The Sacrifice (The War of the Gods Book 1)

by Pablo Andrés Wunderlich Padilla

  A man came up to him with eyes staring wide, bow in one hand and an arrow in the other. It was the one who had hailed him from the roof.

  “Señor Manchego? The rider with the white horse?”

  Manchego did not know what to say. He could not guess the archer’s intentions, and he was armed.

  “By the gods!” the man cried joyfully. “He’s come back from his mission! The gods are good…”

  He held out his hand and Manchego recognized him.

  “My lord…Savarb at your service. We have to thank the gods for your life. It’s a miracle. The battle of the Two Hundred was a massacre, a complete extermination. And those sons of bitches are piling up our dead in stacks for reasons we don’t know, but it’s obvious that they’re doing it with some unholy purpose,” the Captain muttered.

  “Soldiers at the entrance!”

  At that moment a squad of twenty enemy soldiers came in through the secret entrance. They were met with a volley of arrows like wasps, some of which hit their targets. A bomb of fermented lard ended the skirmish when it fell on the daring intruders and burnt them alive, amid howls of pain and the crackle of charred flesh.

  Savarb sighed and turned to Manchego:

  “Right, my lord, we don’t have much time. We need to join forces and secure the Asaetearas, the last of the three points that are still standing against the enemy. Follow me…What’s up? Are you worried?

  “Yes, Captain… I’m worried about what might be happening at my house, with my family. It was peaceful when I left, but now… I don’t know how things are. I’m afraid I can’t help you, I need to get back right away.”

  “Get back? Are you crazy? Do you know the dangers you’ll be facing if you head toward the ranches? The soldiers’ll cut you to shreds, señor Manchego.”

  “But … I have a grandmother… she’s old…” muttered the boy, swallowing his panic.

  Savarb studied the lad and knew he would not manage to dissuade him. “I know of an alternative way, my lord: the sewers. It’s not free from danger, we don’t know what’s in there, but it’s the only option. And there’s a problem: the nearest entrance is two blocks away.”

  “I’ll risk it!” Manchego said, suddenly hopeful. “I can’t stay here when my grandmother’s still at the ranch, and Luchy and Tomasa and Rufus…They need me! I’ve got to get there one way or another!” the boy said, clenching his fists. “I’ll go by the sewers.”

  He felt full to the brim with determination; he even noticed that his voice had changed, as if there were no trace of innocence left in him and he were now just a sad man with a longing for revenge.

  Savarb nodded. “Two of my soldiers will escort you and help you take off the lid at the entrance; it’s metal and very heavy. At the end of the access stairway there ought to be a torch, and it should be easy to light. Here’s a box of matches; they’re good quality and don’t need a flint, you just need to rub them together. I used them to light my pipe, but I think you’ll need them more than I do. When you’re inside the sewers, don’t forget to follow the current. The exit is in Meeting Street.”

  “Soldiers!” came a cry in the distance. A sphere of flames flew over their heads. Arrows fell in showers. “Those sons of bitches never rest,” muttered Savarb. He turned to Manchego: “Set off at once! Here, take this dagger, you might need it. Get away before night comes!”

  ***

  Maslon and a comrade named Ermand guided Manchego amid shouting and the noise of the battle they had left behind them. The shepherd was tiring fast, he was not used to moving so cautiously, bent double, his nerves and muscles tense. For a moment he thought a few soldiers were coming toward them, but the noise was lost amid the hurly-burly of the war.

  He scanned the windows and doors of the houses. Maslon and Ermand stopped in the middle of the street. There in front of them was the metal lid, heavy, with a smooth rusty surface, which gave access to the sewers.

  “Now push from one side with the club,” Maslon said. “One, two, three!”

  The lid gave with a powerful screech. The pestilent breath of the drains surged up from the black mouth. Manchego recovered from the stench and began to go down the steps. What mattered was to get to his grandmother as soon as possible. “My lord, wait! There’s something I want to tell you. It’s a song my grandmother used to sing in difficult times, and you seem to me one of those bright beings my grandmother called revealers. The song goes like this:

  You fret, and you’re smothered by words,

  Meaningless, fluttering like birds,

  You’re hooked, on the route that you know,

  Conquering wherever you go,

  Eclipsed, you surge from defeat to the fight,

  The lion’s battle-roar proclaims your might.

  Your sorrows you long to discard, to forget,

  To take refuge in others, to flow freer yet,

  Dulling yourself with tears, your ideas flowing free,

  You swing in a hammock of sorrows, cease to be.

  Emotion turns to energy, your scheming

  Thoughts become arrows that cut through your dreaming

  You lose all the peasants weave into their song,

  What pleased you in other eons is now sad, is now wrong,

  And yet your flag in battle flutters proud and free,

  You resist the oppression that drowns you in misery,

  You weaken, O powerful unveiler, you taste despair,

  Your swollen heart holds treasures of memories in rosaries, and when boiled

  they suddenly wake in your mind, and you remember when and where.

  Bleak, the ideas that swarm to sulfur disdain:

  Dulled, you sink like a ship adrift in the main.

  Cheerful puzzles you’ve talked about slip from your hand

  And fall, frozen, over mountains of words on the land.

  Warrior heroes casual Time has evolved for your aid:

  You take up the whole, not the part they say you have played.

  Not for you the frothy heroics of a day or an hour:

  You defend the flanks you’re assigned with fury and power.

  Yield not, avoid all shabby temptation,

  March, warrior hero, let your strength be illumination!

  So onwards, divine angel, give your flock the care which is owing,

  Keep vivid that life which the saints send endlessly flowing,

  Shout with power your eminence, let your warlike passions shine clear,

  March onwards, let your dwelling be strong, your brightness austere!

  These words were like a fresh breath of hope, and they drew him away from the wish to take revenge for the murders of his mother and grandfather. “Thanks for the song… Now I have to go. Maslon and Ermand, may the gods be with you!”

  The warriors wished Manchego a good journey, and with great effort began to close the entrance to the sewers. With his eyes on the hole above his head, Manchego watched the evening light disappear in that ever-narrower half-moon. With a clatter everything went black and silent.

  In the distance was the sound of something dripping. His heart froze when he heard metal-soled boots running over the cobblestones outside. He wished his new friends Maslon and Ermand the best, that they would manage to escape and reach the fort in time. The silence was almost an oasis of serenity. Apart from the intermittent dripping, he could only hear his own breath and the beating of his heart.

  He took out the box of matches the Captain had given him. With one hand he touched his other pocket; yes, his Teitú nut was still there. In the darkness he opened the box and felt inside. There were only three of them left, he would have to use them wisely. He lit one. A bubble of light lit up the tunnel of moldy brick walls.

  He went on down the stairs, slowly, so as not to put out the flame. As Savarb had told him, the torch was beside the last step. A breath of air came up the tunnel and extinguished the light. He lit the second match and held it to the torch. The flame ca
ught at once, vigorously, licked the walls and almost reached the ceiling.

  Secure in the light, Manchego stepped off the final step, and his boots sank into a thick green liquid with feces and other refuse floating in it. The stench made him retch, but he had to go on. This was nothing in comparison with what he had just been through, with what Grandmother might be going through. Savarb had warned him to follow the current of the water, and so he did.

  He walked as fast as he could, making as little noise as possible. When he came to a crossroads, he took account of the flow of water and refuse and took the same direction. He preferred not to think too much; enigmas and secrets he had barely begun to make out were accumulating in his mind. His whole life had been turned upside-down, and he knew that the Manchego who was going back to the ranch was not the one who had left it.

  Noise.

  He stopped and the noise ceased. It was the sound of footsteps, he was sure of it. Someone was walking at the same pace as himself. He stood still for a few seconds, looking back, in case that person should appear. Nothing. All the same, a few waves in the current confirmed that someone was nearby.

  On an impulse he started to run in that direction. Whoever was there was not fleeing, but coming towards him. “Stop, in the name of the Mayor!” The shout echoed between the eroded walls. Something shiny flew towards him. He soon realized what it was and crouched down. The spear hit the torch, sending sparks and embers everywhere. There was darkness.

  Without being aware of it, he sent out a pulse of angelic energy. As though in a gentle wave, a body traveled across the distance that separated them. Manchego felt only that this presence moved away from him to release its fury on the soldiers who were pursuing him. The boy stirred and wiped his sleeve over his face. In the darkness he felt for the torch: it was wet and now useless. He still had one match left. He rubbed it, and by this small light made out two soldiers fighting to the death with a being who wielded a sword with only a single arm. Manchego felt a current of energy that electrified him as he recognized Mowriz fighting with a passion he would never have imagined in him. It infected Manchego, the wish to avenge his mother and grandfather awoke in him, and he joined in the fight. Before the match went out, he managed to thrust the dagger into the side of a soldier. He felt horror as he noticed the flesh yielding, deeply and cleanly, before the advance of the blade. The soldier collapsed with a yell.

  Even though he was in the dark, he could touch the current with his hand and guess its direction. He ran and ran, until a tiny crack in the ceiling indicated the way out. Outside, evening was already sweeping away the day and a great dark cloud hung above the countryside. He turned to look at the village. It was a landscape of desolation, of thick columns of smoke and fires that carried the smell of burning bodies with them. With a heavy heart, he set off for the ranch at a run, fearing that his house would already be under the rule of terror.

  ***

  He arrived with his whole body alert. He was about to go into the Ranch when he heard Rufus barking in the distance. He felt something was wrong. He ran in that direction. The barking led him to the Observatory. Beside the Great Pine Rufus was barking as loudly as he could. Manchego hugged the dog and tried to calm him. “Rufus! What’s up?”

  Rufus was barking at the ceiba tree, at the foot of the hill. The shepherd looked in that direction. He saw Ounces trapped under the tree. He ran down to help his favorite sheep. “I’m coming, Ounces!”

  Lightning streaked the sky. The blast of thunder deafened Manchego for a few seconds. A strong wind rose which shook the trees from side to side, even the biggest ones, like the ceiba. Rufus kept on barking, but in a different way, desperately, as if he were alerting him to something. He went on. When he reached Ounces, he squatted down. Nothing was holding the animal. Was it a trap? The sheep watched him with a sly look. Manchego started, tripped.

  Those sky-blue eyes, bright, as if possessed, went on staring at him. The boy began to move away backwards, fell. But it was not only he who fell, the whole world toppled. His back struck the ground, his lungs emptied abruptly and he was left breathless. Something cracked under his weight.

  He wanted to act, but panic had paralyzed his will. He was sinking. Two tears of sadness ran down the shepherd’s face as he fell into the depths. At the last instant he reached out with his arms to grab whatever there was, but his fingers grasped only air.

  “Lulita….!” he howled. The earth swallowed him.

  PART II

  Chapter XVIII- Darkness

  Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in, breathe in, breathe in, breathe out.

  Something turbulent flowed along those elastic tubes with their unequal diameter. It was liquid, it flowed with difficulty. Pulse by pulse. A bomb marked the rhythm of life. Tut, tot, tut, tot, tut, tot…Tut, liquid out; tot, liquid in. Breathe in, breathe out.

  Everything worked to perfection. It sounded rather like a rustle of silk. He imagined a silkworm rubbing its legs. The image of the worm shattered when a loud noise brought him out of his slumber, there seemed to be leaks of water and air. But he was exhausted and needed to sleep in order to recover. He let himself drift through dreams, delightful images which peacefully rocked him.

  And what is that? That noise… Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Something that was broken, leakages of air and water.

  He had no idea how long he was in that state, asleep, waiting, recovering. Recovering from what? He might be dead, but an acute pain reminded him that he was indeed alive… Rest made him forget that pain. The layers of sleep covered him with their feathered blankets.

  One, two, three, four sheep jumped over the fence. Five, six, seven, eight, nine sheep jumped. Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen sheep. What joy! One after the other, white and pretty as clouds, jumping with the grace of the breeze, the movement of the pendulum of life.

  A hundred and five, a hundred and six, a hundred and seven, a hundred and eight, a hundred and nine. Wow! So many sheep!

  One of them stopped before it jumped and turned to look at him. Those eyes… a sheep with sky-blue eyes?... The sheep bleated, baaaah, baaah, and jumped. That blue-eyed sheep triggered a memory. He thought he knew its name, even though he could not remember it. The shepherd who looked after all those sheep must know his job.

  Shepherd…

  Shepherd?

  The word echoed in his mind.

  A dying sense surrounded him. A shiver ran through his body with poisonous claws, scratching at his exhausted soul. Everything was silence, cold, the smell of death. He could see nothing. He wanted to rub his eyes, but the movement brought on a sharp pain. He decided to stay still. Then he noticed that his right arm was terribly wounded, but he did not know how or when he had injured it. He could not see a thing. He put his left hand to his face. Yes his eyes were open, but he had no way of establishing whether everything was dark or whether he had been struck blind.

  Absolute darkness and silence. His breathing was uniform, except for some repeated sighs. He did not know where he was. Perhaps at home, perhaps it was night-time and that was why he could see nothing. He moved his left arm, it hurt a little. The right one hurt too much. His skin brushed against cold stone and made him shiver. There was nothing else around.

  He put the fingers of his left hand to his mouth and touched his lips. They were dry. His fingers too were intact. Luchy! Lulita! Rufus! Balthazar!... What was happening? Who was doing this to him? He did not dare to shout, or even moan with pain. He did not know whether in that darkness there were eyes and ears waiting for the perfect moment to attack him. His heart beat crazily. Something terrible had happened and he had no clue to help him to find out what it was.

  He put his left hand to his head and stroked it. When he felt something gelatinous and a lightning-bolt of pain pierced his skull, his world collapsed.

  What’s happened to me? What’s this on my head?

  He touched it again. Yes, i
t was something gelatinous with a rough edge. He pressed, and once more that stab of pain that came close to driving him insane. He could barely contain a howl. He licked the finger-tips that had touched the wound in his head and tasted something metallic: blood. And the broken bones, the fever… He was beginning to put two and two together. His hair was plastered with dried blood and scabs.

  He tried to feel his right arm with his left, to assess the damage. At that moment he realized that all his weight was lying on that limb. The shoulder was turned towards his chest, the joint was throbbing. It was not the only thing that was twisted: so were his elbow, his wrist and his fingers. Has a horse trampled on me? Could it have been Mowriz and his friends?

  He tried to sit up. He bent his right leg, trying to overcome that torture, so as to lean on his left side. He did not move much, but it was enough to free his right arm from his own weight. Now it felt numb, soft, lifeless. With his left hand he placed it over his chest. Something like peaks and a crest stood out. He understood at once that they were broken bones.

  He understood something else, that his whole right side, including his head, had suffered blows and fractures. Fear overwhelmed him with an attack of nausea, and in two fits of retching he threw up something that stank. A hint of light dawned in his mind. Ounces, his sheep… but possessed, with those sky-blue eyes. He had been frightened and had fallen, something broke beneath him and he kept falling. That was where he must have gotten those injuries.