The Council of Mages was one of the first groups to be swallowed up. Among the vast number of enemies, three vorwraiths that served as general and captains in the enemy ranks slipped through, and between them, they decimated the mages.
It was Mathos who realized that something was wrong when Demeclin began to writhe on the ground. Instantly, he saw a silhouette crouched on top of him. The shadow had jaws and was hungrily consuming its victim’s soul. Another spirit got inside Troikar. The mage’s eyes shone red and his flesh burst into flames. The possessed mage began to cast spells that destroyed Raigan, Landos, and Blalock in an instant. It was Mirkhon who destroyed Troikar and Demeclin, eliminating the spirits that had occupied their bodies. Hemock was possessed by the last vorwraith and with a powerful spell, he reduced Mirkhon to ashes. Mathos could not believe his eyes. All the mages had been eliminated, and before him was Hemock, possessed by one of the evil spirits.
“It is futile, mage,” the demon hissed from inside Hemock’s body. “Mórgomiel sends his greetings.”
“It’s not over yet! Rot in hell, you scum!” Mathos’ eyes shone sky-blue. After more than a decade of not practicing the Conjuring Arts, the Üdessa mage made the mistake of activating too many spells at once and burst into flames. In rapid succession, ten lightning bolts flew from his staff. One of them evaporated the demon in front of him, along with what had been Hemock. The other flashes reached the Amaranth army, eliminating more than a thousand in a single moment.
Mathos was left breathless after his efforts when the law of equivalent exchange took its toll. The mage fell to the ground, burning with blue flames. His eyes sank into his skull, his mouth shriveled up, and his chest began to collapse. His ribs sank in until they had turned into bone putty, and his internal organs were exposed to the air and shriveled to ashes. Before anybody could come to his aid, the powerful mage had been reduced to a skull. That was the end of the Council of Mages.
The soldiers of Kathanas, led by Janikur the Brave, moved forward without delay, joining the ranks and perfect order of the army of the elves. Janikur and the seasoned warriors of Kathanas advanced in rectangular formations of ten by two, the courageous lancers and swordsmen battling without breaking their line. The groups moved like an unbreakable wall, keeping up the order every Kathanian knew, and although many of their men fell, the soldiers of the city of the rock towers knew no greater honor than to fall beside their brothers in the course of a valiant battle.
It did not take long for the defenders to become aware that the armies that had emerged with most credit during this attack were the Catalgar of Farwas, the monoliths of Crallys, and the elves of Allündel. Valímidos’ insight recognized this. Barking orders to his centurions, he managed to take control of his legion so that it reformed alongside the elves and the monoliths.
Between the Catalgar, the elves, the monoliths, and the Kathanians, the foreign soldiers in their black armor were rapidly being cornered and reduced in numbers. The mountain of corpses was accumulating around the Portal of the Worlds. Things reached a balance, then, at last, the defense seemed to be gaining ground and managing to tilt the balance in their favor.
Three explosions filled the air with electricity. Leandro was left blinded. What on earth could have happened? Before he could say anything, a dagger had pierced his neck and several hands dragged him off the platform of the Portal of the Worlds by brute force.
“We meet again, you bastard!” cried a figure dressed as a peasant and covered in mud, blood, and hatred. What the hell? The impostor’s eyes were staring wide as he choked on his blood from the dagger that had severed his two jugular veins and trachea. But the impostor was no ordinary person; he was a demon who had taken on the appearance of a human thanks to a spell. Casting that body aside, the demon burst from under its skin. He was a loathsome orc.
The orc’s eyes opened wide and the last thing he saw was the vindictive smile of the true Leandro Deathslayer. The general and the thieves undressed the orc in the blink of an eye. And in another blink of an eye, the general was clad in his full armor. The impostor had been eliminated and the trap to the trap had barely begun.
Once again, the general went to stand by himself near the Portal. The attackers did not seem to notice that the impostor had been eliminated.
“Your horse, General!” Cail shouted at him. Before the general could thank him, the thieves had vanished like mist. How did they do it? He had no idea. He had no time to stop and think about it. He mounted his courser then drew his sword and raised it in the air, waving it in circles while he shouted a war cry.
It was the signal. From the mountains in the east, a sea of a hundred thousand Dakatak, three thousand Torok with their riders, ten thousand soldiers from Grizna, a hundred thousand soldiers from Doolm-Ondor, ninety thousand from Moragald’Burg, and a single dragon descended upon the Fields of Flora.
“A dragon!” the Mandrakians cheered. “The metal dragon we saw in Háztatlon! It’s the Dragonrider King!” The sight of the magnificent beast belching forth flames from its mouth to attack the enemy filled their hearts with courage.
A rider? At the head of the Mandrakian army, broken and defeated? A soldier dressed in purple armor riding at top speed? Could it be?
“It’s the General! The Deathslayer! He rides with his sword held high! He’s come to save us!”
The news that General Deathslayer had taken command of the Mandrake forces spread like wildfire. The lieutenants and captains began to organize their squads, which in turn organized themselves into divisions. The line of the human defense formed again and the ranks solidified. The dead would be avenged.
“We’re going to war! We’re going to war! Dukes, captains, lieutenants, follow me! Forward! Cavalry! With me!”
Every duke at the head of his soldiers followed the general. The captains began to march to the front of the battle. Soon the disorganized mass of four hundred thousand Mandrakian soldiers unified and began, like a hammer on an anvil, to march to the Portal of the Worlds to crush the enemy.
At the moment the order was given, three hundred riders peeled away from their ranks and followed the Deathslayer to the center of destruction. The cavalry was like a current running at its own pace, descending on the enemy like an avalanche. The sea of enemies was trampled and split in two. When the enemy army divided, the defenders seized their chance to advance.
Valímidos took advantage of the breach created by the cavalry and moved forward with his phalanxes. When the numerous army of Mandrakian foot-soldiers arrived at the enemy flank, they crushed them.
A minute later, an army of a hundred thousand Dakatak, three thousand Torok, a hundred thousand Doolm-Ondorians, ninety thousand Moragald’Burgians, and ten thousand Mílikin pounced like a sudden sting. The Amaranth were crushed on all fronts. To finish them off, Nordost launched an airstrike that destroyed a great number of Amaranth who were now disorganized and demoralized.
The scene was soon a hecatomb and a simple task of butchery for the defense. Soon, the stream of enemies stopped coming out of the Portal. Unnerved by their numerous losses, the Amaranth began to withdraw, backing through the Portal to return to their world of origin.
“They’re withdrawing!” the soldiers cheered. “They’re fleeing!”
Archers and lancers showed no mercy. The loss of control allowed the defense to eliminate the Amaranth with ease. There were so many bodies piled up around the Portal that the mountain of corpses was two strides high and fifty across. Beyond the immediate vicinity, the Fields of Flora, previously green with grass, was now a field of mud covered with the corpses of those thousands killed by the Amaranth.
Chapter LIV — Knitting Fate
Where on earth could Luchy be? She had left months ago on the mission Balthazar had entrusted her with, and there was no news or sign of her or Balthazar. Could something have happened to them?
The grandmother was weaving and knitting, day and night. Nights for her were long since, in her old age, restorative sle
ep eluded her and produced only a shallow slumber filled with speculation. It was true, Lulita did not dream much these days. When she did, she saw images of herself dying without her grandson or Luchy, alone with Rufus in everlasting mourning.
Had Luchy died? Could she be trapped in one of those worlds Balthazar had meant to visit? And the elves? She had said she was going to meet elves, that they had asked to meet her and talk to her. All because of the jewel on her finger. Could it be true? Was she the chosen one, or did the responsibility fall on her because she had Manchego’s engagement ring and hence it might help her to locate him? According to Luchy, Manchego had assured her that the jewel would shine brighter when it was close to him. Perhaps it was true. Could she have rescued Teitú? That seraph, he was so sweet. She hoped nothing had happened to them.
Balthazar had not given too many details. When she had tried to get more information out of him, that enigmatic individual had been evasive and fended off all questions as usual. Why was Teitú lost? Surely he was with Manchego? Was Manchego where Teitú was?
So many unanswered questions had left her at a loss. Previously, she had worried about Manchego, which was already quite enough of a burden, and now she was worried about Luchy and Balthazar as well.
The grandmother heaved a long sigh and let her gaze stray to the horizon. The land was yielding good fruits. With the end of the snow and the return of summer, the crops were back, although the estate had been left without carrots and other vegetables that grew well in the cold. The wheat was growing again, though it would take years to yield a harvest. But the estate had saved enough profits to be self-sufficient for decades and the sale of vegetables would continue until the wheat ripened.
The workers had left. Leandro’s summons to war had claimed all men and women able to use a weapon, and this had emptied the village of San San-Tera except for the garrison of Don Dargos of Vásufeld, who had installed himself in his stone castle on the edge of the village.
San San-Tera had been left with elders, grandparents like herself who spent their days and nights wondering and speculating. When Lulita went to the village, strolled through the empty streets, and went to market, she met the oldest or the youngest trying to carry on with their lives. But life was paralyzed and would not start again until after the war was over.
Unlike in past times of war, there were no soldiers or people from the government checking that the youngsters enlisted had obeyed the call to military service. She had spotted many young people clinging to their mothers. Though they were able to wield a sword, they were too immature for war. As a result, they had risked staying hidden at home so as not to die. Death is the only thing certain when war is unleashed.
The fact that no soldiers or government officials were checking that all able-bodied men and women were indeed facing up to war concerned her. In Lulita’s mind, there were two options: the war was already underway and everybody had died so that nobody could come to check identities and ages or things were going badly. Far from government updates and countless leagues away from Háztatlon, she had no idea what was happening in Mandrake. What she did know was that the Empire was in a state of crisis and that war against Mórgomiel, the God of Chaos, was inevitable. She hoped it would not happen. But for her, the only thing certain was that bad things happened. She had lost Eromes to the shadows and then she had lost Manchego twice so far. Now Luchy had left and Balthazar was nowhere to be found.
Tomasa came into the room, slamming the door behind her. She went to the kitchen where she prepared the logs, started the fire, and fed it with dry twigs. She placed the pot of liquid on the stove with its angry flame and added spices, salt, vegetables, and a piece of meat she had brought from the market.
Although Tomasa had graduated from her function as field-worker to the estate administrator, there were habits she simply could not lose. These included cooking the meals, cleaning the house, washing clothes and sheets, and keeping the other workers in line. But as the workers left, she had gone back to working in the fields with her usual passion. Lulita knew that Tomasa liked hard work and that she would go insane as an administrator sitting behind a table. Of course, the summons to war included her, but the big woman had become resigned to not going to the battlefield. In her strong accent, she had invited anyone from the government to make her go. Of course, nobody had arrived to claim anyone so for the moment, everything was going well.
“Do you want dinner early today too?” she asked Lulita without looking at her, eyes fixed on the stew.
“Yes, Tomasa. Thank you,” Lulita replied, looking back toward the horizon. Lately, she had been enjoying an early dinner, about five in the evening which corresponded to the cedar’s shadow stretching three strides and no more.
The sky was turquoise at twilight. The sky might be beautiful, but she knew that somewhere in the world, someone was suffering. If Leandro had summoned the whole Empire to war, it must be because he was planning to use military muscle to defeat some enemy. If there was an enemy that had to be defeated, it must be because that enemy was close at hand.
Lulita stopped knitting. The chain of thought in her mind led to a single conclusion. If Leandro had summoned everyone to war, then the war had begun. Mórgomiel had come to take over the world. The world?
The grandmother’s heart began to beat faster. For months, the warrior within her might have been dormant, silenced by constant knitting, but she had now been awakened by the call of war. If the world was going to be claimed by the God of Chaos, then she could expect one of two things. Either the world would fall at once, in which case everybody would, or evil would continue its unstoppable progress as far as every corner of the world. But suppose they did not die right away and it involved a long and tedious conquest?
She put her hand to her chest. She felt as if her heart was going to jump out of her ribs.
“Are you all right, ma’am?” Tomasa asked. Lulita had not noticed when the Wild Woman had come to stand beside her. Tomasa’s face was creased with worry. Those black eyes knew how to read Lulita to perfection after so many years living with her.
“What’s worrying you?” the Wild Woman asked, her golden skin shining in the twilight.
“It’s this war…”
“What about the war? Let those bastards kill each other, that’s what I say.” The big woman snorted.
“No, Tomasa. This time it isn’t men against men. This time, we’re facing the God of Chaos and his legion of demons. Didn’t you hear what Balthazar said?”
“The shaman can go and fuck himself!” cried the Wild Woman. She went back to the kitchen to go on stirring the aromatic stew.
“No, Tomasa. This is serious. Very serious.”
“Don’t give me that look, ma’am. That look can only mean one thing. Oh, dear me. No, don’t tell me…”
“I have the feeling that’s how it must be,” Lulita said.
Tomasa heaved a long, deep sigh. Her gaze strayed to the horizon, then she said, “All right. Well then, I’ll go search in the trunk of memories. I’ll be right back.” She moved the pot away from the fire so that the stew would not overcook.
In five minutes, she came back with an old trunk. She went to get a pick and then, with a single sharp blow, she broke the lock.
“I’ve got the key here, you know.”
“To hell with the key,” Tomasa shot back. “This lock was never any use for anything. We’re always opening the trunk some way or other. Better not to bother with the lock, that’s what I say.”
Lulita was not pleased, but she said nothing. Tomasa opened the trunk and took out a single-bladed ax, a suit of armor made of wyvern-hide, a bow, arrows, and a quiver, all of which she handed to Lulita. Then she took out another suit of armor that Lulita had picked up in Háztatlon during the celebrations for Mérdmerén’s coronation. During those days, she had swapped it with another Wild Woman the size of Tomasa for wyvern teeth she had bought in the market in the North. She had given the wyvern-hide suit to Tomasa as a gift f
or her valuable service in the Battle of Háztatlon, even though she had never thought that the big woman would ever wear it.
“And what about a weapon?”
The big woman smiled. “I’ll always use a pick as my favorite weapon, ma’am. It hacks at earth, rock, and skulls like nothing else. It doesn’t matter if the enemy’s wearing a helmet, iron armor, or wyvern bone, a pick goes through everything.”
“You’re right about that,” Lulita said.
Tomasa was standing there in puzzlement with the armor in her hands. “Put them on now? Is that what that look of yours is saying?”
“If there’s going to be war, we’re going to have to wear them day and night. We don’t know whether we’ll see a battle here, but you know it’s a question of conquering the world. They’ll come for us if Leandro loses the war.”
“That’s true. I’ll be right back,” Tomasa returned with the armor on and the pick fastened to her waist where there ought to be an ax. It fit rather tightly on her, but she looked like a true Wild Woman who had just come from the Lands of El Malush. Today, more than ever, she looked like a warrior.
“The stew!” she howled suddenly and went back into the kitchen to put the pot back on the fire.
That evening, they had a delicious meal but something about the taste of life had changed. That night they said not a word, both lost in their thoughts. To have admitted that the darkness would soon find them brought them back to a reality that was both arid and cruel.
The following day, Lulita did not turn to her knitting. Instead, they went into the village where they walked around in their armor with their weapons at their belts. The grandmothers and grandfathers of the village had clear memories of the two tenants of the Holy Comment Ranch and how they had taken part in the Massacre of San San-Tera when the Cursed Pit had been created. For some of the oldest ones, the sight of Lulita clad in her full armor made them so ashamed that they went to hide back in their homes. Few were left to take courage and understand the message: trouble was on its way back.
Necromancer’s Sorrow: (Series Finale) Page 52
