Of the dukes, only Tenos Domaryath and Rigobert Arendis were still alive. The others, and their armies, had been overcome. Their dead bodies lay strewn in the bloody mud.
Leandro turned to assess the state of the defense. Only nine rings left formed around the Portal of the Worlds. Exhaustion, thirst, hunger, despair, and most of all, the horror of death was taking hold of the soldiers. Morale was collapsing, and enthusiasm was ebbing away with the streams of blood that had been shed.
“Sendar!” shouted Ítalshin. “We have to do something! They’re falling like flies!”
“No!” the mage said. “Not yet, my pupils. Although we may only have lost a little energy, we can’t confront the terrors of the Black Arts that are on their way. We need to be ready to defend our people against the dark sorcerers.”
Uroquiel was not happy with the orders. The rings of defense were falling fast, and he was afraid they would be completely wiped out before they could use their magic. But he obeyed the master and waited anxiously.
The assassins, including Cail, had not managed to do much more than any footsoldier since the advance of the orcs was implacable and colossal.
The archers were now out of arrows. The lancers had no spears left. The light produced by the mages had begun to diminish. Soon, when it went out, they would be smothered in darkness.
Leandro was losing hope. They had spent countless hours in battle and ring after ring, they had been overcome and eliminated with extreme efficiency. The orcs, as usual, did not mind dying. They hurled themselves into the attack. Even if they died in the attempt, they would keep any defender busy with a sword or shield while another orc attacked and eliminated him with ease.
Chapter LVI — Dark is the Path of Light
The grace of the sun. How he missed feeling embraced by its tongues of fire and hot breath. The sun rose on the horizon once again and went down on the other side of the world. When night fell, he walked once again over the small arid lonely world, only to realize that if he walked quickly toward the horizon, he could see the coming of the dawn more promptly. This world was as small as that. And as empty.
The boy, tired of not seeing any changes, began his walk toward the sunset only to realize that if he walked at the speed the sun traveled at, he could see a perpetual sunset. Bleeding, bloodshot, cold, desolate, and bitter. Nightfall was gloomy. He felt the powerful appeal of a melancholy that invited him to sink into a delirium.
He emerged from his dreams with his heart palpitating, only to realize that he was still in the same little world and he was alone. The sun rose and went down. Dawn and sunset occurred every four breaths. It never ceased. It never ceased.
There was mud on the boy’s hands and he was not sure why this gave him a kind of thrill. He thought that at some time, or in some other life, he had worked with the earth.
A bout of emotion shook him from side to side and moved him with such intensity that the boy ran after the dawn to catch it and watch it forever. Watching the sunrise always calmed his nerves, and now he felt at peace. Just as long as he could watch the dawn forever.
Magnificent beings. Strange lights. A barking outside the room. The boy woke up again. He had a pair of wings and a luminous spear in his hand, and he knew he was no longer a boy. Not because he could see himself, but because he felt the weight of the years on his shoulders, the weight and the wakefulness caused by decades of suffering. His shield was broken in two, his spear bloodied. Over his head, great bodies of light fought against one another. Beside him, he saw, was a dead body. It had huge bones and a colossal head.
Róganok.
The name came back to his mind. No, it was not the first time he had lived through this cycle, this episode. He had relived it thousands of times. A thousand times he had been moved by emotions, and those thousand times he had plunged headlong to attack the awesome beings of negative energy. Those thousand times, he had lost the battle, pierced through a thousand times by a sword of black energy. A macabre smile appeared in the sky every time he fell and it laughed when at last he hit the ground and lay there, a bag of bones beside the.. the corpse of Róganok.
He wept again over the death of his dragon. He remembered that he had lost the great battle against the God of Chaos, and all because the God of Chaos had been more intelligent.
He had wept a thousand times already in this horrible dream, this delirium, he found himself in. The time had come for him to convalesce. He appeared in the little world where he chased after the sunrise. When he had had enough of that, he chased the sunset. When he grew bored with that activity, he reappeared in that arid land with wings and a spear to lament Róganok’s death all over again. The horrible cycle repeated itself.
This time, he watched the great battle unfold over his head. The white lights fought against the black ones. The lights of darkness seemed to be winning the battle, and in a few moments, darkness ruled completely.
I’m going to kill you, came a voice within the darkness, I’m going to finish the work I started.
The young man looked around in alarm, unable to find the source of the voice. This had never happened before. The darkness became a dark jelly that began to fill the place he existed in. Very soon the youth was trapped to the point that the thickness of the jelly prevented him from moving and filled his mouth, his eyes, and his lungs.
He reappeared on the little world. When he saw the dawn, he realized that the sun no longer shone. It was a black sun, dead and desolate, murdered by a powerful figure that had come to claim everything.
The young man sat there, concentrating. He could only think about one thing: stopping the darkness. How? There was no answer. Before he could ask himself the question again, something changed. He felt an energy approach. Powerful energy, a positive one. The light…
Chapter LVII — Heart, Cry, Cry for Me
Exzalsor emerged from Riziel’s chest. Like a larva without arms or legs and with no more than a head and a long torso, that loathsome and mysterious figure moved like a worm toward the platform.
His skin was pale and almost translucent. It was clear that he had no organs other than his head and the brain within it, together with those large veins by which he had once been connected to Riziel to allow him to obtain nourishment from the Gurtha’s body. They stretched like an umbilical cord.
The cavity from which he had emerged gushed blood and then healed with astonishing speed. A spiral of blue energy surrounded the wound which closed and sealed for all eternity. A whimper remained latent. Luchy realized that it was Riziel, moaning in pain. She did not know whether he was suffering at the sight of his master writhing like a worm at the point of death or because the wound was physically painful. Perhaps it was both of those things.
The mage called Exzalsor had been a centaur at one point. The hard, horned face, eyes, and torso were evidence that he had once been like Astherion. If Luchy was surprised, the centaur who was with them must have been appalled.
The Erard of Evanescent felt like he was dying at the sight of that torso sliding toward the platform with clumsy movements, leaving in its wake a trace of mucus and blood. This was blasphemy.
“I am… I am almost there…” the writhing body said as it came nearer the platform.
Luchy did not understand why the mage had to suffer to achieve his goal. Could he not be carried and placed on the platform? It would be so much easier, but she knew that there must be some meaning in the effort. One final mission, however short. It might mean that his last spell would be more powerful.
At last, the mage reached the platform after minutes of dragging himself. He opened his eyes wide and said, “It will be the great sacrifice in favor of the Light.”
He opened his mouth and began a low chant that nobody understood. From his worm-like body, there flowed blue energy in powerful beams that branched into several separate flashes. A ring formed from of these flashes, and within it, there appeared a vortex.
The mage’s body rose until it was floating in the exa
ct center of the vortex, held in place by the magical portal. He was suffering, it obvious from the way his face was twisted, but in that suffering, Luchy saw that there was also joy. Something changed. The mage’s eyes opened wide in fear. He said something in unintelligible words that only Riziel understood, then he turned to look at the travelers who were with Luchy.
Something was going wrong, very wrong. Before he could say anything, his body had already dissolved and been absorbed by the vortex to create the transport that would take them at last to Tempus Frontus.
“Erard. You must go to Evanescent as soon as you can and take an urgent message to the Interworld Committee led by the mage Elgahar. Your presence has been very useful, and you will make it even more so by serving them in this moment of greatest need. Tell them that they must return to the Meridian without delay. War has broken out there and the defense needs them for its survival. Go! Gallop, good centaur, for there is nothing faster than a centaur with an ardent heart. Go!”
Astherion was shocked and given new spirit by those words. He was spellbound, although he did not know it. The spell that Riziel had cast on him was not an evil one. It aimed to make of him a faithful messenger with plenty of energy so he would not delay for anything. Astherion said nothing more. He turned and, like an acrobat, set off down those mountains without a moment’s hesitation.
Luchy, Mojak, Flóregund, Amana, and Teitú were left in front of that powerful vortex that had gained strength. It looked as though it wanted to devour them.
“Let’s go, Luciella Buvarzo-Portacasa,” Riziel said. “I’m coming with you.”
“What did Exzalsor say before he died?” Amana asked.
“He managed to tell me that the war has started in the Meridian, and that we need to go back there as soon as possible. Unfortunately, the other message was lost with his death.”
Amana gazed at the giant bear’s face. He seemed to be hiding something. Was he lying?
Luchy could wait no longer. The means of transport that would take her to Manchego was open. The time had come for her to go to him. League after league, suffering after suffering, she had borne it all as nobody else could have to reach this moment that could be put off no longer. Her ring was still shining in all directions. She took a deep breath. Then, she stepped toward the portal.
“The moment anyone steps over the threshold, the portal will begin to seal. We have to cross quickly.”
She was concerned about the fact that she had no idea how she would come back from it, but Teitú’s mind put her at ease.
Don’t wait, he said. I’ll be with you every step of the way. I’ve been in Tempus Frontus before, and I’ll recognize the place. We’ll find a way out when we need it. But it’s more important that we rescue Manchego. Come on.
She took another step. Her guardians followed her without delay. The girl put a hand into the vortex to check whether it was cold on the other side. Every time she had gone through one of these portals, she had felt a tingling chill throughout her body that lasted several minutes. Immediately, she went into it.
***
Luchy appeared in a world she could never have imagined. She was not even sure it was a world since it did not seem to have a rounded horizon like any other world has in the distance. There didn’t seem to be any wind or any sensation of the passage of time either. She felt as though she had appeared somewhere artificial.
She walked across a courtyard elevated hundreds of strides above what would be the ground or at least the point of reference that could be seen in the distance over the edge of the wall that prevented anyone from falling into the void. The courtyard was a large square with a couple of structures on its surface. There was a large platform where they had appeared and on it was a huge arch.
An artifact was floating there. It looked like a white altar, but without a base. It was floating. It gave out a peaceful sky-blue light.
“Nordost has left,” Riziel said. “That’s a pity.”
Flóregund drew his sword to protect Luchy. “Who on earth is Nordost?”
“The dragon with metallic scales,” the mage explained. “He was the guardian of Tempus Frontus and without him, this place is at the mercy of the dangers of the Black Arts.”
“A dragon looked after this pigsty?” Flóregund sneered.
“This pigsty was created by the Beings of the Celestial Divinity,” Riziel explained. “It’s a magical shelter.”
Mojak had his mace raised, ready to strike if necessary. The tattoo on his left hand was beginning to glow with celestial energy.
“You feel that?” Flóregund asked. “Something’s not right. I know it. I can feel something’s not the way it ought to be.”
I feel it too, Teitú thought. Mojak has just confirmed that he has a feeling something’s wrong too.
Luchy had no words as she scanned her surroundings. She hoped that Manchego was nearby. She had not the slightest desire to climb down from this great structure where they had appeared, which, when she went to the edge, she saw was a giant four-sided pyramid. The courtyard where she was standing was empty of mountains and trees. It was grey, apart from the sky which was a lighter grey as if covered by gigantic, eternally changing clouds.
The courtyard was made of large, dull-colored blocks and did not seem to be any kind of stone they had ever seen before. Instead, it was a strange material, something manufactured by magic. It was all too perfect.
Mojak was scanning the place with inquisitive eyes, checking every corner in search of the anomaly that was keeping him on the alert.
Flóregund, suddenly alarmed when he saw Luchy running toward the altar floating amid blue light, ran after her. Riziel and Amana kept a close eye on the girl’s movements. Nobody noticed, but on Amana’s face, there was a look of concern. On Riziel’s, there was a strange smile.
Luchy raced toward the altar as soon as she realized that her ring was drawing her to it and that it was shining incandescently. As she touched the floating altar, the engagement ring flashed so brightly that it blinded them all for a moment.
When the light faded, Luchy was able to take a good look at the altar and what was on it. The artifact was like a bed made of white stone, and on it, Manchego was lying. It was him! It really was! Luchy put her hand to her mouth, and the tears flowed from her eyes. Flóregund was moved, and he wept, realizing that they had reached their destination at last.
“By Alambam,” the elf managed to say, lost in the image of the God of Light.
The constantly pulsating jewel that had been on the ring rose into the air as if by some strange magic, then descended until it came into contact with the boy’s chest. Here, it melted and became part of the sky-blue aura that surrounded him.
Luchy put her hands on the edge of the altar. She saw that, although it was floating, it was firm and immobile. With extreme delicacy, she leaned on it to gaze at the face of her best friend, her betrothed.
Her eyes, precious emeralds covered by a veil of tears, drank their fill of him: thin lips and long lashes, black hair and brown skin. He was lanky, as always, and his gallant wings enveloped him like a coverlet of tulle. It was him. It was him!
The sky-blue light enveloped Luchy as she came closer to Manchego. First, she stroked his face with her hand, then she passed a finger over his lips. He was warm, the normal temperature of someone who was silently asleep. As she touched those lips, she missed his love, affection, and warmth. Then she stroked the white armor, noting that it protected his body perfectly.
Someone sighed. Luchy spun around when she heard a moan.
She was terrified to see Amana as pale as a corpse. Blood dripped from the blade of a sword that had stabbed her in the abdomen from side to side. The blood flowed without stopping, large drops falling to form a puddle of vital essence on the great blocks which formed the courtyard.
A series of words that she could barely pronounce formed in her mouth. Red blood gushed from her mouth and her eyes were red, on the edge of bursting. The golden wings ha
d stopped fluttering and she now floated because she was hanging from the blade that had killed her.
“Traitor,” Riziel said. “She was the one who did it. It was her, it was always her! She was Mórgomiel’s spy, and now she has compromised our position. Prepare to receive the God of Chaos.” He took up a fighting stance.
“What!?” Flóregund cried. Teitú began to shine the color of rubies. Mojak charged his tattooed left hand with blue energy.
Riziel lowered the tip of his sword. The fairy’s inert body slid down the blade and fell limply to the ground. He wiped the blade in a single movement.
Luchy knelt to hold Amana’s head. Could it be true? She was a traitor?
“You killed her!” she shouted. “You’re a monster!”
“Amana was working for Mórgomiel. Exzalsor’s last words were that someone in your group was working for the lord of the shadows, but he couldn’t tell me who and I couldn’t prevent the spy’s entrance to Tempus Frontus. Now, this traitor has shared our location with Mórgomiel. Without the presence of Nordost, the sanctuary is unprotected and can be reached by the Black Arts. I have spoken. To arms! Prepare for an attack by the God of Chaos!
Luchy stared. Terror paralyzed her, and her blood froze. The God of Chaos was coming for them? What on earth could they do against someone as strong as that?
Riziel was moving his hands in arcs and circles. From them flowed a powerful blue mist, the type of energy that she had seen in the hands of people she had trusted like Balthazar, Strangelus, and Elgahar.
“Come on, my dear,” Riziel said as he went on creating a powerful spell. “My powers are great, but not great enough to counter Mórgomiel. I’m creating a forcefield to protect us from him and prevent him from reaching us. I doubt I can create one strong enough to stop him for long. You must hurry and wake the God of Light as soon as you can. Now get a move on!”
For the first time, Luchy saw fear on the great bear’s face. Until now, he had shown only ease and control. Flóregund drew himself up at the foot of the altar where Manchego floated. Mojak’s tattoo began to shine furiously, giving out tiny sparks of energy.
Necromancer’s Sorrow: (Series Finale) Page 55
