The Sacrifice (The War of the Gods Book 1)

by Pablo Andrés Wunderlich Padilla

  Manchego was surprised. It was rare to see Tomasa so amiable. He guessed that even she must have a soft heart under all those folds of muscle and fat. Luchy and Manchego raced away amid laughter, with Rufus barking behind them.

  ***

  “How many times have we talked about the importance of being on time, sunshine?” Lulita began as soon as the boy came in through the door. “I don’t want to forbid you to see Luchy, it’s something I’d be very sorry to do, but it’ll have to be done if you go on failing the ranch. I’m very sorry that at your age your duties are so burdensome and full of responsibilities, but that’s something we’ve discussed too. Now sit down and eat your dinner. They’re Doña Paca’s tamalitos.”

  Manchego was contrite.

  “I’m sorry, grandma. I’m going to do everything I can to stop it happening again.”

  He was lying. He was convinced he deserved a break, and the only way to get it was by pulling the wool over his grandmother’s eyes. Besides, his best friend deserved the time he spent with her, listening to her chatter, to her words filled with charisma. His mind wandered and he lost himself in the girl’s green eyes.

  “You’d better, sunshine,” the old woman said. “There’s plenty of work to be done, and nobody else to do it. Remember, it’s your future as well.”

  The boy’s only reply was a sigh. He felt the weight of work on his shoulders.

  Manchego cut the string that enveloped the tamal in a banana leaf. A cloud of steam came from the dough and invaded his nose with the scents of olives, chili, peppers and pork. The dough was typical of the South, very different from the cured meats and cheeses of the North. Manchego devoured his dinner like a hungry puppy under Lulita’s proud gaze. When he had finished, the grandmother took away the dishes and wrapped her beloved heir between the sheets. While the lad slept, the old woman noticed that once again a frown appeared on the boy’s forehead: a look of effort, the tightened muscles, and then the release, but always with that frown.

  Chapter III – The Village

  Manchego went as a passenger in the cart, sitting on the sacks filled with the products of the ranch. With his face resting on his hands, he watched the passing of the day with boredom. What he wanted to do was play with Luchy and Rufus, but today his duty to the ranch was leading him to learn how to sell the farm products at the market.

  The cart, pulled by Sureña the ranch mare, went down the Avenue of the Ranchers, where all the roads that led to the other farms came together. They were all part of a complex which many generations back had been called The Farmer, The QuepeK’Baj, which in the original language of Devnóngaron meant “fertile land”.

  The complex consisted of twenty farms, all of them belonging to families who knew each other, many of them related. In order to supply the population a market had started nearby, which had grown into what was now known to all as San-San Tera.

  Rattling along the Avenue of the Ranchers, Manchego was thinking about Luchy and the other kids at school. None of them had to negotiate with traders, they were not of age. The injustice of his situation made him want to cry, but he needed to be firm, because without him the farm would collapse completely.

  They reached the entrance booth, guarded by two watch-towers whose watchmen were taking their mid-morning nap. In the booth the guards were chatting with a couple of women of loose morals and low price. They were letting the people in after a casual inspection.

  One man arrived picking his nose.

  “What’s your business in the village, sir?” asked a soldier with a paunch. His eyes shifted restlessly when the man handed him a package. Money granted easy passage. Then it was the turn of Manchego and Tomasa. The woman glared at the guard defiantly.

  “We’ve come to sell from the Holy Comment Ranch.”

  Tomasa’s fierce physique opened a lot of doors, and they were allowed in without any more questioning. As soon as they were inside Manchego noticed the stench of filth, manure and other putrid smells he did not want to identify. In the last few years what had grown most was poverty, and with it, sorrow. The village was going from bad to worse.

  Poverty spread at the edge of the village, on the border between the Mid Sector and the Noble one, and it soon came to be called The Pigsty. The area had the highest rate of violence and misfortune.

  Poor children ran behind the carts as they came in. “Give me a coin for my bread!” “A coin for my bread!” “Just one!” “May the gods bless you!”

  All Manchego wanted was to leave them behind and not hear their crying voices. He was not sure whether to feel disgust or pity for them.

  The houses of the Pigsty were huts, wooden cubicles with earthen floors. The streets, also dirt, were formless. Naked children stood at the doors of their huts, with bellies swollen by ferocious malnutrition.

  The canteens overflowed with drunkards at only eleven in the morning, while the cheap prostitutes offered their services to anyone who passed. Gangs of mercenaries took advantage of the weak or exchanged a few coins with the whores for their favors. Manchego turned his face away in disgust.

  The change when they reached the Mid Sector was so radical that Manchego felt he was breathing a different air. The sound of the hooves on the cobbled streets was like celestial music. At the same time security measures were doubled. The guards, protected by polished armor, did their rounds with swords in their belts, watching so that the poor were kept under control. Manchego could make out the badge of the House of Thorén, a noble family who had donated the armor. In the Mandrake Empire, every house had its own fortress and militia.

  In addition the Empire led its own Imperial Army, made up of legendary guerrilla warriors, soldiers, archers and magicians who manipulated the elements. Manchego knew that if one day he enrolled in the militia, he was sure to end up under the House of Thorén’s orders, even though he had never met the family and never would. A young boy from the village was rarely invited to a castle, except to work in exchange for a small wage.

  When they went into the Noble Sector, the atmosphere changed again. Manchego, unused to luxury, was dazzled by the elegance. The women were lovely, with billowing dresses in yellow and purple tulle. This was like a dream, the kind of stories he had heard throughout his childhood. As a rancher he was unused to such waste.

  At last they entered the Central Park, a square space, spacious and vast, in whose centre stood a tall, heroic statue in honor of Alac Arc Angelo, God of Light, despite his being dead, or missing, as the faithful of the polytheist religion preferred to believe. The statue held a spear in its hands which was aimed at an imaginary enemy. Its angel’s wings were spread like two masts with billowing sails.

  The market was spread out around the statue, crowded with vendors, suppliers and customers, all absorbed in their exchanges. The noise was deafening. The drizzle which had been falling since morning was no obstacle to business. Buyers bargained, went in and out, bought.

  Tomasa dismounted and tied the reins to a post. The big woman arranged her cotton dress. She was nervous. Hanging from her belt was a sharp dagger, and inside her leather boots she had a knife. She had come prepared for anything.

  Manchego got down from the cart, overwhelmed by the variety of stimuli the market offered: the smells of meat both fresh and past its prime, dead and rotten fish, vegetables fresh and cooked, the poor hygiene of vendors and customers; the colors of the goods; the noise of voices, the barking and braying.

  Tomasa glimpsed two men who were getting off their cart at that moment. The boy shuddered when he saw the icy coldness of their faces. The exchange promised to be anything but pleasant.

  One of the traders looked like a scarecrow. The other proudly displayed a belly the width of a stride; his eyes cried defiance.

  Tomasa made the introductions: “This is Manchego, the heir of the ranch, from my landlord Eromes, may he rest in peace.”

  The buyers, Marcus and Feloziano, replied with a look of disapproval. Marcus, th
e big one with the enormous belly, grimaced in disgust. He crouched and went over to Manchego until his face was just a few inches away. The shepherd could smell the buyer’s putrid breath. Whether from fear or from the stench, he sank his head between his shoulders.

  The fat trader raised his chin: “This pitiful vermin is the heir to the Holy Comment Ranch?” He laughed vindictively. “This bait is what’s going to take the place of the great Eromes the Perpetuator? How pathetic! Ha, ha, ha!”

  Feloziano had also been studying the boy. “It’s quite clear that your village is going downhill at amazing speed. I don’t understand why, because the settlements and villages nearby aren’t suffering the same decline.”

  Tomasa held back her anger so as not to lose the farm’s only customers.

  “Manchego is the sole heir to the Ranch.” Her foreign accent became stronger as her nervousness increased.

  “Well then, lad,” said Marcus, “what do you have to offer us? Are you going to show us your goods laid out decently, or are you planning on letting Tomasa do the work? What d’you say? Maybe you’ve got no balls between your legs, or maybe you’re too green for your manhood to have ripened? Ha, ha, ha!”

  All Manchego could do was turn red. Tomasa stepped in. “Now look, things are hard these days, you’ve got to understand. The fields are suffering! Drought and lack of cash! The situation is difficult, for goodness’ sake!” Tomasa was losing control.

  The traders were adamant. They shook their heads.

  “I expected more of you and your beloved ranch, Tomasa,” said Marcus. His double chin quivered. “By the gods, how do you expect me to buy this crap? Tell Doña Lula she’d better lower the price of her crops so it matches their poor quality. How much do you want for this disgrace?” Marcus asked. He threw aside a handful of the harvested grain, attracting the ravens, who were anxious to peck at the unexpected treasure. Tomasa was on the verge of tears.

  “Thirty crowns. And no less!”

  “I’ll give you twenty,” the big man said. Manchego could not help but notice that both men carried sharp swords sheathed at their belts. He guessed they would have little mercy and did not want to think about how many people must have tried the edge of their weapons.

  “But…” the servant began to protest. She was interrupted by the glutton:

  “Twenty or nothing.”

  Tomasa lowered her gaze. At this rate, the farm would succumb to the crisis.

  “Well then, all right,” the woman said, left with no other choice. Her face was distorted by humiliation and sadness.

  Marcus took out a satchel from his smock and let it fall disdainfully into Tomasa’s hand. At his whistle, two boys unloaded the sacks from the cart.

  “A displeasure, doing business with you,” Marcus said, getting himself ready to go. “Pray to the God of the Earth so that he grants you the favor of blessing your fields, it’s painful to watch your decline. And you, lad, put on a few pounds at least. Don’t they feed you properly? Skinny, dark skin, black eyes… what are you, a raven? You don’t look in the least like your dead grandfather. Ha, ha, ha!”

  “Have a very happy evening, my friends,” Feloziano said. “Be seeing you.”

  Tomasa waited until the traders were at a safe distance before she broke down. All she wanted to do was take revenge against those ingrates, for being insolent, for humiliating her for the umpteenth time in the exchange. “Oh, no, Mancheguito, what are we going to do? I can’t go on like this! The farm will perish and your granddad will turn over in his grave! If you only knew how I’ve prayed to the God of Earth, but Gordbaklala doesn’t seem to hear my prayers.” The serving woman collapsed into desolate weeping.

  The boy felt terrible. To be with Luchy he had neglected his duties, but now he understood that his presence was crucial for the future of the ranch. Sooner or later he would have to face those traders again, or others with a similar attitude. He needed to learn fast to avoid something like this happening again, and he would only manage that by throwing himself wholly into working the fields and learning. He knew all this would keep him away from his friend, and from his yearning to appreciate nature, but it was necessary.

  The boy stretched his skinny arms.

  “Don’t cry, Tomasa. Those men will have to deal with me one day, you’ll see. When I’m the owner of the ranch, they’ll have to pay double the amount of crowns for our products. That’s my promise!”

  “Oh, laddie,” Tomasa lamented, wiping her face as she did so. “You’re very special, yes. Everything will be alright, I know. But I need you to be more diligent with your work.”

  “Are we going back home?

  “Heavens! I almost forgot. Your grandma needs you to go to Ramancia’s shop for a magic potion for the hen. It seems she’s not laying eggs any more, and if she doesn’t lay, then you’ll have no breakfast. Oh no, all the animals are dying…”

  Manchego’s heart sank. They had sold many animals: pigs, oxen, bulls and several hens. They only had one left, and now she was sick. They could not lose this hen, since with the few coins they had gained they could not pay for another one.

  Manchego put the eight crowns Tomasa gave him into a small satchel.

  “Don’t take too long, Manchego. We need to get back to the farm, to go on working. Off you go!”

  Manchego trembled at the thought of the witch’s name: Ramancia. He hated going to her shop. He always ended up with the threat of being turned into some kind of disgusting vermin.

  Chapter IV – Innominatus

  The bloody scenes of a painful past stabbed him, and in his solitude he was carried back to that moment. Tzargorg… Innominatus… Mérdmerén… Irijada…

  The wild winds beat at his face and long, shining black hair. The cold penetrated into his bones. On his muscular chest, uncovered, was revealed a black tattoo which spread over half his torso and which he had etched with forest dyes. On his forehead was a mark made with the fresh blood of an animal he had killed to feed the clan. His name, Tzargorg, had ruled for three generations. He had inherited it after overthrowing and beheading his own father; his father had done the same to his own. Such was the wild law of Mother: the strong young man takes over from the old. Only a few chosen ones survive the fury of Mother.

  His eyes swept the tranquility of the plain where his clan was settled. The grazing land was moist from the tears of the night, the sun barely a shy gesture on the horizon. From atop a titanic boulder he watched nature unfold, breathing every cell of Mother…

  A voice brought him out of his trance. A skinny boy with brown skin and dark eyes and hair was talking to him.

  “How much are these shepherd’s crooks?” Manchego asked, rather unsurely. It seemed that this vendor was sick in the head, with those unfocussed eyes and confused expression.

  The boy had gone to his shop, The Shepherd of Shepherds, because of its fame. It was said that it had the best and most varied goods, like shepherd’s crooks, jackets, robes, boots or shearing-knives. But the vendor did not seem ready to attend to his customers. The lad studied the stranger’s face with its golden skin and sky-blue eyes, the typical features of a Wild Man. Nothing disturbed him, it was as if half his body were in another dimension.

  He appeared to be in his fifth decade. He might have been younger, but the marks of pain on his brow must add winters to his age. His skin was wrinkled, perhaps because of the weather’s rage, perhaps for some other reason. Something in his look screamed for help. His gaze was of a sadness in search of redemption.

  The vendor shook his head a couple of times.

  “Who gave you that vest?”

  Manchego was puzzled, and immediately became nervous. Nobody had ever asked him that. Behind the wrinkles, the fatigued expression, was a man who reacted nimbly.

  “Um… my grandmother gave it to me. She says it belonged to my grandfather, but she cut it down to my size. It looks as though I’m a lot skinnier than he was.” The boy shrugged. “I wear it e
very day. It’s the only souvenir I have of my grandfather.” The boy bent his head, embarrassed by the vendor’s gaze, which seemed capable of cracking rocks. The man did not take his eyes off the vest, as if he were analyzing each one of its fibers with his fingertips.

  The boy became irritated and took a step back. He did not understand the reason for so much interest. “It’s llama fur, ruminants that live in the wild Devnóngaron,” said the Wild Man. “It’s very well preserved.”

  “It’s thanks to my grandmother … Well, I take good care of it too. It’s in memory of my grandfather, and I respect him, even though I never knew him.”

  “Memories…” the man savored, scratching his square jaw.

  His dark hair was thinly streaked with white. He wore a simple tunic which revealed much of his tall, muscular body. His forearms looked like pincers, his calloused hands were a testament to dangerous moments. He seemed proud of his skin and marks.

  “Memories can be painful and hurt when one least expects it,” the man said. “But they also fill us with joy… or sadness. That vest,” he said, pointing at it, “has witnessed unique experiences.” Manchego put his arms around his vest, as if he feared to lose it.

  “What’s your name, shepherd?” the vendor asked with a serene look on his face, and sat down on a sun-worn bench. His deep sky-blue eyes were now on the same level as those of Manchego, who could not shake off the discomfort the man’s scrutiny stirred in him. “How do you know I’m a shepherd?” the boy asked in alarm.

  “That vest, shepherd, is a vest for shepherds. It’s designed for lovers of life. Your grandfather must have been a great character. Do you know any other boy like you with a vest like that? I don’t think so. What’s your name?”