Soulseeker’s Descent

by Pablo Andrés Wunderlich Padilla

  The king’s eyes were purple and his hair silver. He looked to Argbralius’ eyes like the humans of the Meridian, something that did not altogether please him. He grimaced with distaste, although nobody noticed it under the expressionless mask of his helmet. He produced his sword to the stupor of the king and his escort, who did not know how to react. Mórgomiel caused the helmet to vanish; he wished to speak to the king face to face.

  “My armbands and my gauntlets,” he said. “By the way, what has happened to Gruik? I was expecting to find him king of the Dakatak.”

  “I do not know, powerful lord. I swear I do not know.”

  “Well, it has been a long time, I suppose. Do you have any idea who I am?”

  “No,” the king admitted, and by the look of disgust on Mórgomiel’s face, he knew he had made a mistake.

  “You accursed infidel. Ignorance does not absolve you of your mistake. What is your name?”

  “I am Fuifay, king of Gardak, the Empire of—”

  “You have already said too much, your putrid breath disgusts me.”

  Mórgomiel seized his face with a hand that had now become a paw and buried it in his flesh. The howls of the king were mingled with the blood which fell from his face like tears.

  “I am Mórgomiel, God of Chaos and Destruction, of the abyss and terror. Your inadequate soul today returns to nothing. Suffer.”

  Mórgomiel pushed the king back to his throne. He buried his sword in his abdomen and impaled him against the back of the throne. Then, he tore off his arms. Fuifay had not yet fainted, but he did not have the strength enough to scream the torture he was suffering. His consciousness was slowly abandoning him, although he still managed to see what Mórgomiel now did with his limbs. He took off the armbands and gauntlets, which immediately turned black and opaque; antimatter in its pure state. He put on the pieces of armor with a sense of fulfillment as a spiral of shadows surrounded his body, glad to feel that his essence was returning to him.

  ***

  The dragon regained its shape and its huge scales reappeared. Its massive body crashed against another wall that collapsed amid the shaking of the whole building.

  “We ought to bring down the whole palace and feed on its destruction,” Górgometh hissed.

  “No, my dear servant. We need pawns for our crusade. No matter how insignificant and weak these domesticated creatures may be, they will be of some use to us.”

  “Always so wise, my lord of the shadows,” the beast said sarcastically. “Perhaps I should hold my tongue.”

  “We must find a servant to lead the armies into battle,” Mórgomiel said, feeling his powers returning.

  “We shall find a proper leader for these vermin.”

  “Let us go. We are wasting time with these mendicants, these mere pagans.”

  As it took off, the dragon, unable to restrain itself, destroyed what was left of the palace with its colossal body. The collapse caused a tremor and raised a gigantic cloud of smoke and dust. The beast was turning to pass over the resin palace again and go around it so that Mórgomiel could choose one of its people as the new leader when from the sky, swift as an arrow, a body of great size appeared with a hiss and a blast of energy which blinded everybody for a few moments. Then, Górgometh felt something stab him in the side.

  There came a colossal roar as if a thunderbolt had split the sky. The ancient enemies met in battle once again.

  “Róganok!” roared the white beast and with one blow of its claw, it threw the other dragon off its balance.

  Górgometh veered aside and rose to a safe distance. Mórgomiel produced the Godslayer. His opponent, meanwhile, wielded a spear of white energy.

  The enemies of the past, the eternal forces, were now face to face. The inhabitants of the planet ran for shelter and the clouds moved aside from the area of battle.

  The two dragons clung together in a mortal embrace. Górgometh’s antimatter against Róganok’s light. Teeth, claws, and groans. The riders, meanwhile, hurled spells at each other. Mórgomiel launched black energy that Alac’s shield deflected. The God of Light hurled his spear and penetrated both the dragon and its master, who began to dissolve into shadows.

  Mórgomiel was weakening. He had not yet regained all the pieces of his armor and this depleted his power in the face of the combined forces of Róganok and Alac. He was bleeding profusely from his side and his wings were pierced in many points; Górgometh had lost half his face. The fight was about to tilt in favor of Light.

  Taking advantage of his enemy’s weakness, Alac took time to call up a powerful spell and put an end to evil once and for all. He did not have time. Górgometh counterattacked, forcing Alac to defend himself with his shield. Then, the Dragon of Chaos turned into smoke, enveloped its master, and carried him away from there amid a whirlwind it had created just in time to escape.

  “No!” Alac cried, blind with rage. “We had them! Follow them!” he ordered Róganok and could not help thinking that if Teitú had been there, he would have managed to overthrow Mórgomiel.

  “It will be no use; they could already be thousands of galaxies away by now. I told you Górgometh was cunning. We will need to be more alert next time. Unfortunately by then, Mórgomiel will already have recovered all his armor and he will be more powerful.”

  Alac, on his dragon’s robust white back, relaxed a little. It was wonderful, after all. How could he ever have imagined when he was no more than a little shepherd boy that one day he would ride such a magnificent animal?

  “We should go down to speak with the population of Gardak,” Róganok said. “We may be able to win them to our cause and get them to fight beside us when the cosmic battle starts.”

  “But aren’t you frustrated?” Alac shouted. “I let him get away again!”

  “Frustrated? Alac, how many times do you think you fought Mórgomiel before you were reincarnated? Thousands. Battles are seldom conclusive, particularly when magic plays a part. To put an end to Mórgomiel, you will need more than your weapons and that rage that consumes you. In Allündel, you will find your full strength.”

  “Teitú has left me, Róganok,” he said, his gaze lost in the clouds. “He’s chosen his way… I still feel his loss.”

  “You are a boy full of emotions, you still need to mature. The Naevas Aedán are special beings who cannot serve others without paying a price. By serving others fully, you fail to serve yourself. The price the Naevas Aedán pay is dear, especially when they serve such an emotional being like you. Try to forget him. What you have to focus on now is going to Allündel and after that, summoning the Great Alliance.”

  Alac became aware at this point that they were both talking and understanding each other while flying at full speed with the wind humming in their ears. How was that possible?

  “Are we protected by a magical cloak?”

  “You are very observant. Yes, that is so. Perhaps it is not so evident in this world because you can breathe normally here, but when we find ourselves in a hostile environment, without air and with energies capable of shriveling up your human flesh, the cloak will protect you.”

  “Amazing,” Alac said.

  A melancholic smile crossed his face.

  Chapter XVI – Dead Man’s Eye

  Mérdmerén was at the prow, holding on to the mast and enjoying the breeze the sea brought to him and the gentle swaying of the ship in the calm sea. He was pleased. The pirate Turino had turned out to be a great ally. He had mended all the sails and the ship was now sailing at great speed. He had also guided them through the wild seas of the Dead Man’s Eye.

  He let his mind wander. From highwayman, he had gone on to become king. It was truly unbelievable. In addition to that, he had carried out his revenge, rejoined his daughter and wife, and, perhaps most importantly, regained his hope in life.

  “We’ve left the pirates behind!” Funia called from the crow’s nest.

  An illegal ship with five sails had been chasing them for a while but had not succeeded in
catching up with the Nabas.

  “I’m glad,” Mérdmerén said.

  He did not feel like fighting anybody. He wanted to reach Moragald’Burg, meet his good friend Ságamas, and win over the rulers of the nation.

  It took them a few days to catch sight of the first fishermen. As they approached the harbor, Mérdmerén wondered whether the entourage was causing admiration or revulsion. The day was leaden.

  “Change your clothes, my friends. The time has come to be nobles of Háztatlon once again.”

  “And, what about me?” Turino asked. His weathered skin spoke of his long past at sea. “Sir, I hear you’re the king of the Mandrake Empire.”

  The crew surrounded them, waiting for Mérdmerén’s reaction.

  “What I mean is, I loathe these Moragald’Burg pigs and I don’t know whether I’ll manage to behave myself. Those swine are capable of taking in even the most honest of men.”

  “So what do you propose?”

  “Don’t listen to him, he’s a pirate,” Greyson said.

  “I could say the same thing about you, that you’re nothing but a simple thief, but I think of you as a friend, don’t I?”

  Greyson bent his head. He combed his long mustache with saliva, perhaps trying to stay calm so as not to skin the reckless pirate alive.

  “I’d rather stay on board, keeping watch of the Nabas,” Turino said chewing on a tobacco leaf. His teeth were yellower than egg yolk. “I’ll protect the ship from thieves and pirates because they’re sure to try something, I’m warning you.”

  “That’s what you wanted all the time, wasn’t it?” Mérdmerén challenged him.

  “Well, of course. But now I’m on your side, it’s all I have and it’s worth it. I think you’ve made a mistake if you’ll let me say so, my lord.”

  Greyson was red with rage. “Don’t let him sweet talk you!” he barked.

  “What mistake?” the king asked.

  “Traveling without an escort. Other sovereigns have come before you, never without one, and even so, they’ve had problems with the swine of Moragald’Burg. This land breeds the worst bastards, and if you don’t come prepared they’ll make mincemeat of you, My King. It’s as simple as that.”

  Mérdmerén was becoming more and more convinced that he had been too hasty in his plans and that he should have taken more time to prepare. The voyage to Moragald’Burg served no diplomatic purpose and was motivated purely by his need for adventure and for seeing his friend again. Now all this sounded stupid when put aside the risks he had incurred. Five military galleys were approaching the Nabas.

  “Prepare for the welcome,” Mérdmerén said, gauging the risks of that retinue. “And bring me my king’s clothes.”

  They heard a noise in the water and turned to find Turino swimming towards the open sea.

  “Arrows!” Greyson begged.

  “No! Let him go,” Mérdmerén said. “Let him flee like the coward he is.”

  “Are you sure we’re doing the right thing?” Turi asked.

  “I’m not sure of anything any longer.”

  A shout came from the largest galley. “Prepare yourselves for boarding by the galley of the tyrant Osuno the Fifth, governor of the lands of Moragald’Burg!” A hundred or so soldiers were preparing to scramble on to the royal ship.

  The captain of the galley was dressed in rags, but the ship was well equipped as if the tyrant of these lands invested in weapons and not in his men.

  ***

  On his way to the dungeons, Mérdmerén took a good look at the city. Most of the population was trying to survive amid poverty. He found out that the nation was not made up of different cities or regions, but that instead, there was only a single great shapeless entity named Moragald’Burg which took its nourishment from the sea as a source of business. Fishing was one of the most widespread activities of this land.

  Turino had not spoken in vain: Moragald’Burg was inhospitable, the home of people hardened by the tyranny that had ruled over them for several centuries. Now Mérdmerén understood why Mandrake received so many immigrants from Moragald’Burg.

  At least Mérdmerén had his people with him.

  “Elgahar!” he called out. “Do something!”

  The mage’s apprentice was sitting with his back against the wall of their cell.

  “I’m not Strangelus who’d know what to do in every situation. And in any case, my notes and my staff have been confiscated. I can’t do anything without them, My King. I’m sorry.”

  Turi was leaning against the bars of the cell. “I told you so,” he said.

  “Told me what?”

  “That we came ill-prepared. Kings bring a large entourage with them. Soldiers as well.”

  “That’s right,” Greyson agreed: “And you chose the worst nation for arriving ill-prepared.”

  “And I’m here to be a whore,” protested Funia, whose generous breasts Greyson had enjoyed on many occasions. The other women had been put in another cell, perhaps because the jailers had plans for them.

  “That’s enough of stressing my mistakes,” the king said curtly. “What we need to do is escape. I have experience there.”

  “I don’t think you understand the scale of our problem,” another of the thieves said. “We’re in the darkest and deepest dungeons I’ve ever known.”

  “This is nothing!” Mérdmerén retorted. “The prison in the Imperial Palace is worse.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” the thief insisted. “It makes no odds where you might have been yourself.”

  “Remember he’s still the king,” Cail spat out. “Your king.”

  “My king is the Baron and nobody else. This is all because of dealing with the fleas of the Empire, those bastards who think they can do anything they want.”

  “Watch your tongue or I’ll cut it out for you!” Greyson shouted.

  “You just try, you big dumb ape!”

  There came the sound of the dungeon doors opening. Footsteps followed, and a shadow peered into the cell.

  “Osuno the Fifth wishes to speak with the pirate Mérdmerén.”

  A group of soldiers appeared behind the bars. Mérdmerén got to his feet at once. His kingly clothes were soiled with dirt, dust, and the blood that he had shed in his struggle with the soldiers who had seized him. The heavy lock creaked. One of the things that caught Mérdmerén’s attention was how little care was expended on metal in this nation. Even the soldiers’ swords were rough with blunt edges, although they made up for this lack with their massive size and weight.

  “There’s no need to use so much force!” Mérdmerén protested.

  The complaint fell on deaf ears; these soldiers were not going to consider the needs of a captured pirate. Mérdmerén noticed their hands: rough, tough, and calloused.

  A blow on the back of his head left him stunned. The situation was very like the one when he had appeared before Aheron III and Cantus de Aligar had locked him up. He felt that he was being forced to kneel on the irregular stone floor that was too hard for his knees. They tied his wrists with two heavy chains. Then, he heard the sound of boots coming closer at a studied pace. It was a group of soldiers in heavy metal armor; they must be the escort of the tyrant of Moragald’Burg.

  A man of great height and broad shoulders stopped at the threshold. He was covered by a bearskin cloak with the animal’s head hanging down his back and the claws around his neck. He was accompanied by fifteen women, all of them clothed to provoke the imagination of anyone who set eyes on them. Perhaps this would be the fate of the female thieves: to be made into slaves of pleasure for this tyrant.

  “Welcome to Moragald’Burg,” he said.

  The inhabitants of Moragald’Burg and Mandrake shared the same language, although they spoke it with different accents.

  “A pleasure to meet you,” Mérdmerén replied, unfazed. “I salute you, from king to king.”

  He regretted the fact that he was unwashed and looked like a beggar. It diminished his credibility.
<
br />   “The pirate wants us to believe he’s a king… Tell me, pirate king, which is your land?”

  “Mandrake.”

  The tyrant laughed so hard that tears came to his eyes. The others joined in the laughter.

  “He says he’s the king of Mandrake!” the tyrant said mockingly. “It seems to me you stole the imperial ship. You’re cunning, daring, intelligent, but no king would travel without several hundred soldiers. Besides, it’s obvious that your crew has no connection with nobility, not even a passing glance!”

  Mérdmerén swallowed. He had not heeded his counselors, and now he was faced with the consequences. For the umpteenth time, the inflated image he had of himself had played him a nasty trick. He decided to bet on playing the role of a pirate.

  “In fact, we were coming to sell the king of Mandrake’s ship to the great Osuno the Fifth,” he improvised. “At a special price, of course.”

  “What d’you mean, you want to sell it to me? My soldiers have already confiscated it, it’s mine. You have no coin to bargain with, pirate. You should have thought better before you came into my harbor. It was a stupid act on your part.”

  A soldier came in hastily, looking deeply unhappy.

  “What is it!?” Osuno shouted.

  The soldier whispered something in his ear.

  “Show him in at once!”

  The women whispered and the soldiers shifted nervously. There was terror on the face of the tyrant himself. The atmosphere had become tense and the fear was palpable, but fear of what? Mérdmerén could feel its influence and his scalp prickled. Something was wrong, deeply wrong.

  A hooded figure, completely covered by a black cloak, came into the cell together with two vojs armed from head to foot. Némaldon. Mérdmerén looked down at his neck; his pendant was not there. He swore silently. He could pass himself off as a pirate with the tyrant and his men, but the Conjuring Arts would find him out.