Shepherd’s Awakening (Books 1-3)

by Pablo Andrés Wunderlich Padilla

  Ferlohren, on the other hand, gained in charm. She was a housewife who enjoyed a good reputation, and a lover of life. She was completely devoted to her son, whom she worshiped. Thanks to their growing wealth, Ferlohren bought more sophisticated dresses, made new friends, and was included in a group of high-ranking ladies who met every other week.

  At the higher levels of society, Trumbar and Ferlohren understood that in those spheres, rules became highly complex and that breaking any one of them could mean expulsion from that circle. As a result, Trumbar and Ferlohren learned to put on social masks, to lie, and to chat about trivial matters.

  Trumbar sometimes missed his simple life as a sentry watchman, free of the boredom and falsehood of the higher classes. At the same time, he could not deny the privileges he enjoyed. Seeing Trumbar evolve from well to better was something that filled Ferlohren with pride every time her man went off to work. What most attracted her to her husband was the promise of an even more prosperous future.

  There was no lack of anything at home: food, clothes, nor drink. Ferlohren had left behind the vice of alcohol and now resorted to aphrodisiac refreshments, such as boiled lily and orchid preserve. If she had been asked, her only complaint was something that shone out of Trumbar’s eyes. Not always, only sometimes, when father and son looked at each other. It lasted a fraction of a second, but it was noticeable even at a distance.

  Time went on passing. Little Argbralius went on growing and every day was a novelty and a new conquest in his development. When he ran, his mother saw the warrior his father had been. Sometimes he said several words one after the other, despite his age. What most awed Ferlohren were his curious eyes, dark as the night. He looked at everything around him with great enthusiasm.

  Trumbar marveled when he watched him playing with sword and shield, both made of wood, and his pride as a father swelled at the possibility of having a great warrior in the house. He also took pleasure in teaching him the names of plants and flowers, since Argbralius would pick them with his little hands and study them down to the tiniest detail. But at playtime, something was missing between father and son and they did not manage to make a true connection.

  One afternoon when he was three, Argbralius was wandering through the house barefoot, exploring the sound of the wooden floor which fascinated him. He was not a particularly naughty child, but he certainly felt great curiosity about everything around him, like any other little boy. On his way, he came across a plant. It was a flower. What beautiful colors!

  He reached out with his little hands and plucked it. He felt the petals; the texture was soft and delightful. He touched the stem and decided to nibble it. He felt it again in his hands and played with its flexibility until he heard a clack. The stem had snapped in two and it oozed a transparent juice. This astonished him.

  He tried the juice; it tasted bitter. He took one of the two halves and started to break it over and over again, excited by the idea. The sound of his laughter spread throughout the house along with the snapping of the stem each time he broke it. At that particular moment, Trumbar came home from work. It had been a complicated day. Perhaps because of this, all he saw was an insolent little boy destroying flowers and this made him angry.

  With blazing eyes, he went up to little Argbralius and snatched the flower from his hands. He was on the brink of slapping him for the very first time. He realized in time, particularly because the strength of the slap he meant to deliver would have knocked the child’s head off. Argbralius’ eyes filled with tears. Not only had he been deprived of his toy, but now he was afraid of the beast that was threatening to break his neck.

  Trumbar dropped the flower. One part of him wanted to hold his son, gather him in his arms, and apologize. But that discomfort he felt at times with the boy made itself felt, and so he turned away. He left the matter unresolved, particularly that violence which had awakened inside him.

  Ferlohren, who had heard the sobs, came to the hall and found Argbralius sitting on the floor with his flower broken and its petals torn by his father’s fury. When he saw his mother, the child burst into tears. That event had meant the crossing of a threshold which in the future would unleash a cascade of consequences.

  There was silence during dinner that evening. Trumbar avoided addressing his son. Ferlohren felt the tension and, with a range of different subjects, tried to lighten the mood. It did not work.

  ***

  Another year went by and Argbralius turned four. Ever since his birth, Trumbar and Ferlohren had tried to conceive again but for incomprehensible reasons, there was no new pregnancy. They went to different midwives who prescribed Ferlohren an infinite variety of teas, infusions, and other beverages.

  Ramancia sold her a potion with the sworn promise that she would regain her fertility. All the attempts were in vain. Trumbar was frustrated, as he yearned for another child. He also wanted to establish a good relationship with Argbralius, but he had come to feel that it would never happen. Between father and son, an inexplicable rivalry had woven itself.

  A second child would give him the chance to love them completely, perhaps fomenting a good relationship from early on. But time went by and Ferlohren did not become pregnant.

  Trumbar started to distance himself more and more and sometimes, he had bouts of rage in moments of tenderness, such as when the three of them were playing in the living room together. Only the child and Ferlohren enjoyed themselves, while the father remained isolated. The man began to feel like an intruder in his own home.

  Every time he tried to take part in games or conversation, Argbralius would reject him, preferring to go with his mother. This special link made him jealous. He wanted the same, it was the only thing that could soothe him. In his bitterest moments, he even began to believe that Ferlohren had substituted him for the child.

  “I bring food to the table, I pay for clothes, the house, taxes! I worry about you and—is this how you repay me? You treat me like a stranger! I deserve a little attention!” He would explode, banging his fist on the table.

  The big man began to worry about his anxiety and went to several mental health healers, to his colleagues, and even to the duke himself, but nobody seemed to understand the problem. Ramancia’s potions did nothing for him, except drain his well-earned crowns. The only true thing was his frustration, which grew daily, and he was beginning to lose control. The beast inside Trumbar had woken up and was hungry. This only worsened the administrator’s ill humor, which he did not even try to hide.

  His work became monotonous, stress clung to his back. He spent the day longing to get home and confront that strangeness that separated him from his family. He started to think of Argbralius as a potential enemy. He had contradictory feelings towards the child and something told him that the boy noticed this and snubbed him. As a result, those around him began to avoid the administrator.

  The invitations to parties and social gatherings became less frequent as friends started to withdraw. Trumbar once more walked with his eyes on the ground.

  One day, a waiter at the restaurant where he was having lunch spilled some wine on his very expensive clothes. Trumbar leaped up and hit him until he almost killed the man. The news spread through the entire city, from tavern to brothel, from the castle to the duchess’ ladies-in-waiting.

  When Nurimitzu found out about this, his suspicions about Trumbar came back again and he began to regret having given him a way of life that did not suit his character. He’ll pay for his ingratitude, he told himself before he set off to fire his administrator.

  He found him seated at his desk. Trumbar seemed surprised to see the duke there with his escort.

  “Duke Nurimitzu!” a guard announced, tapping his spear on the stone floor. Trumbar rose too slowly. His face was a mask of fury and frustration. His clothes were still stained with wine.

  “Trumbar,” the duke said firmly. “You’re fired. Never set foot in the castle again.” There’s no doubt about it, this man’s cursed, the duke convinced himsel
f. All that compassion and understanding that had led him to believe Trumbar deserved an opportunity to thrive vanished in a blink of an eye. It was a mistake to have given him this position. Once again, he was sensing that strangeness that hung about the soldier. Uneasy about the feeling, he turned and ordered the guards to take him away at once, by force if necessary. He should have him killed, he thought. But could not bring himself to give the order. He pitied the man.

  Something exploded inside Trumbar. Six soldiers had to drag him outside, using all their strength. Trumbar clung to the castle drawbridge and almost tore it out. Afterward, things got worse. Nobody would bring themselves to employ him until he finally found a modest job as a janitor. A few weeks later, he was fired for screaming at his boss.

  He ended up in one of his favorite restaurants as supervisor of the urinals; he had been downgraded to cleaning the urinals. He had lost everything, except for some savings and the extra pounds in weight. He decided to invest the money he had left in what he deemed most sensible: wine and fermented spirits. With new and untrustworthy buddies, he began to drink like a fish.

  Instead of going to work, he went to the taverns. He was fired when he arrived at work drunk, demanding a raise in his salary. He left, insulting half the people there as he went, but not before he had urinated at the entrance door.

  From there, he went straight to the bar and went on to spend his savings. By nightfall, he could barely stand. He came back home with his fists ready. He was going to give the boy a beating. That was the only way he would be able to free himself from all the pressure which had accumulated over the years.

  Ferlohren, who guessed his intentions, ran to protect the child and took the first blow. Trumbar stopped. Did he want to go down this path? The beast inside him gave up, defeated by absolute failure. He decided to become a recluse in the miserable cavern of his broken home until the hour of his death.

  Around that time, Argbralius was already seven years old and his needs increased daily. Ferlohren yelled at Trumbar to please do something with his life, to please get back to work and support the family again; but Trumbar had fallen into a deep depression and went on drinking what little money they had left.

  Ferlohren had to steal some coins from him to buy food for her son. She saw the luxuries receding away from her one by one and had to sell her valuables. Meanwhile, Trumbar continued unresponsive. On one occasion, Argbralius passed too close to the beast.

  Trumbar gave him a kick that left him momentarily breathless. Domestic violence was routine. Need in the household was now extreme. The neighbors told Loktos and Boargh about the arguments during the night, the blows, the screams, and the weeping. Trumbar’s friends tried to help him, but he refused to see them whenever they came to visit.

  When Ferlohren had sold everything, even the kitchen utensils, she looked for a job. But her limited schooling and the overmastering need to survive left her with only a single way out: prostitution.

  She would go to stand in the streets. She was insulted, abused, badly paid; she even had to service men she had known during her time of opulence. These were the worst; they treated her like an old rag. Above all, they asked for oral services.

  She managed to get paid more than usual when she offered a sensuous dance on the occasion of a local nobleman’s birthday. The downside was that with alcohol flowing in streams through their veins, those swine became bolder and took turns to beat her and mount her like savages.

  Ferlohren, like Trumbar, began to be embittered by this miserable life. She would come back from her rounds with her face and body bruised, and her soul filled with loathing. The fights at home reached new limits: they threw dishes and even knives at each other.

  The household was hell. Argbralius, at seven, watched in silence without his parents realizing the harm they might be causing him. The boy believed this situation was not just normal, but the only possible reality. When he turned ten, nobody remembered his birthday.

  Ferlohren’s clients began to visit her at home and she received them in the same bed which had previously been witness to matrimonial love. Meanwhile, Trumbar would remain slouched in an armchair, waiting for death to tear him away from that torture.

  Ferlohren lost a lot of weight as if she were suffering from some very serious illness. Her face was a skull, with sunken cheeks and staring eyes. Her skin took on an ashen hue. Her body became so thin that it seemed no food had ever entered it.

  Argbralius noticed that sometimes his mother’s belly swelled, as did those of pregnant women, although it deflated from one day to the next. The woman took too much alcohol and too many of Ramancia’s potions. In that murky environment, the boy continued to grow up, shut away in his room most of the time.

  Through the window, he watched the outside world: the clouds and the trees. He liked to study people and watch the workings of the world outside his room. Meanwhile, his mother screamed with pain in the other room and his delirious father lashed out at the things he bumped into. Alone for so long, Argbralius began to discover a dark side of his personality; a corner where certain thoughts began to emerge which would lead him to take a wrong turn.

  Chapter XXIII – A Hero in the Shadows

  After years of dedicated sorcery and fine sacrificial offerings, the chosen woman the forces of Light had selected became pregnant through arcane means. Elkam sent Álfaron, one of his top commanders, to claim the precious fruit of this divine conception. The woman had been captured by the mercenaries and brought, alive, to the depths of the complex cavern system nestled deep in the world. Thanks to the Dark Arts, they found out that the God of Light had been incarnated in a human.

  Why a human? Nobody could think of a reason, but the important thing was that they had intercepted the divine messenger and would be able to carry out the sacrifice.

  “Explain yourself,” demanded Elkam, surrounded by his shadows. The Grim Shepherd was better suited to the absence of light, which was something common in Árath.

  “My lord, I promise you I had it in my hands,” Álfaron said. Álfaron had slain the mercenaries who tried to take back the precious baby. They had slain the woman and cut her belly open, and from it, produced the child that harbored the soul of the God of Light. Something had gone utterly wrong, and it had been during Álfaron’s feasting on the mercenary’s flesh. An agent of Light had been sent to save the babe. And was gone. The agent of Light was a human, he was sure of it. How he had found them was obscure. But the agents of Light had ways to infiltrate themselves into lesser beings like humans.

  “In your hands? And how come a human, seeing how weak they are, could take it from you and flee from Kanumorsus, no less? That system of tunnels is not easy to navigate. You lie.”

  “Well, it wasn’t exactly in my hands, but I’d have sworn it was dead. It was no longer crying, my lord. The babe had been slain.” Álfaron was a dethis of lower rank than Elkam, and too young to understand the importance of things. Elkam had trusted him with eliminating the God of Light in his most recent incarnation, but now the creature was lost among the abundant humanity of the Mandrake Empire. Finding it would be impossible unless he eliminated all the children, which would unleash a war that he did not want. It would ruin the surprise factor.

  Elkam marveled at the arcane magic that had engendered the God of Light in the body of a human. Another human had saved him from his fate. How damn sentimental they are, always helping each other, he thought, disgusted by the weaknesses of humanity and the astuteness of the forces of good in the universe. Those forces, however good, would not hinder him from seeking revenge.

  “So now the God of Light is loose and we don’t know where or when he’ll appear again. Álfaron, you’ve failed us completely. Now our master plan to bring Legionaer back to life is tumbling and this puts everything back—you bloody imbecile!” Elkam spat, longing to sink his teeth in the other’s jugular.

  “I’m sorry, my lord.”

  “You’re lucky our doomed species is in danger of extinct
ion, otherwise I would’ve torn your head off. Now go and find that human, and don’t come back until you bring him with you! That little bastard has got to die, do you hear me? If he doesn’t, he’ll finish Legionaer. Tell me that at least you’ve eliminated the man who stole the child from you.”

  “His name’s Eromes, he’s a very famous landowner,” Álfaron replied. “He’s dead, my lord. The maleficent energy of Kanumorsus took charge of poisoning his soul.”

  “Get out of here! Find the child!”

  “And the master plan?”

  “It still stands. At this very moment, Feliel is crossing the borders to infiltrate the Empire. He’ll soon be part of the people, and he’ll get involved in politics. When he becomes mayor of San San-Tera, the process of bringing Legionaer back to life will begin.”

  Elkam smiled maliciously.

  Chapter XXIV – Meowing Among the Rubble

  In his room, sunk in that dark reality and after his daily breakfast—the same disgusting wheat dough diluted in black water—Argbralius thought about his immediate future. They had been told they would soon be evicted from their house. The reason for this was the clogging of the sewers from an accumulation of dozens of decomposing fetuses. It was concluded that Ferlohren was using her home as a brothel and graveyard, something the duke would neither accept nor tolerate any longer. The punishment would be banishment from Ágamgor.

  The boy had not bathed in months. His mother sometimes washed the dish he had eaten from; at others, she just left it as it was. His only utensil was a spoon—he had made it himself from a stick he found in the street—which had been gnawed by rats. He felt like a prisoner in his own home, and so he would continue to be as long as those conditions did not change.