wits? And why were they not attacking him when he was so close to the Portal?
Haziiz Farçia had two seconds to study their opponents. They were beings with long square heads with three vertical eyes. The eyes were dark and seemed to be without eyelids. Their arms and legs were long, although they were no taller than a human. Their skin was black, as were their armor and their intentions, and in each hand, they wielded short swords. They were moving fast enough to kill or die in the attempt. These beings, Haziiz noticed, did not seem to mind dying. They ran insanely toward their opponents and hurled themselves on them regardless of the result. There seemed to be no leader among them nor did they need one since the flood of these beings soon created a black lagoon that advanced like an avalanche in a forest, flowing through the lines without breaking up.
It was madness, total disorder. All his soldiers were frantic as death was arriving too swiftly and chaos ruled everywhere. The leader of the Divine Providence defended himself as best he could. His garrison fell quickly, cut to pieces by a maddened enemy. Before Haziiz could shout, a hundred black-armored soldiers hurled themselves on him and tore him to pieces.
The elven archers and lancers did an excellent job of keeping the enemy at a safe distance. Lohrén was getting an idea of the enemy numbers. The soldiers of evil kept coming out of the Portal, apparently endlessly. The space around the Portal was already occupied by a sea of those evil soldiers and they were rapidly pushing the defenders back. Lohrén drew his sword and prepared to meet the first enemy who ran madly toward him. He brought him down easily.
“For Alambam and Lumibel!” he shouted. “For Nimyaya! Elves! Swords in hand! Archers, lancers, keep up the attack! Defend yourselves!” The sea of Amaranth crashed against the front line of the elves. Their long square shields held back the sea of soldiers and for a long moment, they struggled, neither side yielding even the smallest strip of land.
“Formation!” Lohrén shouted.
“Alambam!” the front line of defenders shouted back with their shields planted in the ground.
“Forward!” The first line of defense, supported by the rest of the elven army behind it, stepped forward, pushing back the attackers. Then the line retreated, creating a space of one stride between them.
“Spears!”
From behind the wall of shields came a storm of spears. Hundreds of Amaranth fell.
“Attack!”
The first line of elves advanced two strides, clashing once again with the demons who were trying to move forward over their fallen. When they crashed against the enemy, the elves once again planted their shields in the ground and struggled briefly against the enemy.
“Forward!”
Again the first line pushed, then retreated one step, creating space between themselves and the demons.
“Lances!”
And once again, a hundred demons fell, leaving more and more bodies lying in front of
the evil army that was trying to advance. The wall of corpses grew, and the demons’ speed and coordination began to slow. This created an opportunity for the elves to bring them down easily from a distance. The archers and lancers took charge of killing those who managed to climb the wall of the dead or dying, and every new body increased the number of corpses in that wall. On this particular battlefront, the demons were being contained for the time being. But Lohrén knew that if the avalanche of demons managed to destroy the rest of the defense, the sea of soldiers would soon overwhelm the elves and it would be impossible to continue with that particular strategy.
The Catalgar were experts in war and their ranks did not break as did that of the humans. With their size, backs, and strength, the giant he-goats advanced in phalanxes that crisscrossed with one another. With this strategy, they trampled the demons and cut through them easily, creating confusion in the enemy which was trying to advance on them. Groups of ten to twenty Amaranth joined forces to resist the advance of the phalanxes. The Catalgar’s symmetry and organization did not allow the attackers to cut them off and they fell under their hooves or were struck by spears thrown with tremendous force. Valímidos was in the rearguard, barking orders to the centaurs to keep their phalanxes in perfect formation. At the same time, he knew that, sooner or later, the enemy would surround them and his soldiers would tire inexorably. The phalanxes would then lose the discipline and symmetry which were giving them the advantage for the time being.
“For the Iptaan Ulrica!” the centurions shouted to motivate their soldiers. “For ArD’Buror! May those bastards burn and the fire of our God shine forever in Faroos!”
“For Faroos! For the Iptaan!”
Leandro laughed and yelled to the heavens as though insane. The soldiers of Mandrake, in the absence of Leandro’s leadership, were under the command of its dukes, and the four hundred thousand, now disorganized, advanced as best they could toward the Portal of the Worlds in an attempt to defeat a host of millions. The demons managed to slip through the lines of the humans in their ruthless advance, splitting up their groups into divisions and breaking formation, creating chaos and a bloodbath that in turn created even more confusion. Gendor, Duke of Omen, had lost control of the Imperial Army.
Necromancer’s Sorrow: (Series Finale) Page 51
