“Don’t make fun of them. My thieves are more honest than those royal knights. We don’t know how many of them are in the service of Aligar and his minions, that’s why we go on scouring the court. We still have to prove how many of those knights are to be trusted, and the journey isn’t the right moment for that.”
“That’s true.”
Mérdmerén was troubled once again to feel that he was one of the many pawns of the Baron, the chess master who moved the pieces on the board.
“You’ve chosen the least-trained person for an esquire. Don’t take me wrong, it’s not that it bothers me that you’ve chosen one of my favorite thieves. In fact, I find it very positive that you should be introducing him into the political sphere, but be careful. Turi’s a great thief, he won’t fail you. By the way, you’re going to start getting endless letters from noblemen asking you to accept their cousins or sons as esquires. You know what they’re like.”
All these little details had already begun to bore Mérdmerén. The moment he would be at sea, enjoying life freely, seemed remote.
“My thieves will look after your beautiful city while you’re away. I also support your decision that Leandro should be regent during your absence. He’s an exemplary individual who’s earned respect after long years of military service.”
After these words, the Baron left. Dinner had been delicious. The only thing Mérdmerén missed was being able to sit beside this mysterious man and look into his eyes as they talked. But that would never be a possibility. Before he realized it, they had already put the hood back over his head to take him back to the palace.
Chapter VIII – Dry Ice
In the River of Time, it was possible to travel at an undreamt-of speed. The God of Chaos could leap from galaxy to galaxy without having to take thousands of years over it. The portals of Kanumorsus in the Meridian made those shortcuts in time and space possible.
The silence in the River of Time was a special one. All that could be heard was a whistle of oblivion. In this void, the God of Chaos sank deep into his soul to understand what was happening to him. The suspicion which had haunted him for some time had been correct. Inside him, there remained a portion of the soul of Argbralius, the human he had possessed to be reborn. That part, although tiny and insignificant, would never dissolve. It was why he had recently been overcome by moral questions, a thing he could never remember happening to him before his reincarnation. He felt vulnerable, he could not purge his soul of the conquered human. He would pay for that mistake through all eternity.
“We are reaching the galaxy where Quett is to be found,” the dragon informed him. “It is a planet a long way from the sun, in the most distant arm of the center of the galaxy. It is uninhabited, although there is one who is waiting for us.”
“One who is waiting for us?”
“Yes.”
***
The galaxy was as old as time and cold. A pale blue sun was surrounded by planets, the closest of which had been destroyed. The furthest was blue and made of ice. As Górgometh had said, it was empty and dead.
The dragon wound towards the planet and as he passed through the atmosphere of lethal, corrosive acid, the God of Chaos could only think that he would prefer the planet to be full of life.
They landed on a fortress of ice. At the top of the highest tower rose a throne occupied by an individual with an armor of ice, except for its black helmet.
“Mórgomiel,” said the king of Quett, radiating sarcasm and hatred.
“Aís,” Mórgomiel replied.
A bolt of lightning crossed the sky and flew straight toward the dragon. But the beast was ready with a spell that guarded him with a protective field. Mórgomiel felt a dart of rage within him. With a leap, he dismounted from the dragon and landed in front of the king of Quett.
“At last, you dare to show yourself, you scum,” Aís said.
He was tall and strong and appeared to be made of crystals with a rectangular head and blue eyes like sapphires. He took off the helmet and threw it at its owner’s feet.
“You have used us vilely, those who have loved you for so long. You made us believe that you were rewarding us when the truth was that you were already planning your return. Go ahead and kill me. That is what you have come for, is it not?”
“Your insolence fails to amuse me, Aís. You are a servant of the worst kind. What have you done to my planet?”
“Yours? How arrogant of you! My planet suffered a civil war that lasted for millennia. And now all are dead, buried in the ice thanks to me, for I wished it to be. None of my people will be at your orders. They are better off in the arms of death. Only I remain. There, you have your damned helmet. Now kill me, you scum.”
Mórgomiel, who had been expecting to surprise this lackey as he had the others and find him half dead with fear and amuse himself at his expense, felt intimidated by the king’s firmness. He donned the helmet and instantly felt the flow of energy. He willed Wrath the Godslayer, which appeared within his hand, then with a simple twist buried it in the king’s chest and lifted him off the throne. The black matter dissolved Aís’s body until there was nothing left but dust. A swirl of energy was sucked into the sword as it consumed the dead king’s soul.
The helmet adjusted itself to fit the shape of his head and cover his whole face. He stretched out his hand from which there issued a stream of black energy that flowed onto the ground like a spring from which thin veins emerged and began to cover the planet with ice.
“My lord, we must leave before this world perishes.”
Mórgomiel spread his wings, looked to both sides. Something stopped him.
“What is the matter?” the dragon asked him sarcastically. “Do you feel any pity?”
It was not pity. It was the need for recognition, the need for someone to be glad to see him. But there was no one. Górgometh would never serve that purpose and the God of Chaos would not even admit this intimate desire. In this was the remnant of the soul of Argbralius, a human whose ambition was to impress.
“It is nothing. I am merely casting my eye over what has happened. Let us go. We still have to regain the remaining pieces. The conquest of the universe awaits us.”
The dragon flew toward the atmosphere while the world of ice consumed itself in black rivers.
Chapter IX – Adventurous Heart
Elgahar had not wasted time after the war. While others celebrated the arrival of a new king, the apprentice decided to honor his dead master by speeding up his studies of the Conjuring Arts. After the coronation, he went to Omen. The military city was in mourning for the loss of Hakama and most of the Brutal Fark-Amon. The poets were already chanting epic songs and verses that could be heard in the few bars and taverns where the survivors gathered to share pain and traumas and remember those who had given everything for freedom.
And shades of the accursed nest were seen,
with weapons sharp, with thoughts unclean.
Oh! But see the forces of Omen ride,
great soldiers of legend, who never hide
from danger, but stand like men of goodwill,
proud in their armor and their swordsmen’s skill.
Shadows brought nightmares to cow the mind,
but were driven back, dearly, leaving havoc behind,
for fallen are our heroes now, everyone,
entombed with the glory their efforts have won.
May the goddess of death free you all from your sadness!
Brave heroes of the Empire remembered in gladness!
Elgahar had had no time to spend in the bars, even though he might have wanted to. His mind was busy with thoughts of another kind: he had to master the Conjuring Arts, replace Strangelus, and lead the council of mages. By doing this, he would go from being an Ödessa to an Üdessa, from pupil to master, and he would don the blue toga and hat. Although, those things were nothing more than rewards and rewards did not save lives.
You mustn’t do something for the reward but the worth it ad
ds to your soul and what you can do for others, the boy thought.
He had spoken with Merko and Ulibar, both of them Üdessa and members of the Council of Mages. He soon understood that this organization was much like the Council of Kings in the sense that it was a nest of old men who sat on their flaccid backsides, talking a great deal and doing very little. Strangelus, on the other hand, had not been like them. He was the kind of person who spoke little but did a lot and Elgahar identified with him.
The battle of Háztatlon had enabled him to understand a fundamental principle of magic: the elements were controlled with words, words represented thoughts, thoughts willed mana, mana was the cornerstone of life-source and power that enabled the wielder of magic to transform his matter and that around him into a specific and concentrated form of energy. Matter was not something absolute, but a malleable complexity. This was the key to the Conjuring Arts. Being a mage implied being an excellent scientist in addition to an observer of nature and her processes. Perhaps that was why there were so few mages because they all talked, and nobody bothered to look and listen. A good mage was supposed to cultivate the patience of a tree. And that was boring.
He learned, too, that every spell was a transaction and magic was never free. In fact, Strangelus had already told him this but he had not felt it until he created his own spells and felt how they consumed his energy. It was the Law of Equivalent Exchange, a principle whose greatest consequence was death as what had happened to his master. Strangelus had sacrificed himself in generating one of the most powerful spells of the Conjuring Arts which consisted of fusing the elements of his own body to create an explosion of great power.
A mage can die if he does not calculate his energy properly and creates a spell that overcomes him. A mage must follow the training as rigorous as a soldier’s. Elgahar had concluded that the Law of Equivalent Exchange could also apply to life, the Empire, and business, as well as something else: the Conjuring Arts were not exclusive to whoever studied it, but a basic quality inherent in all the matter of the universe. The secrets were not contained in a book but in nature herself.
Up until then, Elgahar had not found any mage he would care to have as a master. None of the old men in the council showed Strangelus’s passion, which meant an irreparable loss for the Empire that was now more vulnerable to the forces of evil. No-one would sacrifice himself as Strangelus had done.
The young mage was resting in his room in the castle of Omen known as the Northern Spine, a fortress of black stone with a pointed outline. The castle was surrounded by an old city, founded during the reign of the first king of the empire, Eryund des Guillioth. Omen resembled Ágamgor, but less chaotic. It was inhabited by high-ranking soldiers who had retired from service to train recruits, as well as Üdessa and Ödessa mages, especially those few who could instruct the Brutal-Fark in magic.
The Council of Mages was getting ready to choose a new duke with plans to keep with the new imperial order. The new army had to be organized, renewed with all kinds of people from peasants to noblemen.
That afternoon, Elgahar had devoted himself to reading a book of philosophy and relaxing. In general, he spent time reading about the Conjuring Arts after practicing between twelve and fifteen hours a day, despite the warnings of his teachers who recommended no more than eight hours.
You’re too ambitious, the old, bearded men warned him. But the apprentice was not ready to set limits on himself.
Your master was special, there’s only one like him every century. You’re only like him in tenacity. Know when to stop, pupil, or you’ll burn yourself up, literally, another old man had told Elgahar when he had found him studying late at night in the library.
The young mage was convinced that he could learn more somewhere else, but where? He remembered Balthazar and his wisdom. He was a very skillful shaman, so his master had assured him. But he had gone back to Devnóngaron and Elgahar did not dare set off on a journey like that.
He sighed and stretched his arms. He let his gaze wander over the ceiling. He had no idea who he could go to. Were there mages like Strangelus in other lands? He needed to make progress, but the more he read, the more frustrated he became. Outside his room, he heard the soldiers’ footsteps and voices.
“There’s never been a more promising king than Mérdmerén.”
“It seems he’s going to travel to talk to other nations and foment peace and business. He’ll have to take trustworthy people with him; there are sure to be some who want to get rid of him. Or just to avoid accidents. Moragald’Burg’s a very dangerous land with unpredictable mages. But still, they do know how to prepare seafood, damn them!”
“He’s leaving Merromer tomorrow. Did you know he’s changed the name of the imperial ship? He calls her the Nabas, can you believe it? The new king has balls and is well set at that. Nobody’s dared to do anything like it in centuries.”
So the king was going on a tour with an escort, but would he be taking magical protection with him?
An idea suddenly flashed in his mind. But the king was leaving tomorrow…
He had no commitments in Omen. Nothing tied him down to the city and he barely had any belongings. He could leave whenever he wanted, and nobody would be any the wiser. Perhaps he would find new sources of wisdom in other latitudes.
He wished Strangelus were with him, he could advise him. He did not know whether his Master had traveled during his apprenticeship, but he had been daring. He had been one of those who thought that to win, you have to get moving and take risks.
He got to his feet. He swallowed at the realization that he would need a horse and his ten crowns would not be enough to buy one. Although it would be if he could bribe a guard.
He draped his grey toga around him, put the hood over his head, and picked up his staff. He smiled inwardly, feeling the adrenaline of adventure run through his veins. In his mind, he saw Strangelus encouraging him. He took a deep breath and left the room. He was ready to take the risk of leaving the safety of the castle and embarking on a journey that might ruin his dreams. He hoped he would not have to renounce them and end up in the streets as a vagabond or in bars as a troubadour.
Part II – Melancholy
Chapter X – New Horizons
That carpet—blue during the day, black during the night—spread across the length and breadth of the horizon without a glimpse of a sliver of land. The waters reflected the liquid fire of the sun and the silver sheen of the moon. Alac, who had enjoyed many sunrises and sunsets, had never seen anything like it. He was deeply impressed.
He also experienced the kiss of the sea, a cool breeze laden with salt. It was a blessing which, unfortunately, very few could receive.
He thought about Luchy, and how she, too, would be fascinated to see this immensity, both thrilling and soothing.
It was nighttime when he began to wonder how long it would be before they reached the far shore. Even if it were only a lost island, he would be happy as long as he could rest. He focused on the twinkling of the distant stars that nourished his spirit and made his flight more bearable. He even decided not to think about his life and to let his mind slip into silence as if he had shut the door on his thoughts and thrown the key to the bottom of the sea.
The icy wind scratched his skin. He took advantage of the stream to glide and give his tired muscles a break. Beneath him, the small waves broke with a subdued hissing. He allowed himself to plunge into nature and lose himself in her, as he had when he had been a child.
When his consciousness returned, dawn was already breaking. He found himself confronted with an obstacle that might cause him trouble: a wall of dense grey clouds and beneath it, ominous turbulence. The storm was hurling thunder and lightning. The sea was already choppy at that height.
Despite the height of the cloud wall, Alac continued, rising to pass over the storm. The echo of the thunder was shattering. The God of Light began to feel the toll of that overexertion on his back and his wings, which were burning.
&nbs
p; Teitú, what about going into the Interim?
Don’t know.
Shall we try?
In the Interim, the tangible world can’t harm you, but I don’t know what other dangers you might be exposed to. What I mean is, everything has a price, Alac. Not knowing what it is doesn’t mean you won’t have to pay.
I’d forgotten how wise you can manage to be, my dear Teitú. All right then, maybe we’d better leave the Interim for moments of crisis, and some specific reason.
Soon, he would have to eat something, whatever it might be. He needed to find a solution as soon as they had gone beyond the storm. Even from above, Alac could feel the danger; however well humans might perfect their weapons of war, their power of destruction could never compare to that of nature when she rose in rebellion. The thought made him smile.
***
When the sky cleared, his bodily needs returned. Hunger and exhaustion were becoming torture and he still could see no sight of land. He might be able to alight on the water and at least float for a while, even though he would be exposed to the creatures of the sea. He did not even know what animals might pose a danger for him in the water.
In the distance, he saw a line of white birds diving into the water and coming out with their yellow beaks laden with fish. His stomach growled. He had never tried raw fish, but he was not going to be too choosy now. He could always eat a bird, but if he had to eat anything raw he would rather it was fish. He watched again, then followed the example of the birds.
He folded his wings and plunged at enormous speed. Below the surface, he found a new and dazzling world. The birds were chasing a school of fish. There were more animals around, which gave out a very peculiar sound and a certain feeling of welcome. Two of them approached Alac and swam around him, as if they were studying him, before swimming away.
Under the water, he felt completely defenseless. The birds moved easily, the water posing no obstacle to them. When a bird swam by his side with several fish in its beak, Alac caught it and seized its catch. The bird opted to flee.
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