What Am I Here For

Baltazar arrived in Libra earlier that morning. He had been riding tirelessly all day, having lunch on the saddle, stopping just so Polly could rest for a while, drink water and eat oats.

Baltazar hated the idea of ​​being away from Gwen and the little one even for one night, and would do whatever he could to avoid a second night. Perhaps, he thought, Afonso wanted only one simple thing, and as he traveled the distance in that good time, he could return home and family the next day. Perhaps.

It was not the king's habit to send mounted soldiers to summon his most trusted knight for a pittance, but Baltazar still entertained himself on the journey, figuring out all the reasons why Afonso wanted to see him and would allow him to return home before the next sunset. Sun. Seeing Afonso's castle appear on the horizon, Baltazar was forced to accept the dark truth that those reasons he could think of could be counted on one hand. And none of them seemed likely.

The guards on the castle battlements accompanied Baltazar up the road some distance away, and the gates of the great fortress opened with a crash as he approached. Polly's hooves crackled across the drawbridge, and when Baltazar passed under the barbican into the outer courtyard, he remembered why, as much as he loved Afonso, he rarely liked to visit his friend's royal headquarters.

The guards and other men-at-arms who met him upon entering looked at him with silent fascination, as if some mythological incarnate hero were before them. For many of those young people, of course, it was exactly what Baltazar was. Sir Baltazar the Savage. The man who killed more Nordics than anyone else in the Southern campaigns - more than double. The man who had massacred a dozen Southerners with one hand in defense of the king's life and refused abundant land and riches offered as a reward. The human being whom they said the king trusted and listened to above all others, even the queen herself.

Baltazar tried to avoid the eyes of the man who took Polly's reins when he dismounted, but he could feel them peering at him. That would be the story of his visit there, he already knew. A persistent stop of genuflections and obeisances that would soon make Baltazar look forward to returning home, where the simplest suggestion of any of these demonstrations would have earned him a firm tap on his hands and fingers with a wooden spoon. He liked it much more, he hoped at least to escape going to the barracks and seeing that hideous painting of himself.

Baltazar refused to pose for her; the artist was forced to paint it based on all the descriptions and drawings he was able to collect with other people. The result, Baltazar thinking when he first saw him, was ridiculous. It was painted by raising a shining sword in an absurdly heroic pose, all inflated with pride, a trait that Baltazar tried too hard to avoid his whole life. The artist even went so far as to restore part of his ear, famously lost to a Southern ax in Galileo, as if it were better to appear invulnerable. But Baltazar liked his ear like that.

It served as an ever-present reminder that death was just inches away. Even the most celebrated warriors were as deadly as any other. Perhaps it was useful for young soldiers who passed by to have that memory too; as it was, painting would instill in those men only the naively romanticized notion of heroism, one that would be dispelled without mercy in the first real battle. The only thing that had been represented with any precision, so Baltazar thought, was the snake pendant that hung from his neck at least, they had done it right.

Yes, definitely avoid the barracks, he warned himself. He thanked the man who housed his mount and set off across the courtyard towards the inner palisade and the castle's central fort, where Afonso lived. - that, Being there, in the royal residence, with all its traps, was enough to make Baltazar uneasy. The idea of ​​royalty had always seemed uneven to him, an attitude he had undoubtedly inherited from his father.

By birth, no man is greater than another, he taught the boy. Just by deeds. But Baltazar was also a man of God, and kings and queens, many believed, were chosen by the Divine himself, because only He knew who, among the people, had what was necessary within him to lead his country to the right destiny. Having witnessed firsthand what Afonso had achieved, Baltazar found this belief difficult to challenge.

Afonso had been crowned at a very young age, after his brother's sudden death, and with pure courage and audacity he transformed years of bitter and bloody defeat at the hands of the Southerners into the most unlikely of victories. It took the Lands of Albaran from the brink of annihilation. At that time, thanks to his government, the kingdom was safer and stronger than ever. Could any other man have done such a thing? Could Baltazar make it? He doubted, although he knew better than anyone that he could not use the name Afonso the Great, in the presence of the king, believed that the epithet was guaranteed. For he was a great king and, more than that, a great friend.

He did not need to be rewarded for fulfilling a soldier's duty, but everything Baltazar counted as a blessing in life was due to his friend's generosity. The two spent countless hours together, eating, telling stories and slowly coming to realize that they would have been brothers in another life. The way this life went, they practically were.

"Baltazar!"

Afonso strode across the Great Hall and wrapped Baltazar in a warm embrace. And at that moment, with all the formality left aside by that informal gesture, Baltazar's restlessness subsided. They were surrounded by enough wood to build Baltazar's house twenty times, and yet Afonso's greeting made him feel as if he had simply walked over to his neighbor, Iron, to borrow a loaf of bread.

Before, he was in the company of a friend, and also of his king, but in a second place, very distant. He returned the hug warmly. When they parted, Baltazar could see that everything was not right. Afonso looked tired and emaciated, as if he hadn't enjoyed a good night's sleep for a long time.

Whatever the distress that will lead him to summon Baltazar, it was undoubtedly the reason, Baltazar wanted nothing more than to know his nature, but there was no place to ask.

"Thank you so much for coming so quickly," said Afonso, as cheerful as he managed.

"How was your journey"

"Quiet," replied Baltazar.

"I made a good march, which I hope to achieve on my return." He wasted no time in making Afonso aware that he wished to leave soon. Afonso laughed.

"Did you just arrive and already plan your journey back?"

"Your invitation is never less than an honor," said Baltazar, "But I feel reticent about being away from Gwen at the moment."

"Ah, how's the beautiful Gwen? Wait, she's not sick, is she?"

Baltazar opened a smile that only a future father could smile. Watched him smile like that, Afonso knew that look. He had six children. A smile spread across his face.

He took Baltazar by the shoulders and hugged him more firmly.

"God bless you, you stud!" He exclaimed, laughing. "How long has she been?"

"About six months. Her back hurts and she walks like a duck, and last week I swear I saw her eating a piece of coal, but with all that, she is still the most beautiful woman I ever expected to lay eyes on. , and yet I managed to get him to marry me. "

"She is really beautiful," agreed Afonso. "Do you expect a son or a daughter?"

"Gwen doesn't care and just prays for health. Me too, but whenever I dream of the child it's a boy."

"I have no doubt of that," said Afonso, the smile disappearing from his lips.

"I pray that we can have you at home before your birth."

And something inside Baltazar weighed as deep as a stone. They had dinner together that night, in Afonso's private quarters. Baltazar had no appetite. He suspected, of course, that his hope of returning home the next day was a fantasy, but now it was confirmed. Whatever the task, it should not be measured in days or weeks, but in months. Afonso seemed determined to postpone the discussion of anything important as much as possible, leaving Baltazar shaking his head and smiling politely as he tortured himself inside thinking about what the future held.

He shuddered at the memory of the promise he had made to Gwen just before he left. Remembering his words, he wondered, do they fall apart as easily as dust? But to whom did he owe his loyalty? The beloved wife, who was carrying her unborn child? Or to the best friend and king, to whom he owed everything he had? He found himself praying for the possibility of returning home without breaking his promise to either of them.

"Do you believe in witchcraft, Baltazar?" Suddenly, Baltazar's attention returned to the table. The king had been speaking for some time, but the question was so strange that it stands out from everything else. He waited for Afonso's face to twist. The king was never able to keep his face impassive when telling a joke, but Afonso's expression was that of his distressed uncle as Baltazar had never seen him before, even during the darkest days of war. It was not a joke.

And there was something unsettling about the king's gaze. I would suggest that you knew more, much more about the subject that will raise Baltazar thought carefully about the answer before speaking.

"I never saw any evidence of witchcraft."

"He didn't see proof of God either," replied Afonso, as if the answer is anticipated.

"And yet, believe me."

"God was with us in Galileo," said Baltazar.

"We couldn't have turned that battle tide any other way. I remember you saying that." Direct proof, retorted the king.

"Something before your eyes that defies all nature, science and reason. Something that cannot be explained

"So, no. But faith is proof of things we don't see, is it?"

For a long moment, Afonso did not speak a word. He simply touched the stem of his cup and stared at the blood-red surface of the wine inside him, lost in some obscure thought.

"I saw things," he said at last, his voice no more than a whisper. "Things that made me question my faith. And maybe they do that - a gust of wind howled against the window. Baltazar couldn't tell if the room had suddenly become colder or if it was his imagination. Anyway, the attitude of Afonso worried him, those were not the words of a rational man, and Baltazar never imagined why the king had lost his reason.

"Why am I here?" He asked at last.

"In the morning, I'll show you," said Afonso when he got up from his chair, urging Baltazar to do the same.

"I'm not tired," said Baltazar, determined to find the source of what was causing the unusual behavior.

"I've come a long way. If that's why I'm here, and if you have something to show me, show me now."

"In the morning," said Afonso. "The things I talk about should not be seen before going to sleep."

Baltazar did not sleep. Instead, he turned and turned over and over all night, partly for the bed that was not his, although it was much more comfortable and spacious than that. He rarely spent the night since he made his new life, and when he did, sleep did not come easily. He missed his pillow, even as cramped as it was. I missed the smell of the things that Gwen baked and let it cool overnight. And most of all, she missed Gwen, the warmth of her back when she nestled in him, his hand on her firm, round belly, feeling his son's gentle movements. All the luxuries, furniture and artifacts of Afonso's castle only reminded him of how far he was from home. But for the most part, he did not sleep out of concern for his friend.

He had seen Afonso exhausted and melancholy before - often during the war campaign - but never like that, Baltazar knew the strength of man better than most people. He knew that the most serious of questions, something more serious than war, would be needed to weigh so heavily on him.

Afonso's words were repeated over and over in Baltazar's head as he moved, uncomfortably, under the sheets. I saw things that led me to question my faith. Baltazar knew that Afonso's faith in God was part of his essence. He made him the man he was, had given him the strength to expel the Southerners, even when everything seemed lost. If all the horrors of the battle, of seeing bloodied and torn comrades around him, could not shake this man's belief, then, in the name of God, what could? It was an issue that Baltazar was unable to resolve, although he searched the brain, and it still haunted him when the first cock crowed and one of Afonso's servants arrived to fetch him.

Afonso was waiting for Baltazar in the Great Hall. He did not offer breakfast, nor did he ask how Baltazar slept, as it was quite obvious. While the king, the night before, chose not to bring it up, that morning he seemed determined not to postpone it any longer.

He escorted Baltazar through the winding corridors of the castle until they reached a door that the knight did not know; he thought he had known the whole castle during his time there, but he was mistaken. The door was made of oak, of the heaviest, and closed with an iron gate that appeared to have been installed recently.

Two guards guarded the entrance. Baltazar did not like that. They never felt like small spaces. Looking back, he realized that the ceiling walls had gradually closed as they progressed down the corridor, and at that moment they came to the end of what looked more like a tunnel. He was already beginning to feel clearly uncomfortable.

"What is this," he asked.

"The dungeon," replied Afonso. He nodded to one of the guards who unlocked the iron gate and opened it, and then did the same with the door behind him.

"Tomé," said Afonso. He pulled out an embroidered scarf and offered it to Baltazar. It was damp, and it was almost oppressive, but not unpleasant, the smell of the material in which it had been dipped. Baltazar was not an herbalist, but his friend Aidan, who owned one of the neighboring fields, cultivated many types of aromatic plants, and so he recognized the aroma - a lavender and mint preparation. It was no different from the perfume Gwen had made for herself with a handful of herbs that Aidan gave him as a welcome gift when they entered the house, and for a moment Baltazar found it comforting; it smelled like home to him.

Then the dungeon door clicked open and something rose in the damp, musty air. Baltazar was unable to identify him - he had never smelled that smell before - Immediately he took the handkerchief to his nose and mouth, but even the strong aroma of the perfume only partially blocks the stench.

Baltazar looked at Afonso and noticed that he did not have a handkerchief.

"Where's yours at?" He asked.

"I'm sad to say that I've gotten used to the smell," replied Afonso. He lifted a lighted torch from its holder on the nearby wall, and they began to descend. Baltazar followed the king up winding stairs. Ahead of them followed one of Afonso's guards, while the other remained up there, locking and blocking the door behind them. Everyone walked carefully during the descent, Baltazar mainly; the damp stone steps seemed slippery, and his mind was spinning at full speed with thoughts of what might await them below. Libra's dungeon was not reserved for deserters and common criminals, who in general were frightened by the stake, nor for tall enemies of the crown, sent to the tower, but for the worst and most despicable ones who seek to harm Afonso's kingdom.

Who would be down there? A Southern spy caught with news of a new ruse? A frustrated killer? Shouldn't it be the peoples of the north, as far as Baltazar knew they were going through a long period of rain in some areas and droughts in others, would it be something beyond their busy imagination? Baltazar did not know whether he was relieved or terrified to know that he would soon find out.

With each step, the stench rose from the darkness and grew more powerful. Baltazar twisted the handkerchief Afonso had given him to get more of its fragrant scent, but to no avail. Even with the handkerchief pressing firmly against his face, the stench was so strong when they reached the bottom of the steps that Baltazar could barely keep from retching.

What the hell was that? Sulfur, perhaps?

Similar, but worse. Even in the bright light of the torches, the narrow corridor they reached revealed little. The stone walls on each side stretched only but it was putrid, for a few meters before disappearing into the deepest, most impenetrable darkness that Baltazar had ever seen. It was not normal darkness, not just the absence of light; it was as if something below was radiating darkness, filling every corner of the dungeon. Baltazar was not a man who was easily nervous, but at that moment he was overcome with an immense desire to retreat up the steps, to stay away from that place. Still, he held on.

The guard, with his torch lighting the way, led Afonso and Baltazar down a narrow corridor, passing cell after cell empty. Although the flame crackled briskly, he stubbornly refused to reveal anything that was more than a few meters ahead. It should at least cast a weak light the entire length of the tunnel. There, it was reduced to an isolated beam of light in a sea of ​​impassable blackness.

Baltazar started to hear something. A rasping sound in the darkness ahead. Snorts and snarls. Some kind of animal. He sounded sick or hurt, but not in the way he had heard, and he took care of many animals on his farm. He shuddered when his suspicion increased that, whatever was being held there, they fell into the last feared category - the thing that went beyond his imagination. The guard stopped.

"Don't go any further," he warned. In front of them, a line had been marked on the floor with pastel paint, and a few meters ahead, the iron bars of the last cell at the end of the corridor could barely be seen in the darkness. The cell looked different from the others. The bottom half of the bars was full of rust and a strange, greenish corrosion; also crumbled and scratched, as if something had chewed the bars, some still dripped a shiny, viscous saliva. Then something moved in the cell, something primitive and horrible, crawling and snorting on the floor.

Whatever it was, it was almost crawling. For a moment, he thought he saw a clawed foot, like that of an overgrown cat. But then the torchlight reflected a hint of reptilian scales. Was it his mind playing tricks on him in that darkness? The guard used the torch to light another that hung on the wall. He waited for the flame to ignite and then threw it at the feet of the iron bars.

Baltazar jumped and backed away in alarm when the creature inside yelled, amplified by the nearby flames, which made him shiver. The creature moved away from the flames to a dark corner of the cell, but then slowly advanced into the light. , and Baltazar finally saw the full nature of that thing. It moved through the rotten straw that covered the floor of the cell on six short legs like those of a lizard, each membranous foot with several large curved claws. The body was scaly, but its shape was that of a plump pig, and it had the snout and fangs of a pig too, although the eyelidless eyes were obviously some kind of reptile, bright red with a streak of yellow iris.

The unspeakable thing approached the fallen torch, sniffing the smoking embers through the bars. He extended his snout and grabbed the torch with his mouth, struggling for a moment to try to pass it through the bars. Finally, he released the torch, then took it again by its tapered end, pulling it long through the bars.

Baltazar watched, in morbid fascination, as the beast opened its mouth, revealing rows of drooling prey and fine as needles, bit the torch with a loud crack, and then smashed it frantically before swallowing it with flame and all. The guard took a step back, waving Afonso and Baltazar with his hand raised.

Then, after swallowing the last part of the torch, the beast belched a hot burst of bright orange flame. In the brief burst of light, Baltazar saw that much of the cell's walls had been scorched and smeared with fire. Contrary to common sense, Baltazar found himself getting closer, crossing the line on the floor without thinking. Alarmed, the guard reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder, but it was too late. The beast had seen Baltazar and gone mad. Drooling like a rabid dog, he threw himself hard against the bars, screaming as he hit his claws in the air. When the guard tried to pull Baltazar back, an incredibly long tongue unfolded from the creature's mouth and enveloped Baltazar's wrist. He screamed and tried to break free, but the beast was stronger. She ran backwards towards the bottom of the cell, dragging Baltazar with her. Afonso grabbed Baltazar's free arm and steadied his feet. But even the combined strength of the two was not enough.

When they were both drawn closer to the beast, the guard drew his sword and began to strike his tongue in frenzy, cutting it only on the third sword. Finally free, Baltazar and Afonso fell backwards onto the floor. The injured animal rolled on its back as well, howling and crying hysterically. Moving fast, the guard pulled a dagger from his belt and slid the blade under the piece of cut tongue that still clutched Baltazar's wrist. With a firm upward tug, he released his tongue, and it fell to the ground, still writhing like a fish struggling along a river. Afonso stood up at once with a water skin, spilling a little on Baltazar's wrist when the thing was removed.

The flesh hissed, swirls of smoke rose, and Baltazar saw the bright red welt around his wrist where his tongue curled. The top layer of skin had been burned and torn off by the beast's saliva.

"She spits acid!" Shouted Afonso.

"That is why we are no longer advancing Baltazar" Afonso was still vaguely in shock. He picked up the water skin and took a big sip. He looked back at the prison. The creature seemed to have calmed down. She was lying on her stomach in front of the cell, her head tilted to the side, and lazily chewed the bars like a dog with a juicy bone. Baltazar watched as the wounded and bleeding tongue licked the iron, covering it with corrosive drool.

"I ordered all the others to be eliminated," explained Afonso. "This one, despite my reluctance, I kept it. For who would believe this story just by listening to my words?"

"In the name of the Divine, what is this thing?" Asked Baltazar, still breathless enough.

"I'm sure of one thing," said Afonso, somberly.

"Whatever it is, it was not created in the name of God."