Necromancer’s Sorrow: (Series Finale)

by Pablo Andrés Wunderlich Padilla

  ***

  The Dungeon of Thieves was recovering from the damage done when evil had taken it over and evicted the Baron from his own home, but things would never be the same again. After so many centuries of influencing the Mandrake Empire, nobody had ever managed to expel the thieves from the sewers under Háztatlon. Many kings had tried to do this by force, finally desisting once they realized that the Dungeon of Thieves was invisible and invincible.

  If they had learned anything, it was that they were not invincible and powerful agents like Mórgomiel’s chieftains and other demons could infiltrate them. It was terrible to consider that if it had happened once, it could happen again.

  Cail and Greyson sat down at a table in the general market to eat a leg of lamb. The place was beginning to come back to life, but it would take weeks to make all the thieves return from their hiding places.

  “We lost too many people,” Cail said as he bit into the meat. “Those bastards managed to hit us below the belt.”

  “I’m happy I don’t have to serve the king as part of his garrison any longer,” said the big man. “I couldn’t stand that bloody King Dragonrider any longer. That man has a loose tongue and never stops yammering. That verbal diarrhea of his never lets up. And the palace delicacies! Ugh! I needed to get back to the sewers and sniff the garbage I grew up in.” He pulled at his long mustache after thinking, then went on eating peacefully.

  “We need more recruits,” Cail said. “The Dungeon is empty.”

  “We lost too many. Cousins, nephews, and uncles died by the hundreds. It’ll take us years to get back to what we were in our heyday.”

  “While there are misfortune and poverty, there’s opportunity to recruit new members. Háztatlon will never stop giving birth to poor, unfortunate children. Just look at the number of them that live in the streets.”

  “I know,” Greyson said. “That’s where I came from, the street.” His face shadowed at the memory of worse days.

  “So did I,” Cail said with a smile.

  “And what’s happened to Turi? Weren’t you best friends or something of the sort?”

  “We still are. But Turi, you know, he’s hooked by the balls.”

  “Who? That rascal, I never thought of him being in love.”

  “You won’t believe me, but everything I’m going to tell you is true,” Cail said. “The bastard is involved with the Queen of Gardak.”

  “That hot lady with long silver hair and purple eyes! You’ve got to be kidding me! Hellfire!” Greyson rubbed his bald head, tugged at his long mustache again, and ate his meat with a smile.

  “And now he’s the queen’s consort. They’re married! Apparently, Turi didn’t even know he had a wife from the day they first got together.”

  “May the holiest Gods save me from being grabbed like that. Not even the hottest chick would be able to trap me like that.”

  “That’s not true,” came a feminine voice. Cail and Greyson turned to the origin of the voice and saw a beautiful girl coming towards them. Her footsteps were inaudible as if she were a cat. That hair, copper-colored skin, deep eyes, and mischievous smile…

  “Atha!” Greyson cried, surprised that she had surprised them.

  “Hi there, cousin!” Cail said with a wink.

  “Hi,” the girl said. She took a piece of fruit. “I heard something about a woman never being able to trap you. Greyson, you and I both know that’s not true.”

  Cail looked from one to the other. He saw Atha’s mischievous smile and Greyson blushing and losing control of his movements. In the Dungeon of Thieves, torches were the only source of light, so watching Greyson blush with embarrassment was something unheard-of and something he had never thought to see. Greyson was known for being as hard as iron, untamed by women. But it seemed to him that Atha had pierced him with the arrow of love.

  “Are you going to tell him?” Atha asked. She sounded more serious now.

  “Tell him what?” Greyson stammered.

  Atha rolled her eyes and sighed. “Greyson and I are getting married. So don’t you believe a single thing he tells you. He’s a liar.”

  She began to walk away without saying anything more.

  “Atha! Atha! Hell. My love!”

  “Now that, I am prepared to answer to. What do you want, my love? Have you told Cail the truth?”

  Cail’s jaw was hanging open. He was drooling. He could not believe it. Greyson was getting married! It was nothing uncommon for two thieves to marry. Most went to live at the Dungeon, where they would have their children. These would be raised with the help of the other thieves.

  “Greyson! Relax, man. If anybody had asked me at any moment which of the girls in the Dungeon could persuade Greyson to give up his freedom and get married, I’d have betted on this wench. Atha’s bursting out all over, she’s such a dish! Don’t play around with me!”

  “You’re right there, Cail,” Greyson said resignedly. He shrugged. “I’m going to marry this woman. There, I said it.”

  Cail smiled and went on eating the leg of lamb with relish.

  ***

  A month after the funeral rites, Elgahar was already back in Maggrath with Uroquiel, Ítalshin, and ten new pupils who had approached the powerful mage to begin their training in magic. The students were three Dakatak, three elves, two Catalgar, one Cristalur, and one centaur. More than half the mages had died during the conflict including Sendar, the erudite who had helped create the school of magic.

  “It’s good to see you back,” Gáramond said as he welcomed Elgahar and the others in the courtyard of the Castle at Muengüen.

  “Bah!” Jochopepa said. “They’ve brought volunteers with them!” The new pupils looked at the philosopher and his Mílikin companion and decided the two were alike in size and shape. The philosopher was much older and his beard had grown after the decades. Jochopepa also wore the blue tunic, like the philosopher, and had cultivated a black beard, although it barely covered more than the rim of his face. The Mílikin had gained weight and now rivaled Gáramond in girth, including a prominent belly and a double chin that wobbled every time he moved his head. Unlike Gáramond, he was young and still had black hair on his head. The occasional man of faith of the Gardak culture had found his passion in becoming a linguist. He and Gáramond were studying languages, documenting words and expressions, and translating the texts on magic into several languages. The two of them were also in charge of making sure the whole Meridian spoke the common tongue so that communication would not be a problem. Maggrath was the perfect place for this, isolated from the influences of the world.

  “Ah, my friends. I’m so happy to see you,” Gáramond said, hugging Elgahar. “You’ve fought bravely. And as for me, well, I couldn’t be more grateful to have been so far away from Háztatlon. To be honest, after my old friend Strangelus’ death, everything changed. The fighting in Kathanas and then in Háztatlon, when Legionaer advanced, left me wounded for life. But enough about me. Come, my friends, tell me about yourselves.”

  The philosopher had learned enough of the languages of the elves and the centaurs to communicate the basics. He would soon delve into the mind of the elves to learn more and more of their language and their land of origin to document it all in a single tome which would then be stored in a safe place.

  “We need to send bulletins to all the empires,” Elgahar said to Jochopepa.

  “That’s right, lord mage. It’s the only way to fill Maggrath again. Many of our people died, but it wasn’t in vain.”

  “Never, Jocho. May I call you Jocho? Your name is too long for my taste.”

  “Jocho sounds fine to me. Let’s look after our guests before Gáramond monopolizes them and leaves them deaf with his logorrhea.”

  Elgahar laughed. “You’re right. Let’s rescue their ears.”

  Ítalshin and Uroquiel withdrew to their rooms where they began the long process of ruminating over what they had seen during the Times of Chaos.

  ***

  Despite w
hat Mérdmerén, Gáramond, Elgahar and another handful of people had recommended, Lohrén and Flóregund had decided to continue their journey.

  “You don’t understand,” Lohrén had told Elgahar before leaving. That afternoon they were in Háztatlon, enjoying the comforts of the palace. “We’re beings who have lived on a single patch of land for thousands of years. I lived through the destruction of my world, Érvein, thousands of years ago during the original Times of Chaos. I lived through our migration on a patch of land to Allündel. Allündel was beautiful, but it was a patch, and so only had limited horizons.

  “And this is the first time I have ever set foot on a whole world after living for so long on an isolated, small piece of land. This war, living through the Times of Chaos again… I thought I would die. And I wanted to die. What I wanted was to perish along with my fellow elves during the fight.”

  “And why? Why such a passion for dying?”

  “Because my heart would never be able to love again. Flirting, wooing, whatever you like. But never love. I loved once, truly, and my love was unrequited.”

  “And who was this maiden who conquered your heart?” Elgahar had asked. They were both sitting at a tea table in the elf’s room in the Imperial Palace.

  “Luchy.”

  “Luchy? Manchego’s Luchy?”

  “The very same.”

  “But how? How on earth did that happen?”

  “I don’t know, mage. Love is like the wind: unpredictable. Its source comes from somewhere mysterious and moves at its own rhythm.”

  “And is that why you have to do this? Is that why you have to walk the world? At least take horses, so that you may travel a little faster.”

  “No, mage. It must be on our legs. I want to feel what it is like to walk on a world. I know, I’ll be exposed to the dangers of the Deserters and other things out there, but that doesn’t matter. It’s part of the experience. We’ll visit every village, every settlement, every farm, every city in the Mandrake Empire, Grizna, Moragald’Burg, Yumbala, Devnóngaron, etcetera. Say nothing, mage, it’s decided. We leave tomorrow at dawn.” The elf smiled. “We’ll travel light and survive off the natural resources of your world.”

  Despite all his wisdom and his long millennia of life, the elf was making an adolescent decision. But perhaps that was what was happening: he had begun his second life and he wished to live it to the fullest.

  “And who will lead the elven people?” Elgahar asked.

  “Melanina, one of my most celebrated captains. She’ll be their guide. She always wanted to follow in the footsteps of Azuri the Praise. I don’t suppose you know who she is, but to simplify things, I’ll just say that Azuri was our spiritual guide in Allündel. I believe Melanina will do a great job bringing peace and ease of mind to our people who are now forever isolated from Allündel.”

  Lohrén remembered this meeting with the mage months before at the palace and had no regrets at having launched himself into the adventure of exploring the world of the Meridian on foot. The only other elf who had signed up for the adventure had been Flóregund. To his surprise, he had found out during the months they had been together exploring the world that Flóregund, too, had fallen in love with Luchy. When Lohrén had explained that elves only love a single time, the poor boy had been shaken. But at least he had given him a valid explanation, which was why he had decided to start getting involved with human women.

  Town and village after town and village, Lohrén and Flóregund met many women. The elves were not at all unattractive and they did not miss the opportunity of sharing a bed with a woman who was curious to find out what elves were like. So far, neither of them knew whether they had left their seed in any of the women. More than one involvement of hours or days would yield a child that was half-elf, half-human, and lo and behold, the meridian would slowly fill with half-breeds. Although, centuries would be necessary for the effect to be noticeable.

  “The name of this village is Jocasta,” Flóregund said as he read the signs at the entrance. They were some way to the southeast, far from Érliadon, a city they had visited long before arriving here.

  “Let’s go in,” Lohrén had said. “You know that in villages like this, the first thing you have to do is go to the noisiest bar to meet people.”

  They both wore Mandrakian clothes: leather pants, tanned leather boots, cotton shirts, and hats for protection against the sun. Both of them wore their hair loose and several times, they had been mistaken for women. Brawls were never far away since most men were uneasy at seeing such handsome beings take away their women. But the conflict was almost always solved by Lohrén inviting the customers to several free rounds at the bar.

  Money was no problem for them. A couple of times Lohrén had been hit in the face. Twice his nose had bled, once he had been bitten in the ear, and once he had been kicked in the groin. Flóregund had not escaped a beating either.

  “It’s part of the experience.” the elf had said. For the elves, anger in humans was like an unstable lightning-flash, which came and went in the blink of an eye. Lohrén was fascinated by the sight of human melodrama.

  “That’s the most popular tavern, over there,” he said, pointing to a place bursting at the seams with drunkards. It was not even six in the evening yet and most people were already on the ground, flat out.

  They went into the bar without any trouble. They went to the end and sat at the counter.

  “Evening, friends,” someone said.

  Lohrén and Flóregund turned to take a good look at the person who had greeted them. He was a young man, well-built, and dressed rather differently from the others. He carried a flute. His clothes were a gaudy blue, but they suited him.

  “Musician?” Lohrén asked.

  “I’m quite a famous troubadour. Haven’t you heard of me?”

  “I’m sorry to say I haven’t,” Lohrén said. “But if you tell me your name, I’ll be able to tell other people you’re a talented troubadour.”

  “Beer!” Flóregund said to the innkeeper.

  “You two are very different. Silver hair, pointed ears, long, straight golden hair, and both very handsome.”

  “We’re elves.”

  “By the Gods!” The troubadour took off his hat and offered his hand. “My name is Délegas the Troubadour. Once, I had the intention of becoming a man of faith, but religion and its disciplines taught me that my true passion has always been traveling from town to town, singing songs, and meeting new people. Now, I have the pleasure of meeting you.” He nodded at them.

  “My name’s Lohrén.”

  “My name’s Flóregund,” said the golden-haired elf. “Are you going to sing us something?” He took a sip from his beer. Lohrén tried his drink and savored it.

  “Sure! It’s an honor to meet two elves! The news of the great war of the Fields of Flora has spread everywhere, and I’ve hardly needed the inspiration to make up songs and poems. But I think I’ll invent a new song for my friends, the elves.”

  “You’re going to make it up right now?” Lohrén asked.

  “Yes, of course. Being an excellent troubadour means being able to invent rhymes and rhythms at any given moment.”

  Délegas put the flute to his lips and began to play a delightful melody. The rhythm of the song seduced the audience, and soon the noisy tavern went quiet. They all listened wide-eyed, as the music was truly wonderful.

  Délegas climbed on to a chair and began to sing.

  From elven lands remote and fair,

  Two friends set out with never a care,

  In search of adventures which they could then

  Turn into tales for other men.

  To help the world the elves came here,

  Where evil gripped all that Men hold dear.

  And now they’re here for our delight –

  How lucky I am to have met them tonight.

  Délegas took up his flute again and went on to play a melody, ending on a grave note that left several customers in tears.

/>   “Bravo!” Lohrén said. “That was great! You are very good.”

  “Friends,” said Délegas. “It would be an honor for me to join you in your adventure.”

  “You don’t even know what our adventure is,” Flóregund said, sounding a little suspicious.

  “It’s possible. But I can read in your gazes the opportunity to join in a great journey, and there’s no better muse than the experience a journey grants. If you’ll accept me, it will be an honor.” Délegas bent at the waist in a show of respect.

  Lohrén and Flóregund looked at one another. It would be very enjoyable to have someone playing music during the long journey.

  They both shrugged, and Lohrén said, “Welcome to our adventure. Let’s celebrate!”

  Délegas put his flute away. He took his mug of beer and the three of them proposed toasts, then raised their elbows to down the drink in a single gulp.

  “Another round!” called Lohrén. “Drinks are on the elves, for the whole bar! Let’s celebrate the way Nimyaya has taught us!” He was already feeling the effects of the alcohol in his blood.

  ***

  The line of elves, several hundred of them, spread across the plain after having traveled a long way in their migration from the Mandrake Empire to Devnóngaron. The effects of the destruction caused by the God of Chaos and his impressive beast were still visible, and the charring and destruction of the forests would be a long-lasting memory of the ferocious attack the earth had suffered.

  But the elves were happy. The land they had been granted was beautiful, and most of them could feel the presence of Mother, known to them as Ÿ, oozing from the pores of the earth.

  Melanina, the leader appointed by Lohrén to be in charge of the elves, had fallen irremediably in love with Marzgarg, who, with masculinity like no other, had wooed her and then bedded her. Melanina was a beautiful elf-lady with platinum hair like Lohrén’s, blue eyes like the clearest aquamarines, and a slim body with small breasts.