The Sacrifice (The War of the Gods Book 1)

by Pablo Andrés Wunderlich Padilla

  They carried a shining black coffin; the wood did not look new but was in perfect condition, and was densely covered with paintings of beings with long teeth devouring people and animals.

  The beings approached the crack. On a rock, as if it were a dais, they placed the coffin with perfectly synchronized timing. After this they plunged into the crack, which consumed them. Something rose from the green vapor, something that floated naturally. It was being sucked into the core of the cloud.

  Manchego took a close look. Maybe it was a ghost … yes, it had the face of a person. This ghost was followed by two, three, ten, hundreds of souls which went on splitting off from the green abyss to feed the cloud, whose red veins began to pump.

  It gave the impression that the more souls it absorbed, the more energy it accumulated. The core sent a beam of light to the accursed abyss. There came a deep silence, but it did not last for long. A dreadful clamor made Manchego crouch down and cover his ears, fearing he had gone deaf. When he was calmer he saw a figure come out of the coffin, floating gracefully.

  The spell had resurrected a demon of the shadows. But for that beast to be able to wake up, thousands of innocents had been murdered, and afterwards their rest had been violated by the manipulation of their souls. Manchego emitted a light from within him, Teitú howled as never before. Those energies joined and Manchego established an intimate contact with his soul, which until now had lain slumbering, and at once he understood what he had to do.

  The enlightened shepherd seized the nearest sword. Inspired to fury by an extraordinary force, he ran like a streak of gold light, white and warlike, like an angel flying almost at ground level. The demon was coming down with open arms, finishing feeding itself on the energy of those sacrificed souls.

  A couple of strides away the boy raised his sword, ready to let it fall on the demon and cut it in two with a single stroke. The sword flew gracefully, cutting the air and the particles of dust. It reflected the light of the fire burning in the village. Manchego pivoted and put all his weight on the blow which was going to kill the demon.

  Paralysis.

  A hair’s-breadth from making contact with the demon’s pale, beautiful skin, Manchego froze. He lost control of his body, though not of his thoughts. He panicked, knowing himself so near and at the same time so far from his goal. Teitú’s light went out.

  The beautiful being spun with a fluidity that was graceful and poetic. On its face was a smile brimming with irony and evil. Its hair – long, thin, white fibers – fell around its shoulders and fluttered with the wind. It was three heads taller than Manchego, broad-shouldered although not muscular. It fixed its gaze on the boy. It had intense grey eyes which seemed not to belong to it.

  Its smile twisted. It seized the boy by the neck, lifted him over the accursed crack. Manchego dropped the sword, his eyes filled with tears, he realized he had no air to breathe and his face became congested. The demon awoke terror and admiration in him. It was staring at the boy curiously; perhaps it could not explain how someone who looked so weak could show such courage. Manchego watched it in turn.

  Those gray eyes emanated a very strange power, as if they could see across time and space. They were supernatural.

  Manchego’s heart beat with fear as he recognized those eyes as the source of the evil. The demon smiled, satisfied as it realized the weakness the boy had sunk into, then a growing annoyance twitched in its face. It had recognized this busybody. It squeezed his neck harder, its lips turned to two threads of deep anger. “Alac Arc Angelo?”

  Manchego lost feeling in his legs, then in his hands. At the same time something inside him began to stir vigorously, to be reborn, as though a sun were being born inside him. He began to emit beams of white, divine light in his desperation to escape the asphyxia that was killing him. Below, the dead raised their hands, anxious to take Manchego with them, down to the bottom of the accursed abyss.

  “You managed to escape from my servants, the assassins of the Brotherhood of the Crows, and your saviors kept you well hidden for thirteen long years, but during this time of waiting I never suspected that the god of light would reincarnate in such a feeble body…” the demon said gravely. “You’ve done me the favor of coming to me, and now I myself will take it upon me to cut you to pieces.

  “By the grace of Mórgomiel, god of chaos, father of the universe, evil god, today I shall defeat the god of light once and for all. Die!”

  Teitú was flying around Manchego, full of frustration. It did not know what to do to help the boy, whose face was already purple.

  “Naevas Aedán,” the evil being went on, “when your master dies, you will die with him. Your god, Thórlimás, succumbed in the presence of my master Mórgomiel. Soon you will both join him.”

  By now Manchego could hear nothing. In fact he had lost all his senses and now all that he had left was a force that burnt in the center of his soul. He was aware that he was going to die of suffocation, and in spite of that he felt an internal peace which he did not want to abandon him.

  Amid so much commotion, he found a dormant beam of light waiting for its moment to come forth. Without knowing how, Manchego caused it to surge into life and send forth a lightning-flash of powerful magic. The blast radiated clemency everywhere.

  His shoulder-blades began to tremble. He felt a deep pain in his back. Something was growing continuously, violently tearing his skin apart. There burst forth two limbs with powerful muscles and long bones, which stretched vigorously. Manchego felt he had received a supernatural gift. With his new strength he slipped free from the hand that was squeezing his neck and with an explosion, hurled himself towards the sky.

  Two gallant wings, white and plumed, lifted him with a grace which only a god could possess. He was so beautiful that he illuminated the whole scene with his white radiance, which bellowed, defeating the shadow. The demon covered its face, blinded by a light that was too white, too brilliant.

  From nowhere Manchego took out a spear of solid light, as long as it was heavy; in his other hand appeared a shield made of the same strange material. Around his head formed a helmet of pristine metals and his body acquired a covering of armor. The God of Light emerged in all his splendor. He raised the spear in the air with a threatening flash of brightness. Teitú flew around him, orbiting close to its master. The god, who had never taken his eyes off his goal, prepared to attack. He beat his wings and hurled himself toward the demon like an arrow.

  The demon did not cower before its mortal enemy, the same one who had sent Mórgomiel to the rubble during the Times of Chaos, when the battle between the gods had begun.

  The evil one gave a hair-raising growl. Voices whose origin it was impossible to determine began to cheer on the being in chorus: “Legionaer, Legionaer, Legionaer…” Legionaer moved his hands and from them issued a ball of black energy.

  It would only have taken the God of Light a few seconds to defeat a rival like this, but he had only just recovered his powers and felt like an inexperienced soldier who has just been sent to the battlefield. He poured all his hatred and all his frustration against the evil being, but Legionaer was waiting for him.

  The black ball flew like a missile, leaving behind a wake of shadows. The spell enveloped the God in a web of dark threads which began to burn his skin in a furious rain of sparks, which immediately began to scorch his flesh. Alac Arc Angelo lost strength, the spear vanished like vapor.

  He was falling…falling… Below, the dead reached out to receive him. He felt those bloated hands touch his body, seize his wings.

  “Nooooo! Noooo!”

  Hundreds of hands pulled him towards the accursed abyss. They enveloped him. The boy glimpsed cracks of light as he was sucked by the demonic forces. Around him everything was green, and the feeling of fire on his skin.

  “Nooooo! Noooo!” he cried again, reaching out a hand to Teitú, who joined in the fall, faithful to his master.

  Legionaer laughed, and his laughter
traveled through the village, passing through streets and walls, spreading the news that he had killed the resurrected god of light. Those who witnessed this would always remember that moment, which shriveled their souls.

  The demon, conscious of his mission, left without delay, leaving the destruction of the village which had been used for the sacrifice to continue.

  Chapter XXX – The battle of the besieged

  Night fell over the village, a gust of wind shook the houses within the fort violently and raised a cloud of dust so dense that it got into eyes and throats. There was coughing everywhere, soon drowned by the sound of thousands of boots approaching along the cobbled streets.

  The rhythmic tread of the soldiers was a true funeral march, a chilling boom, boom, boom that reached as far as the last nook and cranny of the grave which the village had now become.

  Positioned on the roofs of the houses, those in charge of defending each cardinal point of the fort ̶ Lula, Savarb, Otto and Lombardo ̶ watched the scene, illuminated at times by the moon which peered between the long arms of the spiraling cloud.

  They were spectators in the anteroom of the final game in this swift, lethal war in which all of them would die. With thousands upon thousands of soldiers ready to unleash their hatred on the survivors, there was no salvation. A howl, as of someone breathing his last breath, sounded amid the night.

  “Archers!” cried Savarb. Every man who carried a bow nocked an arrow, drew the string, aimed at the dark void, keen for his arrow to hit the desired target. All prayed to the god of Light, some to the goddess of Night, that after they died they might be admitted as soon as possible to the Deep Azure of the Heavens.

  An aged man in that line was unable to stop his hands, his feet, his soul from trembling. A river of urine ran down his leg. He thought about his wife, about his daughter, about his sons, his cousins and aunts and uncles, all murdered. He wanted revenge. His fingers weakened and … he released the arrow too soon. The arrow flew in silence, there came a distant moan and the sound of a body falling in the dark. The smile on the archer’s face lasted no more than two seconds, the time it took the reply to reach him. A spear skewered him to the roof of the house.

  “Release!” ordered Savarb.

  A swarm of arrows flew to meet the enemy which they could not see in the darkness. Thousands of spears returned the attack, driven on by the war-cries of those soldiers: heartless, remorseless, unafraid of any loss.

  They attacked the four fronts at the same time, and the crash made the foundations of the houses shake. Lulita, at her post, felt she was losing her balance. The walls buckled and the roof collapsed. She fell on to a pile of rubble and bodies, but forced herself to recover from the horror. The soldiers were shoving each other to reach the collapsed roof. The first ones died with arrows in their chests, but more and more of the enemy kept coming, and soon they had invaded the area completely.

  Savarb shouted orders until he was hoarse, but it was useless, the strategy had been well-thought-out and the fort was already in the hands of the soldiers. Lulita defended herself with her axe and felled anyone who came near her, but the tide of men seemed endless. Lombardo was like a rabid dog, his face contorted, his mouth open, his eyes filled with fury. With his two-handed sword he slashed soldiers in half, so that innards spilled out in pools on the cobbles. He moved with an ease even he himself had not known he was capable of. With each blow he was avenging his beloved ranch burning in flames. But there were too many of them; not even so much accumulated rage could withstand an attack on that scale.

  Tomasa, the big woman of the Wild Lands, attacked with the pick, breaking skulls, making mincemeat of the soldiers. Wherever she looked, there was nothing but armed shadows and more armed shadows that kept coming. How long could she resist? The end was near, but Savarb had a farewell surprise ready.

  “Fire!” the Captain shouted.

  Two young men, Maslon and Ermand, who had distributed fifty barrels of fermented lard throughout the fort, were waiting for the order their captain had arranged with them. At the shout of fire they looked at one another, nodded and began to light the wicks of the explosive trap.

  The flames began to sputter. Fed by the wood, they climbed swiftly toward the sky. The barrier of fire divided the enemy army, as well as swallowing a number of the militia. There followed a brutal explosion which spewed rubble and bodies all over and destroyed everything for a hundred strides around: things, animals or people, enemies or villagers.

  Savarb was deafened. He could barely move with that mountain of bodies on top of him. He saw two armless soldiers, still alive, who carried on relentlessly with their task of wiping out the people of the village. Everything ended for them when they met with Lulita and her deadly axe. Two little girls were running in terror. Savarb gathered his strength together and with a heave, freed himself from the bodies. He was covered in blood from head to foot. He felt himself; everything was in order. Someone grabbed him by the arm and made him turn around.

  It was Lombardo, who handed him a sharp sword. “If we want to survive, Captain, we’ve got to get away at once! The soldiers are still advancing!”

  It was true. Perhaps they had managed to reduce the number of soldiers, but the swine would not stop; many dragged themselves on, mutilated and moving their jaws, aiming to bite in the right place and so go on killing. Savarb tried to get a sense of the scope of the battle. A kind of monument of fire arose, and amid the flames it seemed to him that he recognized a demon. This must be the one casting spells so as to control the fire and with it create a monster at his command.

  ***

  Those few who came out of the fort alive had been on the run for hours. The soldiers were after them, and on occasion they caught those lagging behind. The beast of fire advanced at the same time, threatening the small group. Lombardo wielded his sword, but did not manage to inflict any damage. There was an explosion.

  The house where the group had taken refuge began to burn and the claws of the beast of fire appeared through the cracks in the walls. Inside were Phelias, one of the nurses of the Resistance; Luchy, who was clinging to Lulita, and another girl, Nissa, whom she had become friends with; also Lombardo and Tomasa, who were ready to respond to the attack.

  The claws of the beast tore at the wall and trapped Phelias. Luchy closed her eyes so as not to see, but she still had to listen to the cries of pain and the flames crackling, breathe the nauseating smell of burnt flesh.

  The beast screeched, gave off smoke and sparks. It moved aside and let the soldiers in to finish the attack. Lombardo split the first one in two with a single stroke. He continued with the flow of men who started pouring in, helped by Tomasa and her well-aimed pick. Nissa too entered the fray with a spear she had found on the ground, but the enemies dodged her easily. She lost her balance, and two soldiers seized their chance to drive her to the wall and thrust the spear into her abdomen. The girl gasped and pawed at the bloody mast.

  More soldiers made their way in, and the beast of fire scratched the wooden walls. The situation was critical, they would not withstand this assault. But then something happened, a miracle which none of those watching would ever forget. A red light, intense and angelic, revealed itself in the midst of the uproar. All felt a divine energy. Hope soon began to fade when the light rushed out of the house, toward the village. In its place there entered a being that appeared bewitched.

  He was missing an arm, but was wielding his sword with an enviable dexterity. Lulita recognized him: it was Mowriz. Despite the strangeness, the woman was impressed by the courage and energy the lad showed in his defense of the last survivors.

  The animal of fire ceased its roaring, the soldiers stopped. Their gazes were vacant. Suddenly those lackeys started killing each other. The hatred of the South, of the land of evil called Némaldon, was unleashed. The spell had taken a course which nobody had predicted and which confounded everybody even more. What was the purpose of all this horror? Lulita suspected
they would soon find out the answer.

  There was a great blast of sound. Startled, Luchy saw a crack running fast along the ground toward the center of the village. In the distance a green light was visible. The soldiers were dead, the survivors emerged from the house. They stared at the spiral cloud which went on spinning around its axis, now with a green light in its core. They heard footsteps.

  Lulita thought it was Luchy, but stumbled on a soldier who a few seconds ago had been lying dead on the ground. She stopped him with an axe-blow to the jaw. The man kept walking, with half his face hanging to one side. He was staggering, dragging his feet. He was not the only one; this living dead was soon joined by others, and yet others.

  Luchy was crying her eyes out, horrified by what she was witnessing. Nissa had woken and was trying unsuccessfully to walk, impaled as she was to the wall.

  “Blessed be the gods …” muttered Lombardo. All the dead, soldiers and villagers alike, were walking in the same direction: the center of the village.

  “What the hell’s going on? Where are all the dead going?” Lulita asked.

  “There’s only one way to find out,” Lombardo replied.

  “I don’t like the look of this,” said Savarb.

  They were not the only survivors. Out of other houses came young and old alike. Lulita thanked the gods that as yet not all was lost, but she could not get rid of the image of the dead walking toward the center of the village. She was overcome by an attack of anxiety. Her heart galloped, a pang ran through her chest. She noticed that Luchy was feeling the same pain. Both of them turned to look, amazed at having felt the same thing. It was impossible…

  “Manchego…” they murmured in unison.

  “Sun little sun,” chanted Mowriz.

  Lulita and Luchy paled. The old woman ran out, with Luchy close behind her. Guided by instinct, Lombardo and Savarb followed them.