An Introduction

Hello everyone!

Welcome to my blog! For many years now I have been meaning to read a Spanish fantasy series known as la Saga de Tramórea (the Saga of Tramórea) by Javier Negrete - I am a big fan of the fantasy genre and really need to practice my Spanish. Well, I restarted the first book today and asked a friend of mine to read it with me. As neither of us are fluent in Spanish, we thought we might as well make an effort to translate it into English. Thus, this blog was born! I have no permissions from the author or publisher to create this, so if I am contacted by an official source, I will comply with any request to remove it. Enjoy my translation efforts while they last.

Books in the series:

1. La Espada de Fuego (The Sword of Fire)
2. El Espíritu del Mago (The Spirit of the Mage)
3. El Sueño de los Dioses (The Dream of the Gods)
4. El Corazón de Tramórea (The Heart of Tramórea)

If you are interested in Javier Negrete or other Spanish authors, you might also take a look at these websites. A prelude to La Espada de Fuego has also been officially translated into English for an anthology of Spanish sci-fi/fantasy/horror entitled Castles in Spain. I have yet to read it, as at the time I initially started this blog it was not yet released.

• The Goodreads page for Castles in Spain
• The official Spanish website about Castles in Spain

----------------------

The Sword of Fire

by Javier Negrete

----------------------

WARNING:

DREAMS ARE HARMFUL TO HEALTH AND SANITY (EVEN THOSE OF OTHERS),

WHILE IT MAY SEEM CRUEL, ONE MUST RENOUNCE DREAMS

If they obey this directive, a traveller breaths with ease, then discovers that they just crowned a steep summit. Beyond, the path slips into a decline that barely requires work from the legs, heart, or mind. But the relief offered by this new way of travelling carries a counterpart: as long and winding as the road is, the end of the journey is now in sight. There is nothing that hides the bare wall that awaits us.

For such is the virtue of dreams, that they turn our eyes from the bony face of death.


But if the traveller is too young, it will be impossible for them to give up their dreams though the world is determined to steal them. Thus, for many nights, Derguín Gorión, cheated by life at the age of nineteen, waited for silence to invade the house. Then he left the warmth of his bed, tiptoed across the flagstones of the corridor, and slid into the men’s hall. His hands groped blindly at the familiar weapons rack, sought the hilt of the sword, and pulled it carefully out of the array.

When he felt the weight of steel in his hand, Derguín had the illusion that he had regained a lost hand. Through gritted teeth, he pulled the door upwards so that its hinges would not squeak, shoved it aside with his shoulder, and left for the courtyard. He did not mind stepping barefoot on the soft earth although it was frosted over. There he dropped his linen tunic and stood naked under the sky: just him and his sword, the light of the moons, and the white Belt of Zenort. With no sound but the hiss of the blade ripping through the air and the gusts of his breathing, Derguín returned to sketch the fencing movements that his father had taught him as a child. While throwing slashes and thrusts into the void, he imagined that he was severing the necks of the masters of Uhdanfiún. They had robbed him of the opportunity to become a champion of the Tahedo, and perhaps a hero.

That night the moon Rimom ruled the sky and carved silhouettes with its blue light. When Derguín went back into the house he was grateful for the warmth emanating from the hypocaust, as the sweat had begun to cool on his skin. In the shadows, as he returned the sword to its refuge, he noticed that the blade gave off a vague cerulean glow, as if it had been steeped in the ichor of the moon. He kissed the hilt with reverence and released the weapon.

"Wasting time again?"

Derguín turned, startled. Behind the meager light of an oil lamp he discerned the round figure of his brother Kurastas, wearing a tunic and a blanket that was wrapped around his chest. Kurastas was seventeen years older than him, father of three children and head of the family since their father had retired.

"I abandoned the dream, brother, not the family business."

Derguín, second son of Cuiberguín Gorion, had no hope of receiving an inheritance worthy of the name. His destiny was to work for Kurastas. This, he knew well, was why he perceived resentment from Derguín and it mitigated his anger. He was a light sleeper since the birth of his youngest daughter. Hearing bare feet, he had thought that he would deal with an intruder, or some wanton slave that had left the ergastulum without permission. He was irritated to discover that it was Derguín, but now he felt pity for his pained expression.

"You take that time away from yourself, Derguín. It’s no use. Those Ainari masters will never give you a second chance," Kurastas approached Derguín and ruffled his hair, although his brother was taller and more athletic than him. "Go to sleep and dream of better things than the edge of a sword."

Back in his bedchamber, Derguín snuggled under the blanket and tried to sleep, but the words of his brother opened an old wound. They will never give you a second chance.

It was the eve of the 13th day of Anfiundanil. A cruel anniversary. Two years earlier they had been thrown out of Uhdanfiún, the martial arts school of Áinar. He and his friend Mikhon Tiq each received thirteen lashes. That infamous expulsion had prevented him from getting the rank of Tahedorán, highest master of the art of the sword, and so he would never be able to reach his true dream:

To conquer the weapon of the gods, the blade forged by the blacksmith god Tariman. To wield it and become a hero, a celebrity as powerful and renowned as emperors and generals. To become the Zemalnit, the owner of the legendary Sword of Fire.


But dreams, which are not always merciful and harmless, have a habit of following their own way and choosing their dreamers. Without Derguín knowing it, his destiny began to change at that precise moment. For the 13th of Anfiundanil of the year 999 was the day in which the current Zemalnit died, and in which the Sword of Fire, as so often happened during the thousand year history of Tramórea, was left without an owner, free to be grasped by the hands of another warrior.

----------------------

Map of Tramórea created by Pablo Uria for Sueños de los Dioses