The Days of the Deer (20 page)

‘Oh, my little ones! Your hunger will soon be sated, because all flesh that opposes Misáianes will end up in your guts.’

Drimus the Doctrinator threw the mouse into a cage. The dogs fought a short but vicious battle over it. The winner stalked off, clutching the prey between its teeth. The others prowled round,
waiting for the next opportunity. Drimus did not renew his game until the first victor had rejoined the others.

‘He might win again. Yes, it could be, because he has the taste of fresh blood in his stomach. Oh, my poor little things! You’ll have to fight for them!’

The same bloody game was repeated several times, more or less identically. The last mouse twisted and turned between Drimus’s fingers. He watched it struggling for life while he decided
its fate. Which cage should he choose? He was hesitating too long, and the dogs began to whine. Eventually, the Doctrinator put the mouse on the deck and opened his fingers.

‘There it goes! There it goes, my little ones! You will soon be free to chase after it!’

The dogs flung themselves against the bars of their cages, desperate to catch the escaping prey. The stormy wind carried the sound of their howls into the distance. More black dogs joined in
from the other ships. Soon their noise drowned out the sound of the sea.

The game was over. Drimus squeezed his way between the cages. He took a few more steps, then sat down on the wet deck. Raising his hands to his nostrils, he smelt them: they smelt of fear, and
he had no intention of wasting that. He stretched his arms out towards the two cages, thrust his hands through the bars, and offered them to the dogs to lick. His head drooped slowly forward until
it hung from his skinny neck. The rain started to beat down again, but the Doctrinator sat without moving while the beasts fed themselves from his fingers.

The Sideresians did not come from the same land, did not speak the same language, were not even from the same species. They had never existed until Misáianes had called them to his
shadow.

Misáianes’ legions were recruited among all the species that inhabited the earth in those ancient times. It took the Uncreated hundreds of solar years to bring them together, train
them, remove all trace of pity they might feel, distance them from any love. Misáianes delved deep into the Creatures’ bitterness; he exacerbated their anger and hate to set them
against each other, because he knew that out of this he could create his army. Then he blew in their ears, and many swore their loyalty to him.

Misáianes never left the mountain where he had been engendered. Others were appointed to come and go from his dwelling place with the threads of his vast web. Thick fog hung in the air of
his territory. Death upon death, cold and darkness spread from there to threaten the world.

The vassals clamouring around him were of opposite kinds: the lowest of the low, and the chosen ones. The Master kept close to him a multitude of beings incapable of the slightest understanding:
brutish slaves stripped of all feeling, who carried out the most menial tasks he commanded. There were others, though, who were allowed to draw near to his breath. These were
Misáianes’ favourites, the prolongation of his fingers, of his will. They were the ones he sent out into the world, pushing forward the darkness. And far from that desolate spot, where
the sun still shone and life went on as normal, there were many more who adored and served him. This was because his words sounded like the truth.

Misáianes turned brother against brother. He whispered in the ear of the arrogant, and turned them against the arrogant; he kissed the forehead of the weak and turned them against the
weak. He furthered his plots through murmurs and lies, so that everyone believed they knew what only He knew, and so that those condemned to die thought they had been blessed.
Misáianes’ power was concealed by cunning and disguises. In this way, many followed him without suspecting it. In a war that only He, from the depths of his impiety, could have
conceived.

This was the origin of the Sideresians.

A fleet was sailing towards the coast of the Remote Realm. And although some of the ships had sunk because of the terrible winds, there were still a great many of them.

Since dawn, there had been a bustle of activity on the ship where Leogrós and the Doctrinator sailed. The same was true of the other ships. The crew came and went from deck to hold;
Leogrós and Drimus went over the details of the plan once more. The moment had arrived for the fleet to split into two. This was still several days before the Sideresians caught their first
glimpse of the coast of the Fertile Lands.

Only three ships, under Drimus’s command, would sail into the harbour at Beleram. They would be carrying many more gifts than weapons. The others would head north until they reached the
ports abandoned during the great migrations that had taken place when the local peoples headed south in search of warmer climes. Ever since then, the far north of the continent of Fertile Lands had
been uninhabited. The distant north. The north beyond the Border Hills, the gateway to the land of the Lords of the Sun; further north than the Golden Valley, where their golden cities flourished;
further north than Claw Canyon, where their slaves were sent to die. The north far beyond the last inhabited place.

This was where Leogrós’s fleet was bound. His ships were laden with weapons that no one who lived in the Fertile Lands would have been able to recognize. And with visible and
invisible evils. Even ones that entered the nostrils of the Creatures and killed them with sickness.

The Doctrinator clambered down into the boat that was to transfer him to his new ship. Leaning over the side of his own vessel, Leogrós watched him leave. As soon as he saw that the
hunchback had reached his destination, he gave the order and the fleet divided in two.

The three ships heading for the port of Beleram set course due west.

The others turned their prows northwards. Some of them were heading for the Border Hills, where they would land in the uninhabited region that stretched between the last villages of the
Offspring of the Northmen and the first cities of the Lords of the Sun. The others were to continue without nearing land until they were level with the abandoned ports, when they would set course
to the west.

The storm left together with the fleet. Leogrós’s ships took it with them. Their advance was cloaked in a dank, misty rain that accompanied them throughout the rest of their
crossing. The sky above Drimus’s three vessels was a clear blue.

19

‘Look at the sky!’ exclaimed Nakín, pointing towards the coast. ‘It seems as
though the storm has decided to veer off north and leave us this
beautiful blue sky. That usually heralds the arrival of good friends.’

To Dulkancellin it appeared as though the Owl Clan representative was trying to find confirmation of her own feelings. He also thought that although rest had restored her beauty, she still
looked weary. It was plain that to spend so much time in the solar world was a great effort for Nakín.

They were walking together round the interior courtyard of the House of the Stars, which was shielded from the prying eyes of Beleram by high stone walls. The other representatives, together
with Bor and Zabralkán, were doing the same. The Council had been meeting for seven days now, and this was the first time they had all been allowed to go outside. The Husihuilke warrior was
overjoyed when he heard this from Zabralkán. Although they were accustomed to being given a rest after they had eaten, this was the first time they could do so in the central courtyard. They
all gladly accepted the proposal.

It was so pleasant to see the sky not through a wall opening, to breathe in the warm, moist jungle air. Even so, it was not enough to free them from their concerns. Each of them was going over
the results of the latest discussions in their mind. Whenever two of them met on their walk, they would immediately begin talking them over.

The Great Council had been in session for seven days – seven days of proposals and arguments. And still no decision had been reached.

It appeared, however, that there was a general agreement, although this still met with resistance from some of the representatives, especially Elek. An attack before the strangers could say a
word was beginning to seem like the only means of defence left to the Fertile Lands. This position, initially proposed by Molitzmós and Dulkancellin, was gradually gaining ground among the
others. If they were to make a mistake, better an unjust battle than the end of Life itself. They were all aware that a mistake of this kind would bring down the Northmen’s wrath on their
heads; and that sooner or later all the peoples of the continent would have to face the consequences. The risk was enormous, and yet the Council seemed to be edging towards it. So it was that even
while the Council was still deliberating, preparations for war were being made.

None of the peoples of the Fertile Lands was expert in naval warfare. The small fleet that the Offspring of the Northmen had constructed thanks to their inherited knowledge was made to transport
goods, or at most take people up and down the coast. This meant that the war had to be fought on land. The Zitzahay army would not be able to resist any attack from the strangers for long;
therefore everything was put in place to call on the forces of the Lords of the Sun, who had a large army that could reach Beleram in a matter of a few days. Although the Husihuilke warriors were
the most feared, it would take them too long to arrive.

‘Let’s walk over to that staircase,’ Dulkancellin suggested.

He had just recognized Cucub. The Zitzahay was seated at the foot of one of the many stairways that descended to the interior courtyard. He was so absorbed in his own thoughts he did not even
seem to notice what was going on around him. Dulkancellin had not heard anything from him since the night when Cucub was sent to the market to get news and tortillas. The Husihuilke did not want to
waste this opportunity, which might possibly not come again, and so he asked Nakín to go with him to the staircase where Cucub was resting, his eyes fixed on the cobblestones.

‘Wake up, Cucub!’ shouted Dulkancellin as he drew near.

Looking up, Cucub tried to smile from ear to ear and with all his heart, as he usually did. Dulkancellin could see, however, that this was not the same smile that used to annoy him so. The
Zitzahay got to his feet, greeted them both with a nod of the head, and tried his best to think of something amusing to recount. Fortunately for him, he did not have to keep up the pretence for
long, because Nakín quickly realized that the two men wanted to be alone. When she saw Elek passing by on his own, she excused herself by saying she wanted to talk to him, and parted from
them to catch the Offspring up.

‘Well? What’s wrong?’ asked Dulkancellin, always one to come straight to the point.

Cucub sighed and sat down again.

‘If you sit here beside me, I’ll try to explain,’ said the Zitzahay. He fell silent for a while, then began: ‘You, brother, were with me when the Astronomers allowed me
to go to the market, provided I stuck my nose into what the people of Beleram were saying. And you will recall, because it made you angry, that I was in an excellent mood, and left the House of the
Stars full of optimism. It was such a shame that my happiness proved so short-lived! It began to fade even before I reached the market. And it disappeared completely as soon as I tried the
cane-sugar honey.’

Dulkancellin was on the point of standing up, furious at having allowed Cucub to entangle him in yet another of his ridiculous tales. It was only the memory of the little man’s sad smile
that made him keep his patience.

‘I know the honey that comes from the cane-fields in my jungle,’ Cucub continued. ‘I can recognize its taste among thousands. When I was at the market, I tasted the honey from
one pot and then another; but however many I tried, the old taste had vanished.’

There could be no doubt Cucub was talking seriously. Dulkancellin tried to understand what he meant, but the Zitzahay’s growing anxiety only complicated matters.

‘Calm down, and try to find some other way to explain what you mean.’

Dulkancellin’s advice only made the Zitzahay more anxious.

‘There is no other way! There isn’t! I’m telling you that the taste of honey has disappeared! Something must have terrified it for it to decide to abandon us.’

Dulkancellin laid a hand on Cucub’s shoulder. At the very moment when he did not comprehend him, when the Zitzahay’s brain seemed clouded by nonsense, the Husihuilke felt he was
truly his friend.

Cucub gave up. He had known from the start it would be hard to make himself understood. Now he felt it would have been better to say nothing at all. What he had to do was to change topics, so
that his distress would be forgotten.

‘Who is that man in magnificent garments walking with Bor?’ he asked offhandedly.

‘That’s Molitzmós, one of the Lords of the Sun,’ replied Dulkancellin.

‘I don’t like him,’ said Cucub instinctively.