Akanor: Tales From Necro Box Set Read online

  Akanor:

  Tales from Necro

  By P. A. Wunderlich

  All rights reserved 2016 by Pablo Andrés Wunderlich Padilla.

  An independent author from Guatemala.

  All rights reserved 2016 by Pablo Andrés Wunderlich Padilla. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Eternal Redemption

  TIME IS THE SOOTHER OF SINS FOR SOME, but for others, it's the delinquent that pillages peace and delivers the ever-pounding drums of guilt, remorse, and desolation.

  It had been many millennia since he last saw her, breathed her in, felt her. Her memory was a silhouette—vague and distorted, lost within a maze of memories, dreams, hopes and long-forgotten passions that stirred beneath a veil of remembrance.

  If only he could breathe her scent, touch her, be with her once again, then perhaps his broken heart would finally let his soul-shattering emotions set sail. He had held on to them for much too long. The company of eternal depression was mauling him from within.

  He once thought those emotions would be washed away with the sands of time. How wrong he was, oh how very wrong he was.

  An ill mind acts in accordance with its forsaken nature, but is inhibited from the capacity to predict the long-term effects of an erred volition. And now, the toll of his deeds was mangling him deeply from within, consuming him with eternal decay.

  His eyes moved, swayed along the horizon dotted with clouds the shape of soft sheep and astringent war vessels sailing in unanimity. It was as though a family of albino elephants and snow-capped, walking trees were wandering the heavens, mindlessly nurturing the essence of nothingness.

  The mountains were distant and their mammoth presence exuded a blue hue. His eyes, captured by a single thread of light, held a solitary emotion. He had always wondered why mountains seemed so blue, peaceful, and harmonically silent from afar.

  He wondered how structures created from a silent, internal war between opposing forces could inspire such awe and admiration. A constant pushing enslaved them, making them unable to move willfully for eternity. Too late down the road did he learn this lesson—that immensity and grandiosity could lead to imprisonment.

  Eternal life turned out to be his damnation. Death is so misconstrued; death is liberating, the limit of a prolonged and fruitful life. Without death there are no limits, and without limits, there is the endless pursuit of madness.

  Memories waxed and waned, ebbing on the shores of remembrance. The quiet moment in which brooding gave him peace of mind was stripped away from him as one of his loyal subjects approached him with hesitance.

  “My lord, the last of our foes has fallen, crushed by your skillful necromancy. Now the whole of their army follows you, to kill and eat the living upon your command. We destroyed half their army and then you summoned those obliterated back from the dead to create an army of their own, smashing their remaining ranks with it. Genius, my lord! A grandiose plan indeed!”

  As the voice of his minion became intrusive, the King’s his head whipped toward his subject, casting on him a glance both fierce and despondent.

  His soldier immediately stopped talking and stepped back, fearful of being decapitated on the spot, as many of his brothers-in-arms had been for interrupting the great King while in thought.

  The soldier was a high-ranking captain whose excitement was palpable, erupting viscerally from the pores of his skin. And the magnetic look of his eyes—he was clearly ecstatic, yet bewildered to find his King completely unsatisfied by such a devastating conquest. Nevertheless, the soldier grew anxious at seeing his King scrutinize him like a cat would regard a pest it is too bored to kill.

  “We have effectively defeated our enemies,” he continued, his pride growing as he recounted the story of the glorious battle he had feverishly fought. “We prevail. We have won—you have won! You are the only heir to the throne. You are the one true King. Almighty, standing atop the world—you are undisputed, my lord! Were it not for your powers, all that we have gained would have been impossible. You should be proud. You’ve achieved what no other man has even dreamed of; true power is held by only you, my lord. Such pure conquests are unheard of…you are truly magnificent.”

  The captain was nervous, as he felt that he had overextended himself. He lost his bravado and cast his eyes downward, submitting to his King’s overpowering stare.

  “Leave me,” was all that the King managed to say to his subject, dismissing him with a short yet violent flick of his hand. The captain ran off, shaken by the terror of being punished on the spot.

  The King observed the soldier meld into an ocean of military waves. The mass of warriors marched as a single entity, all moving at the same cadence, mindlessly following orders as they chanted the sonic boom of victory.

  He felt envious of them. How much he would love to feel that very same sensation of not having to think nor orchestrate, but to simply and mechanically follow orders—then, perhaps, he could blame others for his ill actions, share the weight of his perils, of the rash decisions he made based on his insatiable desire to accomplish grandiosity.

  He regretted having fed the wrong wolf, the beast within now gutting him from the inside-out. If only his enemies knew how crumbled, how terribly weak he was, mangled by ages of remembering an event that marked him for eternity. If only his followers, his minions, his generals, his captains, his conquered slaves, the bodies he brought back from the dead knew about how the great King Deathenor was but a cripple, a soul eternally longing for anything but what he had. If only the world could see him for what he truly was: a man who towered like a mountain, governing over the seas, tall and proud, was but decaying in remorse and self-disgust. He alone knew about his inner chaos, and it was enough to crush him.

  No enemy can ever defeat a man more than a man may defeat himself.

  He had made a choice, one he regretted with every passing moment. And so, his brooding persisted as his army continued to march, chanting, hammering weapons against wood and stone, nurturing the very same destruction he had taught them to perpetuate.

  He, however, nurtured but a thing of different order—the memories of yonder, of the moment he recycled endlessly in his mind.

  He recalled when he stood facing the crossroads…

  THE BOOK WAS OLD AND DUSTY, displaying its overuse by the timeless seconds it had been employed to conjure evil incantations.

  Page by page he progressed in the unnamed, the curse no one dared even mention. He read the final words of the demonic passage with a hiss that made the words writhe in his mind as if he were strangling them, “And so shall the Devil be summoned and the caster granted his audience…”

  As he was about to finish the incantation, the door slammed shut and his wife’s voice reverberated. The dead and accursed walls of his house were now alive with her loving words, with her presence, her smell of blooming flowers that filled the room—the counterpart of his ill conjuring. She looked dazzling, her eyes sparkling with the love a man of principle would never let go of—the kind of love that cannot persist if the barrier of integrity is crossed.

  He rushed to hide the precious diabolical book, the black cover engraved with runes of evil deeds silently luring any caster to meddle with it. He sprung from his studio and into the kitchen, faking he was preparing himself a meal. The kitchen was a me
ss, the table wasn’t even set. His sweat was heavy with guilt, as he knew he had wronged her yet once again. He had gone too far.

  She knew him too well. Her husband, the noticeable apprentice in dark magic would seldom eat. She had grown a sense of delicate perception and could feel when a curse was pumping through the heart of their home, once sacred to them. They had built the house with eyes full of hope, wishing that one day a family would be nurtured within its walls. But things changed; he had changed.

  Their home slowly transformed from a safe haven to a cage. There is nothing worse than hating your source of peace and security, and she slowly, unconsciously began to resent living in their abode. She had begun to feel scared of sleeping, of listening to voices coming forth from her own pillow. Her house was slowly being engulfed by the shadows, and dread was replacing love.

  That day, she was at the brink of terminating her affection for him; she couldn’t take it any longer. She could tell he was still chasing dark paths by how that damned tattoo on his arm glowed with malice—evil as the will of his master, the caster of dark forces that brought the dead back to life, who inscribed his mark decades ago upon taking him in as a pupil.

  The tattoo had always been used as a medium to generate powerful incantations, and would gleam with anger and lust for evil after her husband had given it use.

  She remembered him on the day he got the diabolical pattern engraved on his skin, a day of sorrow she recalled with a dull ache of heart. It was a somber moment for her, one she had buried with the hope of redirecting with love.

  But she began to see the changes soon after the tattoo became his obsession, and with it the manipulation of dark forces.

  The first sign was the ambition in his eyes, of how they squinted as if staring into nothing, as if controlling everything, and how that tattooed arm wished to clasp and destroy as if it had its own will.

  It was a terrible moment for her to realize he had substituted her for his lust for power. A sadness was well implanted since then, now festered into a powerful melancholy. She never imagined his obsession would have evolved into this endless pursuit of infinite force. And now he had broken his promise once again. He had said so himself, that he would stop seeking such strength from the dark realms of hell. But his word was worth nothing any longer. And alas, today the link that bound them was broken, she could take no more.

  There was no wound to mend—not when a rough scar has already rendered the tissue below it dysfunctional. She sighed deeply. Her eyes blinked back tears, unable to quench her despair. The waters of her emotions had already drenched the floors of her home far too many times. It was unnecessary to draw another tear.

  The words came with difficulty when she saw him hold his tongue, as if he already knew what was about to happen. He was scared, mangled, tortured, but even so it was obvious his longing for power prevailed over love. She could not muster the strength to talk upon seeing him plead with eyes full of hope! But she had to, she had to ask the inevitable.

  “You…why? You promised you would stop seeking dark paths, my love. Why? You…” Her voice crumbled and only her lips managed to tremble as her sadness broke her for the last time.

  He knew he had broken an invisible link, he could feel it, sense it by the lack of something in her eyes. That stare she had…he felt like a drafting canoe being let go by her captain, taken by the current into an ocean of forgetfulness. She began to cry, trying to hold desperately to her tears as if she were saying I will give you no more. She was staring directly at his tattooed arm, pointing an accusatory finger at it.

  His head turned slowly to find his tattoo was indeed glistening with anger, the evil within its runes flashing with a rabid desire to spew malice, glowing a redness that gained potency by the day as he became ever powerful. He quickly covered it with a hand, blushing, finding it would be impossible to hide the evidence as it blossomed with a terrible glare. He was ashamed and could not deny it. He had crossed his beloved Léssemna yet again and knew this would be the last time he would ever hurt her.

  “Léssemna, my love…please, I beg of you…don’t do it; don’t stop loving me. I have to do this!” he said with a sudden jolt of energy, justifying his actions in whatever mode he could to salvage his relationship. “I know I promised…but…don’t you understand that without this, I am nothing? Something within me yearns for the power to conquer the armies that besiege us! We are at war and without this power we would be crushed! And I know that I could rule this land far better than anyone else.

  “Just imagine the possibilities, my love! I could bring our race to the heights of divinity it truly deserves! I would give our people the prosperity it has never achieved! I can bring thousands of mighty conquests to our land, enslave the lesser races and make them bow to our undisputed rule. And there shall be peace by force, a government that provides and rules, armed by the cold blade of justice! You always knew I was destined for greatness,” he said, pointing a finger at her, “you told me yourself! How dare you stop loving me now, at the brink of my highest achievement!” He clenched his fists as to invoke power and yelled, “Please! Don’t stop loving me now!” His voice echoed once and then died, leaving a gap between him and her that withered and died into a skewed silence that had no remedy.

  She caved in, losing the color in her face and the spontaneity in her body language. She dropped her gaze; it fell with such ease that he understood the line he crossed had forced her to fall into an invisible abyss. The truth had finally revealed itself to her, after long years of repressing reality with the hope of recovering his loved one. But today her mind was resolved and could see things for what they were and not for what she wished them to be.

  “Léssemnos,” she said, her eyes never rising to meet his in fear of feeling the same pity that had stayed her hand in terminating the relationship years ago. “There are limits which, when crossed, cause irrevocable damage.” Her voice was stale, drenched with the sting of the factual. “Spare yourself such disgrace. Don’t do it for me, do it for yourself. They say that every man digs his own grave. I had not believed it, not once…until now.” She sighed deeply, a part of her already regretting what she was about to say. She said it nonetheless. She had too, for it was time he was held accountable for his acts. “You, Léssemnos, are at a crossroads. One misstep, and the consequences will be irreversible. Be careful, for you are feeding the beast within that will obliterate you. By your own volition you are cradling self-destruction.”

  She left for bed without saying good night.

  The verbal spear punctured his heart. His chest deflated and his eyes sagged. He was weary. Breathing became difficult. He became aware of his heart beating; it had the cadence of uncertainty. He moved his eyes from side to side, trying to see the bigger picture.

  The hammer finally came down and oppressed him with the agglomerated, blossoming emotions of a lifetime, overwhelming him as they invaded his mind’s eye. He slumped and felt its weight overbearing him, such that he had to get down on one knee.

  His pride kicked in, protecting his lifelong ambitions from regret: What is this self-pity? I am acting according to my desires! I am fulfilling my destiny! Why not nurture this path if it will grant me my desires? This is righteous!

  Part of him resented the glory-seeking and almost omniscient side of himself, but he couldn’t stop it; it brought him self-amusement and a fulfilling sense of existence.

  Time passed by and he sat in his studio, alone, lingering at the crossroads, fumbling with the choice that he would eventually make. It was inevitable.

  He began to cry softly, tears of frustration flowing with the slow cadence of a funeral. He loved her so much. He once felt she was everything to him. But…the power…the lust for more…the desire to possess such magnificence. He saw himself as a king, standing over a mountain, absorbing the war tunes chanting victory, bathing in the cheers of his faithful servants. His heart raced with sublimity as the idea of becoming something so magnanimous fermented.

&
nbsp; His eyes remained still. He felt a strange yearning to cry over his wife’s shoulder. He knew he would miss her. Is there any way I could fulfill my dream without losing her? Perhaps I could find an alternative, and she might just stay with me as the man I choose to be, will she?, he thought, as the notion of tears invaded his soul. He knew the answer to those questions; he knew it was wishful thinking. Losing her was inevitable.

  As he accepted truth, a single, solitary tear emerged from his eye and slid slowly down his face. Is there any way I could leave my wife without damaging her permanently? No! I see no easier solution than simply ending this marriage once and for all. There is no way she will accept me with my desires to pursue power. This is the right path, this is righteous. Thus, my love, I have to let you go. I have to do this. There is no other way.

  Mourning turned to anger and anger to purpose as he violently smashed the wooden chair he was sitting on against the wall. The house rumbled with might, and so did the book of spells he had hidden under garments.

  It fell not two feet from him, thumping dully on the wooden floor to lay sprawled open on the page of the unfinished incantation. He held his breath.

  At least once in a man’s lifetime, he will struggle between two or more opposing forces, one or some of them leading to a path of despair and others keeping him from falling astray. Léssemnos chose within the margins of his delusions, motivated by the desire to feel, to hold, to possess ultimate power. The end result of his choice yet remained to be seen.

  He grasped the white pumice stone in his pocket and began to draw a seven-pointed star on the ground.

  He didn’t want her to discover that he was awake, in his continuous search for dark paths, but she already knew he would never stop. So he silently wished her a good night’s sleep, free from the disruption of his evil deeds.

  Anger was one thing, and she would understand the crashing of furniture—his bouts of anger weren’t new to her—; but to draw the very incantation that had slowly separated them would devastate her. He would find a way to tell her after it was done, to make things right, to let her go with ease. It was important to him that she didn’t suffer from his ill conjuring. But…what if she did suffer? Silence.