The Sacrifice (The War of the Gods Book 1)

by Pablo Andrés Wunderlich Padilla

  ***

  The rider was delirious. He had a high fever and turned and twisted in his sleep. The healer had assured them that he would recover, that it was simply a question of dehydration.

  A soldier had recognized him. He said his name was Felix, that he was a bailiff and that judging by his armor, he must come from the remote village of San San-Tera. What could he be doing so far from the place he had promised to protect? Leandro too wondered about this. The bailiff was gaunt, as if he had fled from the devil.

  “Come, my lord,” a servant announced.

  The General, followed by Gáramond, went over to the convalescent, who had awoken with a mask of horror and terrible halitosis. “It’s an honor to be in your presence, my General.” Felix said.

  He coughed without covering his mouth. Gáramond stepped back in disgust to avoid the spluttering of saliva.

  “The village, my lord… the village where I used to live has been taken by higher forces, a despot has taken command of everything.” The man’s gaze lost its focus. “Destruction… desolation! They’re dead. They’re all dead. The Mayor… the soldiers were bewitched, my General, I’ll swear! I’ve never fought against Némaldon, but I’m sure it was all the result of their magic…”

  The servants in the room fell silent, there came the noise of a metal tray shaking. Behind the door, the soldiers whispered.

  Leandro shivered, as he did every time he heard the words Némaldon or Black Arts. Gáramond remembered the blood-covered armor, the horse overborne by the fatigue of a desperate flight, and put two and two together. The two of them looked at one another. The philosopher trembled as he recognized the decision his friend was about to make.

  “Pack your things and prepare to go light,” he said firmly. “Today we travel southeast, to San San-Tera.”

  Gáramond was on the point of objecting, but was unable. Against Leandro’s determination, which was as solid as the iron of swords, there was no possible move.

  Chapter XXXIII-A necromantic spell

  The stench of putrefaction was perceptible from leagues away. In addition, flocks of crows and buzzards flying over the village were confirmation to Leandro that he would have to deal with the Black Arts. That stench of death and desolation reminded him of the southern borders, the graveyard and the doomed land of Aegrimonia.

  When they were half a league from the outskirts of the village the cavalry column reined in their gallop to a peaceful trot, in case there was a trap waiting for them. Uncertainly, the soldiers readied their spears. The horses scented their restlessness.

  The banners with the emblems of the Empire fluttered in the nauseating air. As they entered the village the General’s gaze took in all that absolute destruction. His heart sank.

  Everything was in ruins, burnt, worms of smoke rose to the sky; but there was not a single corpse, which was strange given the stench of decay. Maybe they would find the bodies further on. Leandro raised his fist and the column stopped. Around, there was nothing but silence. After a long anxious wait, Gáramond came up to him.

  “My General, the men await your orders.”

  “We’ll go on, but only a group of ten. We might be about to fall into a trap. The Nemaldines, those sons of their bewitched mothers, play very dirty,” he said under his breath. “Lomans! You stay out here with the cavalry. Philosopher, with me. I want you to observe everything and take notes. No buts.”

  The philosopher lowered his eyes. He did not wish to go on through those streets, he was no warrior. His only weapons were words and rational thought. But the order was unequivocal, and disobeying it might mean he ended up with his head on a pike.

  The selected group trotted on, keeping a close eye on their surroundings. They all carried spears and shields. Leandro carried only a sword, on whose blade the evening light was reflected. He also stood out by virtue of his helmet, with a red tail on its point, and the white stallion he rode.

  As they advanced, they were able to confirm the total desolation. Every corner, every bend was charred black. As they approached the center, the General felt a presentiment of evil.

  They reached the Central Park. There the statue of Alac Arc Angelo was broken into scattered pieces: the wings separated, the spear broken, the head severed. There was also a deep hole, blocked by ruins and rocks. It was at this point, above the abyss, that the crows and buzzards crowded.

  Leandro peered down into the abyss and immediately shivered. Thousands of corpses were piled on top of one another, gutted, dismembered, their innards dried up. With a great effort he restrained the urge to throw up on the spot. Two soldiers did not manage; another wept. He moved away, unable to bear the sight any more. He had never faced a holocaust on such a scale.

  He went to Gáramond, who was following the flight of a black bird with broad wings. The other soldiers were absorbed by the philosopher’s deep contemplation.

  “An owl…” he muttered.

  Dragging footsteps came from behind the group.

  “Halt!” a soldier cried to the intruder, whose face was covered with ash. “In the name of the King, stop there! Identify yourself immediately!”

  The lances pointed menacingly, ready to attack. The intruder wiped her face with a sleeve. It was a girl with beautiful eyes and an expression of sadness. An elderly woman came to stand beside her. She was golden–skinned, and her stance was heavy with the same sadness. They were joined by another woman, a big one, with the same golden skin, then there came other men and women. Leandro stared in amazement.

  “They’re survivors! Call the rest of the cavalry!” he called out. “And secure the perimeter of the village!” Gáramond noticed the deep sorrow in the General’s eyes. He knew that the times had changed, that something very dramatic had happened in this place. The Empire, after enjoying relative peace for so many centuries, was facing a new wave of terror.

  “Lulita… what in the name of the divine gods happened here?” asked the General. He knew the Wild Woman, as she had served the ranks in the past.

  “He’s dead…gone…my little angel was taken from me…the demon…the beautiful demon…the demon…”

  General Leandro Deathslayer recognized the terror in the eyes of the survivors, the extreme psychological burden of the pestilence carried by the damnation brought by a necromancer.

  “Come, Lulita. Please tell us everything you saw,” asked Gáramond offering his hand to the aged Wild Woman. She looked so frail, defeated, as if death was about to take her too.

  “My…sunshine…is gone,” she said in a whisper. Luchy began to whimper inconsolably. Soon, every survivor approached the abyss, knelt on its edge, and cried their hearts out for those who had been vilely used, their souls raped, their bodies mangled, for no other purpose than to bring a demon back to life.

  Epilogue

  His nose guided him through the palace, following that smell of freshly-baked bread, corner after corner. He reached the kitchen, where Macadamio was baking bread in the firewood oven for the King’s supper. The scent brought back memories that clutched at his heart, and he almost broke into a howl. He decided to do nothing, just lie and watch the day unfold. He missed the boy, missed going to the Observatory every day. He missed the ranch, and the household animals, missed Lulita, missed Balthazar…

  Every time he saw grass, he felt the need to jump and roll in it. But his little master with the smiling face was nowhere to be seen. He had disappeared or… died.

  The smell of bread invaded the kitchen. He raised his eyes and saw the butler taking the bread out, putting it on a rack and starting to cut it carefully. That smell, the crunch of the crust, were a torture. His mouth watered. He found a few crumbs on the floor and licked them eagerly. He sat on his haunches and looked up at the butler with his best forsaken-dog’s face.

  “Oh, you wanderer…” Macadamio said tenderly. “You know you shouldn’t be in the kitchen. Come on then, come here and have some of this bread. Careful, it’s still hot. Now go
out and play, and be careful about the mischief you do in the garden, because Abanthina’s keen to catch you red-pawed.”

  He left the kitchen with the bread in his mouth and went out to the garden, where he lay down to enjoy his treat. The breeze caressed his gray fur and lifted the fringe from his near-blind eyes.

  The sun was going down, and through the branches of a tree with spear-shaped leaves it drew a laborious lace pattern on the ground. The dog was moved by the memory of another evening, as far away as the distant mountains on the horizon. He felt a deep wave of emotion, his heart pounded. He looked to his left; he was not there, sitting beside him leaning against the Great Pine: the boy he would always love, with an eternal loyalty.

  Nanna Bromelia came out with the twins in her arms. Gabriel and Nickolathius ̶ Leandro and Karolina had finally given them names ̶ were intoxicated with the beauty of the sunset too.

  “Look at the little dog, how he’s eating his bread…. Oh, how cute! Children, say hello to the dog.”

  The twins paid no attention. Rufus, on the other hand, felt deeply attracted to them; perhaps he was beginning to need new friends to play with. He wanted to get to know them and look after them. It would be almost like getting back something of the boy he kept in his heart.

  He barked a couple of times and put his rough tongue out of his muzzle. In response the children laughed and wriggled free of the nanny’s arms. She set them on the ground gently. One of them, the one with the blue eyes, crawled over and tried to grab his tongue.

  “Rufus! Good boy! Come on!” The echo of Manchego’s voice rang in his mind, bringing intense feelings back to him. He saw him in his memory, the way he used to run through the fields, through the pastures, happy and full of dreams, with the sunlight on his face. What a beautiful smile.

  What he would give to be able to wake him up in the mornings, lick his face and see him smile! What he would give to be able to run on the fields of the ranch, even for a single day! His spirits sank, but seeing those twins, radiant and happy, soothed him.

  He looked up at the sky, called by an unusual whisper. His eyes drank from a beam of light that pierced a fluffy white cloud, which changed shape gradually until it took on that of an angel. Rufus barked, ran in circles, at once excited and confused. The cloud seemed to be smiling. The cloud looked very much like his master. Would he ever see him again?

  —The End ̶

  Thank you for reading The Sacrifice. This is the first book of the series “The War of the Gods”. There is more to come. Please leave a review in Amazon to share your experience. Whether your opinion is a positive or a negative one, I value it all the same.

  Thank you very much.

  About the author

  I am a Guatemalan author in the genre of fantasy and sci-fi. When not unloading my imagination on to the computer, I am an Internal Medicine Doctor by profession. I like coffee, meditation, cross-training ‒ and reading, of course!

  As far as I am concerned, there is no greater pleasure than knowing you, the person who has taken the time to read one of my works. Please send me an email at authorpaulwunderlich@gmail.com Tell me what you think of my stories. It will be a pleasure to know you!

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