Necromancer’s Sorrow: (Series Finale)

by Pablo Andrés Wunderlich Padilla

  He assigned ten thieves as overseers and gave each of them several tasks. Among these tasks was finding enough masons and the best talent in the Empire to accomplish such an ambitious project. With enough monetary support, and the blessing of the King of Mandrake, he had hired the work-force necessary for the creation of a large Décamon. It would be called the Décamon of Celebration and would be built to the south of Háztatlon, less than a league from the edge of town. The area selected was the flattest to ensure that its construction would be a success.

  The size of the religious structure would compete with the Décamon Mayutorum, except that this one, the Baron had assured everyone, would be a little larger and much less ornate. It would be a massive dome able to hold several thousand. There was no other structure like it in Mandrake. It would be the first of its kind.

  The Baron had promised his thieves that this would be the epoch of large structures. The Décamon of Celebration would be the first of many erected in the Meridian. Many more would follow, as the cultures of other worlds trapped in the Meridian would have to create a new home for themselves.

  The purpose of the Décamon of Celebration, he had said, was not only to celebrate the victory appropriately but also to give the Meridian a central site where great events could be held.

  More than ten thousand workers had been hired, which for the Empire meant a very large sum of money. To the Baron’s gratification, many individuals from other worlds had joined the task force: Catalgar, centaurs, elves, insects, Mílikin, and crystals had volunteered. Their contribution to the effort was very well received.

  Not all humans accepted these foreign cultures. The most welcome among them were undoubtedly the elves, who, being similar to humans, aroused awe in most people. The few Mílikin that remained after the assault on New Gardak were also well received, thanks to the similarity of their features to those of humans. But the insects and the crystals still aroused distrust. The Catalgar were accepted more quickly than the centaurs because they spoke the common language. The mysterious figure of a horse with wings still caused amazement and disbelief in most people, particularly because this horse also spoke the common tongue, and because he was a know-it-all and bigmouth who argued and discussed like a highly intelligent man.

  The insects had provided the raw materials to help in the strengthening of the structure. The substance that they created with their jaws, molded like plaster or mud and then stuck between two boards or stone blocks to create a powerful resin stronger than metal, played a vital part in strengthening the dome.

  “Work is the path to freedom,” the Baron said, and it was true. The people worked with passion, taking on the task whole-heartedly to allow themselves to forget the horrors of the Fields of Flora for a few moments. For the cultures of other worlds, it was the perfect chance to create bonds with the others, something the Baron had not taken into account. Working with a common purpose and with a common goal will always be a reliable way of uniting people.

  When a centaur, huge, muscular, and six-limbed, helped to load large boards or support a structure so that the humans could hammer it or secure it with rocks, the humans realized that these strange beings could be both generous and useful when it came to construction. Along with the centaurs, the Catalgar had been responsible for moving the massive weight of stone required. Evenings around the site were mostly cheerful with each culture sharing their way of celebrating or having a good time. Although some preferred to spend their free time in mourning, weeping for the fallen in the comfort of silence.

  Carpenters from Vásufeld and architects from Érliadon had arrived under imperial orders to assist with the project. Their help was necessary to ensure that the structure was properly designed and had enough support not to collapse with the first gust of wind. For the architects and carpenters, a dome as big as this was something new, and they had to work hard to ensure that their calculations were correct.

  In a matter of a month, the enormous structure had been erected. The dome was monumental. It was a thousand strides or so in diameter and a hundred in height. The architects of Érliadon had helped to calculate the distance between columns and had included a series of beams that supported the structure. The insects helped stick resin all around and inside the dome. This had given it a bright appearance, the color of weak coffee, and unlike any other structure in the Meridian. With the combination of stone, wood, and insect resins, it rose as solid as a mountain.

  Inside, the structure was magnificent. The workers were so proud of it that they spent time inside the dome admiring it. Nothing as big as this had ever been seen in the Meridian. The humans could not believe they had created anything like it. The insects’ ability to make such durable resins earned everybody’s respect. The result of this was to make people understand their worth and award them the respect they deserved.

  “It’s a palace of all cultures, for all cultures,” the workers said as they admired the dome from inside.

  “It shouldn’t be called a Décamon,” others said. “It’s not exclusively for the Mandrakians and it’s nothing like any Décamon I’ve ever visited. This structure is a work of art, and it belongs to the people, not to a religion.”

  From mouth to mouth the criticism of the name spread. Soon it came to the Baron’s ears.

  “So what do they want to call it, then?” he had asked from the shadows when one of his thieves had informed him that the people were criticizing the name.

  The thief was sitting in a chair with only a candle to illuminate their meeting. “Most people are calling it the Dome of Victory. It seems that after working side by side with the cultures of other worlds, they’ve grown close and they don’t like the idea of the structure having a purely Mandrakian name, much less a religious one. They say that a religious name shows a lack of respect for other cultures that don’t believe in the same things we do.”

  “Wisdom sometimes involves listening to the people, Valt. It hadn’t occurred to me that the people might be unhappy with the name of the place. I’d chosen it as part of the project. But they’re right. The Dome of Victory is a powerful name and much more appropriate. They’re right, this site shouldn’t bear the name of Mandrake as if we were the only empire that mattered.”

  “What’ll the king say if we change the name just like that?”

  “The King of Mandrake is a deeply compassionate man. I promise you he won’t mind at all. The people who care most are the men of faith of Démanon. This is a unique structure, the result of the joint effort of many cultures. Let the word spread, let it be said that the people themselves have named the structure The Dome of Victory. The celebration is tomorrow, Valt. Everything must be ready.”

  “It will be, Baron. Don’t you think the Perfect Maker will have a fit if we change the name?”

  “Maybe the old man will. But I think he’ll be one of the last to find out. In any case, the Perfect Maker has to answer to the king’s orders, so it doesn’t matter whether he opposes it or not. If Démanon is interested in anything, it’s staying on good terms with the foreigners. They need to spread their religion, don’t they?”

  “That’s right, Baron.”

  “Thank you, Valt. Your work’s been excellent. Keep it up.”

  “I’m very grateful to hear you say so, Baron.”

  ***

  Leandro Deathslayer longed to leave the position of general behind. He had commanded the imperial forces for several years by now, and after each war, he felt he had come out of it older, more unhealthy, and closer to the edge of madness.

  When you see so many people die, torn to pieces by jaws, claws, explosions, or black magic, and you weep for hundreds of thousands of the fallen, there comes a time when the heart no longer knows what to do or who to weep for. He had fallen into a deep depression.

  It was thanks to Teitú and Manchego the Shepherd that he came out of his self-absorption. The evening when the boy appeared, he sent for him. The young man was serious, but there was the trace of a smile on h
is brown, serene face. Had he really been the incarnation of the God of Light? This lanky lad with his gentle gaze? He knew it was true. He had been the one.

  They had spoken for hours and exchanged stories, sorrows, and pain. The more the lad spoke, the more he showed the strength of the way his soul had been forged, the power of that conviction that was as solid as a bulwark. Perhaps his physique was not that of Lombardo’s or some magnificent and muscular centaur, but what he lacked in muscle he made up for with the power of his will.

  “It’s the greatest power in the universe,” the lad had said before he went back to his room. “Willpower. You decide, Leandro.”

  The boy had left without saying anything more. Many heroes had been celebrated in Kathanas, both the living and the dead. They were celebrated with feasts and tears, with songs and poems that would soon become legends.

  The order to go back to Háztatlon had come days later. The return march was slow and pleasant. It took them three weeks to cover the distance, during which time Leandro and his new colleagues from other worlds admired the moorland landscape.

  They made up a heterogeneous group of biped beings, quadrupeds, and insects. The villagers and peasants along the way came out to watch the parade of soldiers marching in perfect formation, impressed at the sight of beings as large as the centaurs and the Catalgar, admiring the humans and, at the same time, feeling terror at the sight of the giant insects.

  When Leandro had arrived at Háztatlon, his body was sore, tired, and scalded. He could no longer bear his armor after so much action, for the smells from inside it were appalling. His only wish was to see his family. But he knew that his wife was still in the safety of Maggrath, together with the princess and those others who had remained on the island during the conflict.

  The news that groups of orcs had been seen to the north was cause for alarm, as several of them had been seen trying to steal rafts to cross the sea in their flight from utter destruction. Orders were given that the princess and the others who were in Maggrath must remain there until the perimeter was secured, which delayed the return of Leandro and Lombardo’s families.

  Leandro opened his eyes and turned to look back at the southwestern horizon. Was it possible that this structure had been built in only a month? It sounded impossible. With human hands, it would have been an impossible task. It was too big. Huge. The dome was the color of coffee and reflected the light of the setting sun. He did not know what it was like inside since the Dome of Victory would be inaugurated that same evening during the funeral rites.

  Leandro pressed his wife’s hand. Feeling her beside him gave him a sense of security. This is real, the general told himself again and again. We won and my family is here with me. At times, it seemed impossible that they had won, and he was afraid he would wake up and find himself buried six feet under or in the stomach of some monstrous creature.

  The generals and leaders of the other worlds were marching together with the soldiers, who were following royalty and the leaders of the other nations of the Meridian. The march had begun at Háztatlon. A part of the ritual and its purpose was to cover the league that separated Háztatlon from the dome so that, in effect, it would be a parade dedicated to the dead.

  Leandro could see Mérdmerén walking at the head of that procession of thousands. Beside him marched the leaders of other worlds and nations including Meromérila, Sokomonoko, Lohrén, Düll Donn, Othus, Ostherlan, Valímidos, Gach-milukta-chochin-chimbam-loki the prophet of Yumbala, Marzgarg, and Quelshún the Cristalur who represented his own culture. Around Lohrén’s head, Nidra, the Naevas Aedán who had accompanied the elf to the Meridian, flew in circles. Her function was to translate whatever was said for the centaur and the crystal, who were still learning the common language.

  Leandro was accompanied by Ekimidos, Perófias, Elgahar, Dukes Tenos Domaryath and Rigobert Arendis, Gelkak, and, of course, the heroes of the Interworld Committee: Turi the Crafty, Ushka of Yumbala, Chirllp the Mílikin, Unna of Devnóngaron, Khad’Un of Doolm-Ondor, Merkas of Moragald’Burg, Amon Ras of the Divine Providence, Funia the Healer, and Tenchi the Naevas Aedán.

  For obvious reasons, Amon Ras was sunk in depression. His leader had been eliminated and his nation was falling apart amid the fighting for the throne. For the warrior of that nation, the thought of going back to the Divine Providence, where he would find nothing but the carnage of greed, sounded like a horrifying prospect. He planned to kneel before Mérdmerén and beg to be accepted as his loyal servant. He would gladly become a Mandrakian.

  ***

  The dome was filled to the brim. A raised platform had been placed in the middle a stride above the floor. Upon it sat a simple wooden podium so that the Perfect Maker could make his address. There was no other decoration, nor was any needed.

  The platform in the center was large enough to hold at least ten people, something that would be important for the second phase of the celebration.

  Around the central platform were hundreds of thousands of wood benches, each with room for ten humans. There was plenty of space empty of benches; the Catalgar and centaurs needed no seats, as they reclined on their hindquarters.

  In the front few rows sat the leaders of all the nations. Mérdmerén was in the center, but he had no special seat to set him apart from the rest. Here, everybody was valued equally and that was a message he wished to be clear as water.

  The Perfect Maker spoke with his eyes fixed on the ceiling as if he could pierce the sky. “And may the two great heroes, Eryund des Guillioth and Aryan Vetala, grant the new members of this world the wisdom to act correctly so that their path may be lit even during the darkest nights.” He was old, older than one would have expected. Some felt that the frail old man might snap like a dry twig before their eyes.

  “The great cities,” the Perfect Maker continued, “the Stratta Trigonosphere, will be forever a bulwark for you, children of the Gods, who have come to this world to help defeat the shadow. In Démanon, you will always find spiritual support. In Omen, you will find the hammer and anvil of military power. In Háztatlon, the foundations and principles of the wise man who knows how to lead.

  “And finally, the five essences that, have shined like the stars to guide you during the most precarious nights, during the most ardent sorrows, during the most terrifying passages, and during the most leaden days. The gods of the five essences are all that man—and the new members of the world—need to obtain the illumination that will lead them to the Deep Azure of the Heavens, and thus, to salvation.

  “The five essences have returned!” the Perfect Maker cried. He pointed to his audience. “They spread their power over the lands, the heavens, the wind, and over souls as pure as yours, loyal to their power, their glory, and their eternal wisdom!

  “Your sacrifices were not in vain! Thousands of souls perished during the Times of Chaos! Your brothers fell. You saw them. You, you, and you. You saw them fall, struck by a sword, a spear, or an evil spell. There is no greater pain, children of the Gods, than to see a brother fall and be able to do nothing about it. We will pray for those souls now. For them, we will close our eyes and raise our hands. We will ask the powerful God of Light to guide their souls in their journey to the Deep Azure of the Heavens. We will pray to the Goddess of Night that she may deal justly with their souls and judge them rightly.

  “Let us pray, my children. Close your eyes, raise your hands, and repeat after me.”

  The Naevas Aedán were to be the translators for those leaders who did not speak the language. Nidra had volunteered to translate for Ostherlan, Tenchi for Tagulumich. Teitú was nowhere to be found. It was said that the seraph had disappeared the day Manchego had decided to withdraw.

  Turi was looking from side to side. Mérdmerén looked very elegant wearing his classic armor of tanned leather. He was sure that Macadamio had found plenty of reservations to make about it, but the sovereign was very particular about his attire. At least he was wearing his business crown, a much less ornate one that
consisted basically of a golden cap that decorated his head and nothing more. In addition to his leather armor, he was wearing a long purple cloak embroidered in gold.

  Turi’s hand was sweaty. He could not believe he was sitting beside Meromérila, and that the Queen of Gardak was his wife. Perhaps he had not understood properly, but the day she had chosen him was the day they had been married. Since that day, they had been wife and husband and according to Gardakian tradition, there was no power in the universe capable of breaking the bond, death apart.

  The glares of hatred he had received from leaders such as Othus, Düll Donn, Marzgarg, and another handful of powerful men had irritated him deeply. But he soon came to understand the message of those spiteful glares. They were hurt at having been rejected by such a lovely queen, and by the fact that she had chosen a lad who had not even completed his second decade. But the fact was that Turi had become the queen’s consort from the day they had been united, and now he had his own title and power.

  The thief was not praying, nor did he care. The thieves were not religious people, and he placed a lot more trust in logic and reason. He wasn’t the only one not praying. He saw the centaurs taking in their surroundings and the elves and other beings who did not seem to be swallowing the Perfect Maker’s words. Most of the humans, on the other hand, were praying with tears in their eyes.

  Meromérila was praying in silence. She was wearing a white dress that fell over her body like a cloud. The stylists of Érliadon had brought her a gift from the deceased Philip Góndola, previous duke of that city who had fallen during the Times of Chaos. Meromérila had accepted the gift gracefully and the dress truly became her. She looked beautiful.