Dreams of Steel - Part 18

I am alive! Yes, after a two month hiatus, like a zombie, I have come back from the dead. For those of you actually wondering, my break was due to a mixture of laziness, a summer job, and taking two summer courses for my master's degree. As those two classes are finished, I now have more free time (minus the fact that I'm moving to Colorado and getting a new job...) I actually translated this current post a couple days ago, but was planning on getting the rest of the section done before posting. Obviously that didn't happen. Anywho, enjoy!

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Linar got up and started to walk long strides that in four or five steps carried him from one end of the room to another. In the last few days he had noticed a growing unease, as if a colossal storm was brewing, of a telluric scale. Perhaps he had had a premonition of Yatom’s death; or perhaps it was only the first sign of greater evils.

"I am an echo..."

This time Linar gave a jerk. He turned to Mikhon Tiq. The young man was still asleep, but his lips moved and from them sprung grave and deliberate words, torn from the deep breaths of his sleep.

"When you hear me I’ll be dead, brother ..."

Linar approached the boy and leaned over him. He had his eyes closed and his pupils were moving under his eyelids. The voice that came from his mouth rang with the youthful timbre of Tiq Mikhon, but the cadence, accent and words were those of Yatom.

"For some time the disease has been devouring me. Despite my power, the evil has spread its seeds through my body and I'm a boat taking on water through a thousand fissures. You must take in Mikhon Tiq so that when the moment comes you can awaken the Beautiful Light and keep my soul from being lost."

"I turn to you because I see signs of difficult times like we have not experienced for hundreds of years. I do not trust that the other members of the Table accept my words. Attend well, Linar...”

Linar sat before Mikhon Tiq and listened to that message from beyond the grave. According to his brother, a previously unknown terror extended throughout Tramórea. The roads had become more dangerous, merchants gathered in well-stocked caravans for fear of robbers; even the Silk Road, which had been secure for decades, no longer was. There was talk of atrocious rituals in which humans were sacrificed to dark and bloodthirsty deities, like in times remote and more cruel.

Dreams of Steel - Part 17

Random thing that happened while looking up a word:  I caught a joke that made it past the censors in The Princess Bride.  https://youtu.be/F56QikTv-6A  Yep, Inigo Montoya basically tells someone to go f*** himself in Spanish.

Also, a friend of mine got confused by a statement I made in a previous post.  I have not skipped over any of the book due to sexual content.  I said that I would do it if anything too graphic happened, but nothing graphic has happened.  If such a thing occurs, it will be clearly marked in [brackets] with a vague description of what transpired.  Any conversation relevant to the story will be kept intact (or mostly intact with said brackets).

Anywho, enjoy!

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The rules of hospitality are universal.  Before questioning a traveller one must let them rest, clean their feet of the dust of the road, sate their hunger and thirst.  If these rules were not observed, Tramórea would be an even more savage place.  It had been many years since Linar had received any guest, but he had not forgotten those standards.  Despite his curiosity to know who this dark and thin young man was that he had saved from the clutches of the corueco, he prepared a meal of bread, cheese, hot broth and water sprinkled with the sap of the Great Old One, the ancient tree that served as his home.

At the sight of the wooden tray covered with food, the boy brightened up.  Linar prepared coffee, one of the scant luxuries he received from the outside world, sat on the floor in front of his visitor and drank it in a clay mug.

"I appreciate your hospitality, Master Linar.  May the warmth of your hearth endure forever."

"Eat.  It will be good for you."

The boy wasn’t slow to polish it all off.  Afterwards, he left the tray to one side and opened the travelling cloak which covered him.  Under the light brown mantle he wore a Ritiona tunic down to his knees and covered his legs with woolen breeches in the northern style.  But what was not revealed by that hybrid clothing was betrayed by his dark complexion and lilting accent, characteristics of a Ritión of the Islands.  He had delicate features, almost feminine.  His eyes were large, dark and moist; hungry eyes, and not just hungry for food, but something more, an essential lack, insatiable, like that of his own...

Had he ever been young?

"You know Yatom.  I want you to tell me more.  But first, my reckless guest, tell me who you are."

"My name is Mikhon Tiq.  I'm from Malirie."

"A beautiful place," Linar responded, with sincerity, as Malirie was called the Pearl of the Sea for the beauty of its white rocks and the transparency of its beaches.

"The best in the world."

His father, explained the young man, was a dealer in purple dyes who had sent him to Uhdanfiún to follow a military career and bring honor to the family.  Mikhon Tiq studied there for a few years, until he left.  The reason, whatever it was, was overlooked.  Upon returning to Malirie, he worked for his father and met Yatom on a trip, aboard a merchant ship.

"He was always restless and fond of travel, old Yatom," Linar nodded.  "Continue."

Yatom must have seen something in Mikhon Tiq; as he decided to adopt him as a disciple.  Linar arched an eyebrow:  taking apprentices was something unusual in a Kalagorinor.

"Yatom knew that his time was short, and did not want his syfrõn to be lost," explained Mikhon Tiq.

Linar leaned his face in and fixed his eyes on his guest.

"What happened to Yatom?"

"He has died, Master Linar."

Only his extreme control prevented Linar from emitting a groan.  The Kalagorinor are not eternal; but for those whose hearts do not beat, the decades pass like years for humans.  Yatom was barely older than him.  He still should have had a lot of time remaining.

Linar put his hand on the boy's forehead.  It was a minor invasion, just a fleeting visit to his mind.  Within that small receptacle which was the head of Mikhon Tiq hid another presence, a huge place unfolded in dimensions unconnected to the normal world.  That little cosmos could only be Yatom’s syfrõn.  Fortunately, the boy had received it before the mage died:  if not, the syfrõn would have collapsed in on itself in a cataclysm that would have destroyed a good part of the forest and perhaps Linar himself.

The boy looked at him with unfocused eyes.  Linar recalled that he had gone through a hard time that night and took pity on him.  Before removing his hand from his forehead, he instilled the warmth of sleep through his skin.  Mikhon Tiq blinked a few times, and soon his breathing became deeper and his head dropped to one side.

Dreams of Steel - Part 16

Sorry I didn't post sooner.  I'd claim that I was really busy, but that would be a lie.  I was just being lazy.  Anywho, my new word of the week:  caduceus.  Apparently this is a winged and be-snaked staff used by Hermes.  The description makes me wonder if it might actually be a reference to the "Rod of Asclepius," which is often mislabelled as the caduceus.  Enjoy!

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But the blow did not come.

The corueco gurgled.  Mikhon Tiq ventured a look.  The beast had moved back a step and had its yellow eyes fixed on something new.

A bluish light was reflected in the scales of its thorax.  Mikhon Tiq turned.  A few steps away, suspended over the surface of the creek, floated a figure enveloped in a luminous aura.  He was a tall man, dressed in a long cape over which fell a plait of white hair.  His bare feet were set on the water, but did not sink in it, like a ghostly vision, a will-o’-the-wisp of human scale.  The corueco growled, frustrated, and waved its arms in bravado, but did not dare to go one step further.  Gradually, Mikhon Tiq retreated toward the center of the current, away from the beast.

"Relax,” said a slow, soft voice.  “You no longer have anything to fear from that creature.”

Mikhon Tiq turned back toward the spectral figure, and at that moment he felt a prick in his hand.  When he looked, on the back he had a small wound that barely bled.  The pine needle had left him.

"Tonight the corueco must seek other prey."

Mikhon Tiq looked toward the bank.  The beast had climbed it and had already entered the bushes.  Its stench still lingered as it disappeared from sight.

Mikhon Tiq turned back to the stranger.  His ghostly glow was gone and he no longer floated over the water.  Still, even sunk to his knees, he stood nearly a head over Mikhon Tiq.  By the light of Taniar his features appeared sharp and long, like engravings in the rock of a cave.  He had his right eye covered by a dark patch and he carried a staff around which coiled a carved snake.

"I owe you my life."

"That's a privilege held by your parents, and I would not like to take it away," said the stranger, and he turned ready to walk away.

"Where are you going?"

The man turned halfway and pointed to an indefinite spot with his caduceus.

"Over there.  The same as you."

"How do you know where I'm going?"

"If you're a smart person you'll follow me."

Mikhon Tiq considered that an invitation and moved to walk behind his savior.

"Can I ask your name?" he ventured.

"Can you?"

"Are you Linar?"

The man stopped short and looked at Mikhon Tiq.  His eye seemed to shine in the dark.

"How do you know my name?  No one has uttered it for a long time."

“A man that you know told it to me,” Mikhon Tiq explained, pleased to have woken the interest of the stranger.  "Yatom."

The one called Linar pierced him with his lone eye.  The boy felt intimidated, but didn’t avert his gaze.

"You must explain this to me," said the mage.  "But not before we get to my dwelling."

As he walked behind Linar, Mikhon Tiq realized that he was fatigued.  Now that all fear had dissipated, his body wanted to relax and collapse on the ground, but the time to do it had yet to arrive.  Hang in there a little longer, he told his legs, and soon you will rest.  Although the presence of the mage intimidated him, something deep within told him he could trust him and that there was no longer anything to fear.

They arrived at a path that opened cleanly through the thicket.  Linar picked up the pace without looking back.  He made strides so long that Mikhon Tiq was forced to do short dashes to not be left behind.  On the left opened a meadow, from which came an intense and cloying fragrance, while to the right of the path stood a wall of cramped trees like soldiers in an infantry.  When they reached the top of a hill, Linar pointed with his finger.  There rose a strange tree.  Under the purple light, Mikhon Tiq noticed that it was formed of four trunks fused into one.

When they arrived in front of the tree, it seemed a dark cleft opened before them into a natural doorway.  Linar lowered his head to pass and Mikhon Tiq followed.  The interior lit up to receive them.  The light came from thin and winding lines that covered the interior walls and that were illuminated with a yellow radiance.

"It is the sap of the tree itself," said Linar.  "Welcome to my house, my young friend.  Take a seat and rest, as you will need it."

Mikhon Tiq sat on a natural bench that formed the inner wall of the tree and, with a sigh of relief, leaned his back against it.  He found himself in a small room, warm and dry, of irregular form.  To the left and right each crevice opened as a manner of door.  Linar disappeared through one of them without saying anything.  While waiting for his return, a warm stupor seized Mikhon Tiq.  He tried to keep his eyes open, as the heat was so sweet and the fatigue of his limbs so pleasant that he felt sleepy.

Dreams of Steel - Part 15

This might be my favorite simile of all time:  "los ojos amarillos como dos malignas luciérnagas."  Eyes like malignant fireflies, really, who can top that?  Enjoy!

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When he bid farewell to those men, he felt proud of his own bravery.  Now, at night, surrounded by the dismal presence of the forest, that bravery had been vanishing while the silhouettes of the trees faded in the twilight.

"I wish I had never followed Yatom,” he repeated, for the comfort of hearing his own voice.  “I would be in my parents' house, watching the reflection of Taniar in the ocean...”

He was lost for an instant in a daydream.  Malirie, his city, was one of the most beautiful places in Tramórea, and life there was easy and warm.  Now, however, he was stiff with cold.  Through his cape, the bark of an elm, wet and rough, dug into his back.  He did not dare to light a fire because, as they said, fire, far from frightening the coruecos, attracted them.  It was better to continue moving.  He got on his feet and turned on his heels, until the pine needle stopped stirring under his skin.  He felt around in front of him with his stick and set out anew on the road.

Later, at some point, he noticed that the hair on the back of his neck had risen, and after a few seconds he realized why:  someone was there.

Or something.

He cowered behind the trunk of an oak.  But he didn’t know where the threat was coming from.  Perhaps the danger was hidden just behind him.  He turned, frightened by his own idea, and brandished his stick.  His heart was pounding out of control and he was panting like a bellows.  Surely, any creature found within five hundred steps could hear it.  He recalled his military training, dug a knee into the ground and remained motionless.

You must be the ones stalking, their survival instructor had told them.  If you think that you are the prey, then you will become the prey, and you will be lost.

He had not chosen a good place to stop.  He was in a ravine covered with ferns and surrounded by brush, where he could not see an attacker until it was too late.  And if he saw it, and it was a corueco, what could he do?  Better to not think about it.  He concentrated and little by little managed to quiet his pulse.

When he sat up, ready to continue, he discovered a new smell, fetid and metallic, like that of the jaws of a great carnivorous beast.  He recalled the counsel of the mushroom hunters:  if the smell of blood comes to you, run!  He got up and fled from the stench.  He ran without direction, without plan, looking only for an open path between the vegetation that planted snares in his way.  He tripped over a raised root and fell face down on a cold and wet patch of earth.  It was then that he heard a howl, half a human scream and half the roar of a beast.  It came from behind him; his instinct had made him flee in the right direction.  He sat up and turned to run.  Branches whipped his face.  Something sharp struck his brow. His own blood trickled warmly over his eye.  Another howl, more furious and close than the last; it was said that the smell of wounds excited the coruecos.  Was it a corueco?  From the racket raised during its race, this creature was as heavy as a boar, perhaps a bear.

The thicket opened without warning and Mikhon Tiq met with a slope that dropped into a stream.  The ground was slippery; he lost his footing and tumbled down.  He was hit in the right elbow by an outcropping and his fingers were caught between his walking stick and a stone, and the water was icy, but he hardly noticed it.  He tried to get up and slipped again.  He turned toward the bank, where a large dark shape had just emerged from among the trees.  By the red light of Taniar, Mikhon Tiq could make out the enormous and bulging thorax, the long arms, the short and muscular legs, the bony crest that crowned its head and, above all, the yellow eyes like two malevolent fireflies.

The creature dropped into the creek, supported on its long arms.  Mikhon Tiq looked around, unable to decide whether to flee downstream or upstream.  The phosphorescent gaze of the corueco had hypnotized him.  He had become prey.

The corueco placed a foot in the water.  It was less than two meters from Mikhon Tiq, so close that its blood-tinged breath turned his stomach.  Finally, the youth reacted and, with the force drawn from his fear, swung the walking stick against the corueco’s head.  The beast covered with his arm at a velocity unthinkable in a creature so large.  The staff ran into bone, and Mikhon Tiq felt as if he'd hit against a pile of granite.  All the damage projected in that blow he took in his wrists and fingers, which opened limply and let the stick fall.

He closed his eyes, bowed his head, and waited for the final darkness.

Dreams of Steel - Part 14

Fear not!  I have not abandoned the project!  However, since I did miss posting yesterday, I decided I'd translate this whole section today.  There were quite a few spots that I'm still not sure about.

Random sections of note (I might add more later):

• "Sparkles" became "flickers" because... sparkles... enough said.
• There was a wonderful opportunity to use the word "phantasmagorical" as a direct translation but I gave it up for "dreamlike" since it didn't seem to fit quite right.
• The line "In order to open the tunnel through which he could enter that secret place he had to find Linar the One-Eyed" was the hardest to translate.  The original said "Para abrir el túnel por el que podría entrar a ese lugar secreto debía encontrar a Linar el Tuerto."  It's always the lines with strings of minor words that are confusing.  If you have suggestions, please add them.

Anywho, enjoy!

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When Shirta, the green moon, abandoned the heavens, the light of her sister Taniar gave a tint of blood to the clearing where the young Mikhon Tiq had stopped to rest.  His heart beat like a drum; little by little a strange fear had overtaken him.  Its source was none other than that very same forest, whose dangers he had been warned of by Master Yatom.

"But although it is dangerous, it is imperative that you enter it to meet my brother Linar.  He will make it so my syfrõn matures in you, will help you in your mission and, when the time comes, will awaken the Beautiful Light."

"Master, but you can’t ..."

"We can all die.  That day comes even to the ancient gods.  When I die you must be ready for my syfrõn, otherwise the energy locked within will leak uncontrollably and everything within a league around you will disappear from the face of the earth."

Mikhon Tiq rested his delicate chin on his walking stick and breathed deeply.  The sounds of the night (the hooting of owls, the whispers of branches agitated by the wind, the shrieks of vermin whose names one doesn’t want to know), the sweet and damp aroma of decaying leaves, the crimson light of the moon:  all wove a dreamlike veil through which the forest seemed an unreal place.  One had to take precautions against this misleading impression, for Corocín was as material and tangible as the dangers it harbored.  Before them, Mikhon Tiq no longer had the protection of Yatom’s spells, as his mentor had died before daybreak, in the spectral boundary that separates night from dawn.  Mikhon Tiq had heard that that hour, when the blackness of the heavens is tinged with grey, is when most souls abandon this world, sent off by the howls of roving dogs.

But it was not so, he corrected himself.  Neither Yatom’s soul nor his mystical seat, his syfrõn, had departed.  Just before breathing his last breath, the sorcerer had grasped his hands.  At that moment, Mikhon Tiq felt that a dark pit had opened at his feet.  With a cry, he plunged into the abyss.  He fell for an eternity, surrounded by a circular wall that shimmered with flickers and pulsating colors.  His own cry was lost high above, far from him.  At some point, the fall ended and the youth encountered a plain that was indistinguishable from the sky.  Before his eyes emerged an impossible construction.  It was a castle built with great blocks of grey stone covered with lichen, which stood alone from its foundation like a monstrous tree of rock.  The walls rose, row after row of solid masonry, and from them began to emerge turrets, battlements, counterforts, posterns, bastions, flying buttresses, bold pinnacles that challenged the sky.  When the castle stopped growing, the thousand eyes of its windows keep looking on Mikhon Tiq with a reddish glow.  It was a majestic work, almost perfect, but here and there were small gaps, lines that were lost, tiny cracks.

Nothing is ever finished, Mikhon Tiq, whispered the voice of Yatom.  Receive my syfrõn and use it to build your future.

Then a chord resounded so low that the bones of his chest shook.  Mikhon Tiq thought it felt as though his flesh became sand scattered by the wind.  The spaces of his being opened, it expanded like a sponge at the point of breaking; and when he felt most permeable and defenseless, an alien presence penetrated him.  That intrusion, painful yet soothing, lasted an infinitesimal fraction of a second, and after that nothing remained.

And now he knew that almost everything that had been Yatom, his memories, his projects, his power, was locked inside him in a minuscule corner of his mind that he was not able to locate, but that vibrated as if inside his head pounded a tiny heart.  In order to open the tunnel through which he could enter that secret place he had to find Linar the One-Eyed, Yatom’s companion in the order of the Kalagor.

He didn’t know where Linar lived.  Yatom had spoken to him of the "heart of Corocín" a very vague term for a thick region stretching for leagues and leagues.  But, before his passing, the Kalagorinor had pierced a pine needle in the back of his hand.  When he moved away from the right direction, the needle stirred beneath his skin, producing a painful itch that would not stop until he returned to the correct path.

He was exhausted, but did not dare to sleep.  As a child, in the distant city of Malirie, they had told him horror stories about the forest.  Now he was nineteen years old, he had received military training in Uhdanfiún and supposed that he was a man sure of himself and ready to face his fears.  But at midmorning he had encountered a group of five men who prowled through the trees looking for the precious red mushrooms of Corocín.

"What are you doing here, boy?  Have you lost your mind?"

When Mikhon Tiq explained to them that he was looking for an old man named Linar, they said yes, they had heard of him:  the old one-eyed, the sorcerer, the madman of the forest.  They doubted he was still alive.

One of them, a big man with a bushy beard that was mixed with the hair of his chest, added:

"Watch this."  He showed him his spear, which had a shaft of ash wood a meter and a half long and a wrought iron tip of over two hand spans.  "Each of us has one.  If a corueco appears, we will try to stab it in the belly, which is the only place on its body where one can hurt it.  But still, even if we drive five spear heads in its body, the corueco can kill us all.  Stay with us and return in the afternoon to our village."

Mikhon Tiq replied without hesitation:  he would continue alone.

"At least take our advice:  if the smell of blood comes to you, run for your life!” they told him before they left, and as he looked so skinny to them, on top of that they gave him, in addition to their council, half a loaf of bread and a thick pork sausage.

Dreams of Steel - Part 13

I've already been posting daily updates for TWO WEEKS without skipping a day!  (Though I admit I have fudged a couple of the time stamps by a few hours in order to meet the deadline.)  I never actually thought that I would get this far so soon.  Yay!

I present the latest installment.  It does not actually have Mikhon Tiq as promised, but he starts off the next paragraph.  I only had time to do the small section introduction today.  I have coined the new English term "cornigriff" based on the fake Spanish word "cornigrifo."  Also, if any of you have an alternative suggestion for the "Desert of Winks" that doesn't sound awkward, let me know.  I left it as "Desert of Guiños" for now.  Enjoy!

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HERE STARTS THE FOREST OF COROCÍN.

HE WHO LEAVES THE ROAD TO ENTER IT DOES SO AT HIS OWN RISK.

DO NOT BLAME THE GODS FOR YOUR ERRORS.

Before the splintered sign, the young merchant who travels for the first time to the north following the Silk Road scratches his head and asks the veteran why the road, instead of delving into the forest, it deviates to the west to cross the steppes.  Their question is not without reason, as after crossing along the Desert of Guiños and suffering for days through dust storms and the rays of a relentless sun, the dark foliage of Corocín promises a delicious freshness.

"The gods don’t permit it!" answers the veteran, rolling his eyes.

And in whispers he recites the horrors that the forest hides:  wild wolves, bipedal snakes, basilisks, cornigriffs, bloodthirsty witches, nymphs that seduce men to drown in ponds, and, above all, the enormous man-eating creatures known as coruecos.

"But do coruecos still exist?" asks the novice, incredulous, believing that those creatures of his childhood stories are already extinct.

"Why do you think the forest is called so?"

Corocín.  The forest of coruecos.  Full of treasures for those who want and know how to find them, but dangerous for travellers who do not know its paths, and a bit deadly.

Dreams of Steel - Part 12

Yay, the end of a section!  In this part, I changed the word "miracle" to "apparition" because it's supposed to be kinda scary, and the word miracle doesn't come across as scary to me, like, ever.  The next section mentions Mikhon Tiq, Derguín's friend who shared in the lashing incident.  Stay tuned!

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"What's wrong, Shayre?"

Something splashed on his back.  Kratos turned.  In the washbasin, the water was rising in waves, and these broke and rippled into smaller ones, until a miniature tempest shook the bowl.  Those tiny swells took shape and carved a human face that opened its mouth to speak.

Kratos moved back in fright.  But a voice that sounded like bubbles of crystal bursting in the air spoke.

Do not fear, Kratos. I am Yatom...

Kratos leaned his head over the washbasin and recognized the face formed of water.  It was Yatom, the ancient sorcerer who had saved him from the corueco.

"I recognize you, Master Yatom," he replied, without getting too close.  "What do you want of me?"

You must go to the Boar’s Hoof, in the village of Banta, and train a young warrior.

"But I do not know if I can leave Mígranz..."

It is essential.  The fate of the kingdoms now depends on us.  Will you do it?

"I swore you my obedience.  For what do I have to train him?"

For him to become the next Zemalnit.

Kratos's heart missed a beat.  What the sorcerer asked was to face the wrath of Aperión for the interests of a stranger.

"What is the name of this warrior?"

Gorión.  Derguín Gorión.  I have little time remaining.  You must deal with my brother Linar.  Goodbye, Kratos.

The voice faded out as Yatom's face dissolved into the last waves of the water.  Behind him, Kratos heard a moan.  He turned just in time to pick up Shayre before she collapsed.  He carried her to bed in his arms, but the desire for her naked body had abandoned him.  That apparition had scared him, as did everything related to the mages; but what truly terrified him was what he had to do next.  I swore a vow and have no choice but to comply, he said.  But what was it that restricted his throat?  Was it just apprehension, or the cold of the steel blade that might await him?

Dreams of Steel - Part 11

I really wish that there was a word more common than "lass" for a young woman.  It just doesn't feel right to me, and it is the only possible word that I can think of for "la joven" in this situation.  Thus, I skipped the word altogether and changed it to "her."

In other news, there is only one more post left in this section, then the story will finally move on.  Yay!!

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Kratos turned to continue shaving.  Meanwhile, Shayre ran her nails over his shoulders, toying with the scar that the corueco’s claws had left and which ran from one ear to the other end of his clavicle.  She returned to changing the subject, like a weather vane that knows deep down where it wants to end up pointing.

"You know what they say out there?  Nalobas, Hairón’s doctor, has disappeared."

"I had no idea."

"Someone told me they saw him leave by the Áinar gate two nights ago.  He was taking a heavily laden mule and his saddlebags jingled.  It seems that he was in a big hurry to leave Mígranz.”

"What are you insinuating?" Kratos asked, turning to her.

"There are some who think that the doctor had something to do with Hairon’s death..."

"What would Nalobas gain from killing Hairón?"

"Him, money.  The person who paid him...  There is someone who has already benefited from it."

"Do not say any names."

Shayre kissed him again, but this time she lingered longer.  Kratos again thanked the gods that the waist of his concubine was so warm and narrow, and her mouth so juicy.

"Kratos," she whispered, moving away and looking at him with those eyes so black and round.  "You must flee Mígranz.  He hates you, and he won’t stop until he has destroyed you."

"Why would he hate me?"

"You know very well.  You're better than him.  Although you would swear him fealty and not compete for the Sword, he only need look at you to remember that he is inferior.  He has dared to kill Hairón.  You think he will hesitate to kill you?  Run!"

Kratos smiled sadly.

"And leave you here?  Will you seek another captain that offers you handsome gifts?"

She dug her nails into his back.

"You must treat me like a decent woman..."

"Since when have you been one, my princess?"

"Since I have been with you no other man he has put a finger on me."

"Forgive me, I..."

"Chsss!  I'm going to ask you something."

"Whatever you want."

"I want you to take me with you."

"You don’t know what you’re saying."

She covered his mouth.

"I have not gone mad."  She smiled affectionately.  "You're a great warrior and you'll soon find another lord to serve.  You'll be back to winning gold and offering me beautiful gifts...  I have patience."

This was not the moment to say anything more.  Kratos took her by the waist, ready to throw her over his shoulder, take her to the bed and let their bodies finish waking up together.  But then her expression froze and her eyes went wide.

Dreams of Steel - Part 10

Yay for sections with large amounts of quotes!  This was way easier to translate that the last few sections.  Enjoy!

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A movement in the mirror caught his attention.  In it was reflected the bed; Shayre, his concubine, was still awake and was seated with her back leaning against a pillow and the blanket barely covering her breasts.  She usually protested the light when Kratos opened the shutters of the windows to shave, as she was naturally indolent and liked to sleep well into the morning.  But now she held both eyes wide open and looked at him intently.

"Does the warrior need his humble servant to shave the back of his neck?"

Kratos smiled.  Shayre could be anything but humble, but he liked her provocative purr.

"I have spent many years doing it alone.  I prefer cutting myself over anyone else cutting me."

"When will you trust me?"

"I trust in you blindly, my beautiful lady, but not in the steadiness of your hand."

"You haven’t stopped tossing and turning all night.  What's bothering you?"

It was typical of Shayre to abruptly change topics.  Kratos turned to see her better.  She seemed as desirable as ever, with shiny black hair, almond eyes, those full lips that seemed another face unto themselves, and all the rest that the blanket hid.  She was still young and when she woke she didn’t have bags under her eyes, and she smelled of baking bread instead of sour milk.

"Sorry if I have not let you sleep well."

"It’s because of Aperión, right?"

"Why should Aperión worry me?  Now he is the leader of the Horde, as Hairón was and as another will be even later.  I owe him my discipline, not my life.  I am a free warrior."

"I don’t like how he looks at me."

"What do you mean?"

She stretched, extending her arms.  Then she pushed aside the blanket, stood up covered only by her own hair, which fell to her waist, and approached Kratos as if tiptoeing on a wire.

"You know I'm yours alone," she said, circling his neck with her arms and giving him a fleeting kiss.  Then she stepped back.  "But that man looks like a wild animal.  When he stares at me, I feel like he wants to destroy me with his teeth, and it’s because I’m with you.  He hates you."

Dreams of Steel - Part 9

It just occurred to me that "Tahedo" is probably a state or form of martial arts - possibly some sort of form that uses a power like ki/qi.  I had just assumed it was a place name for some reason.

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In front of the brass mirror, while his razor passed over his temples, Kratos noticed that the bags under his eyes looked more swollen than other days.  He filled his chest with air and straightened his shoulders, and noted with satisfaction how the fibers of his muscles rippled lively.  He was still full of vigor.  In the training room he touched the breastplates of the others every time he tried and made all but Aperión kneel, because he never risked testing his steel against him.  But those bags, the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, and his right shoulder, which in the mornings grated like an old door, all sang softly in his ear a woeful tirade.  His days of plenty were dried up like autumn leaves.  Soon he’d be left bald like a poplar tree in the rain.  And the truth was that in the Tahedo, when he uttered the formula of the Mirtahitéi, the second acceleration, his body took hours to recover from the strain.  As for the third...  He would not dare to invoke it unless his life were on the line.

Time, it was a matter of time:  time that passes, time that slips, time that does not arrive on time...

Should he pass up his opportunity to get the Sword of Fire?  According to the ancient rule he had the right to present himself before the Pinakles, as his right arm boasted the golden armband with nine marks that made him one of the greatest Tahedoráns of Tramórea.  But Aperión had left it quite clear that he would not allow any of the three grand masters to leave Mígranz to contend for the possession of Zemal.  Before that they would have to publicly swear him allegiance and fealty.  Ghiem had pretended to do so with enthusiasm.  Siharmas resisted, but he had already confessed to Kratos that they were overwhelming him and he might eventually give in.  All eyes were fixed on Kratos himself.  How long would it take him to surrender and swear allegiance, that was the question.

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

The next section appears to have some mild (?) sexual overtones.  As a warning, I'm a pretty conservative person and will not translate anything that gets too graphic.  I mean, I usually just skim over sex scenes when reading in English, there is no way that I'll spend three hours pouring over the text for each post just to satisfy the curiosity of a handful of internet readers.  Go buy the ebook and send it through Google Translate if you are that interested.

That said, the next section looks fairly clean, so I don't think this will be a problem.

Dreams of Steel - Part 8

I took way more liberties translating this section than I have on any section so far.  I tend to stick fairly close to a literal translation whenever possible.  As I've stated before (though maybe not specifically on this blog), I suck at Spanish.  I usually understand only about 50% of what's happening when I just read the story by myself, which is enough for me to push on through to the next section.  In order to translate it though, I first run it through Google Translate, use that as the base for my translation, then use a mixture of my own language knowledge and WordReference to smooth out all of the mistakes.  It probably takes me 2 or 3 hours to translate one single post.

The hardest line to translate this time was "he himself had distributed those men among the multitude after paying them so that they would proclaim his glories."  The original said "a aquellos hombres los había repartido él mismo entre la multitud después de pagarles para que pregonaran sus glorias."  Breaking it into reasonably understood chunks, I got [to those men] [had distributed] [himself] [among the multitude] [after paying them] [that they would proclaim his glories].  My brain gets tired just looking at it again.

Other phrases of minor note:  "By no means!" became "Hell no!" because I could not imagine an army shouting the literal translation.  "Smelled where the wind came from"  became "could read the direction of the wind" just cause it sounded really really odd.

Anywho, enough about the details of language choice, enjoy the newest translation!

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On the fourth day after Hairón’s death, Aperión convened the assembly of warriors.  The men of the Horde crowded onto the great parade grounds.  The carpenters had prepared the old wooden platform that was used for such tasks and at its foot the captains waited with as much curiosity as the rest of men.  The cold north wind rippled Aperión’s purple cape, whose proud beard looked mutilated without the locks that had been torn out over Hairón’s burial mound.

"Warriors!" he exclaimed, and that word reached every corner.  Some commented that his voice was even more powerful and clear than the deceased Hairón.  Maybe it was true; but just in case, he himself had distributed those men among the multitude after paying them so that they would proclaim his glories.  "Warriors!" he repeated.  "There is no need to remind you what a great man, what a great general, what a great hero has left us!  Any of you could speak of that loss with better words than mine."

Murmurs of approval went up.  Aperión, contradicting his own words, delivered a long eulogy of Hairón’s virtues.  But the captains began to exchange glances at the realization that within that praise Aperión himself occupied an increasingly important place, as if nobody else in the world had shared Hairón’s tent, his vigils and wounds, his plans and counsel.

"You’re wondering:  What will become of us?  Will we continue being this proud army that our chief created, or will we scatter transformed into ragged bands of mercenaries to fight for a meager bowl of lentils?"

Cries of “No!" and "Never!" rose up.  Aperión silenced them with his hand and continued.

"We need the Sword of Fire!  Only with it can we maintain the prestige that Hairón won for us!"

"Yes, yes, Zemal!  The Sword of Fire!" cried the assembly.

"But we must be united to get it!" Aperión pointed with a dramatic gesture to the captains, at the foot of the platform.  "There are three grand masters below who can legitimately aspire to the weapon Tarimán forged.  But I say:  Must we compete between us, and run the risk that some other rival will seize Zemal, or unite our forces for the common good of the Red Horde?"

"Hell no!  We must be united!" clamored the warriors.

Ghiem, a mix of Ainari and Tricia blood that flaunted eight marks of mastery on his armband, turned to Kratos and whispered:

"He is playing us.  We should not have let him speak in public."

Kratos simply frowned.  Aperión was no master of rhetoric, but he had known to take the initiative and now manipulated at his whim the passions of the assembly.

"It is in your hands, warriors, to decide which of us should be the sole candidate of the Red Horde to fight for the Sword of Fire!  I swear, as no doubt the rest of my companions do, that I will support to the death the one you choose and sacrifice my own ambitions for him!  But it must be your voice that commands it!"

No one was surprised to hear the unanimous mandate of the assembly, a roar that rose like a wave:  Aperión, Zemalnit Aperión!  The gazes turned to the captains, and among them, the three Tahedoráns who could compete against Aperión for the Sword of Fire.  Ghiem could read the direction of the wind and joined in the shouts of the multitude.  Siharmas kept watching his friend Kratos.  The latter hid his hands in his sleeves and bowed his head.  Siharmas followed suit.

The gesture was ambiguous, but the interpretation spread among the soldiers that both masters respected the decision of the assembly of warriors, although they did not share it.  That was enough, for the moment.

Dreams of Steel - Part 7

When I first uploaded this I wasn't done editing it, but now I think I've caught all of my main mistakes.  Enjoy!

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That night the Furies of heaven unleashed a storm, as if to contribute their spectral homage to Hairón’s funeral services.  At the foot of the tower, under the downpour, the honor guard held vigil over the casket.  Covered by a glass top, the leader of the Horde embraced the old steel sword with which he had gained the seven ranks of mastery in his youth.  Above him and the burning torches that lit him was hung a canvas awning.  The water, stubborn, formed pockets in it, and from time to time somebody would hit the canopy with the tip of their spear to empty it.  Under the flashes of lightning, the soldiers passed before their dead commander, bowed their heads as a sign of respect, and turned to withdraw without really knowing what to do.

The taverns of Mígranz did not close until dawn, and wine, mead and beer competed with the rain.  There was pain, worry about the future, and also curiosity, and all of that excited the thirst of the men.  The deeds of the past were remembered:  those who had been closer to Hairón or had shared guard duty with him recalled nights spent outdoors, or even some wound, proud to become the focus of attention for a few seconds.  They also made predictions about the future and calculated if Zemal would return to their hands.  For it was the general opinion that, without the weapon forged by the god Tarimán, the future of the Horde would not be clearly seen.  "Togul Barok, the Prince of Áinar" whispered many, fearful that this formidable and somewhat legendary character would snatch from them that which they so badly needed to maintain their prestige.

After the three days of funeral services and games in honor of the deceased, Hairón’s body was cremated on a pyre fed by branches of oak and ash and grapevines.  The still smoldering bones were kept in a white urn, and that was interred in a mound south of Mígranz, outside the walls, so that the impurity of death would not pass on to the living, and so that his spirit, if it insisted on remaining in this world, would not bother more than sheep and shepherds.

Dreams of Steel - Part 6

Should I continue to use the word "emery," or should I switch it to "stone"?  I honestly had no idea what emery was when I read it, so I had to look it up.  I assume most other Americans don't know it either, but I could be mistaken.  If emery is a common word in Spain, it seems like using "stone" would be more appropriate, but if he's going for more unique language I want to leave it as is.  Hmm....

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"What will we do?" asked the youngest of the captains.

"I know what I will do now!" exclaimed another officer, Pianmos of Malabashi, and he lunged at the chest of the Sword.

"Stop, fool!" the others warned.

But Pianmos opened the trunk, took up the Sword of Fire and brandished it over his head with a shout of triumph.  Even a few minutes later, no one present could agree on what had happened:  a glow, a crackle, a spontaneous flare, perhaps a ray of light that entered through the window.  When they uncovered their ears and turned to look, Pianmos lay on the ground, with hands and face burnt, and from his body rose wisps of smoke. Zemal, still sheathed, rested on the purple rug surrounding the bed.

At that moment the heavy door frames opened.  All eyes turned.  There were three men in the doorway that brought with them the cold shudders of dawn on their black cloaks.  The three seemed one and the same:  skinny, heads shaven and veined, hands resting on staffs that lengthened their thin fingers, feet bare and calloused.

"It’s the Pinakles..." whispered the captains among themselves.

Although they had never seen them, everyone knew that they were the priests in charge of guarding Zemal at the death of its owners.  It was said that they dwelt somewhere in Áinar, at more than ten days' journey by road.  How could they have appeared there at the right time?  Could it be that Kartine, the goddess of destiny, had revealed the precise moment of Hairón’s death even before he became sick?

"We see that someone has tried to desecrate Zemal," one of them said, with a voice of emery.

"Nobody can take the Sword of Fire if it is not their rightful place," continued the second.

"And we shall reveal that rightful position only at the temple of Tarimán, in Koras, the first day of the month of Kamaldanil," finished the third.

The first of the Pinakles knelt, took the Sword of Fire by the sheath, and put it under his cloak.  Then the three Pinakles turned their backs to the captains of the Red Horde and went back from where they had come without anyone blocking their way.

Aperión, Kratos, Ghiem and Siharmas, the four greatest masters, watched on.  A new contest for the Sword of Fire had just been left open.  Only one and a half months remained until the first of Kamaldanil. Which of them or of the other Tahedoráns of Tramórea would be the chosen one?

Dreams of Steel - Part 5

What do you guys think?  Would you burn sandalwood in a cauldron (word in the dictionary), or an incense burner?  I only think about massive cooking pots when I hear cauldron, myself.

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At noon Hairón vomited again and this time expelled blood, some black and reeking clots that made the doctor shake his head.  While the head of the Horde writhed and bit the blanket, Nalobas gathered Aperión and the other captains and told them that the illness was more serious than he had imagined.

"What is it?  What does our chief have?" asked the captains, distressed.

"I suspect some hidden tumor," said the doctor.  "That kind of sickness slumbers a while and suddenly awakens to devour the entrails of its host.  I've seen similar cases, though none which manifested themselves so quickly as this."

By then, the rumor had spread among the men of the Horde.  Through all of Mígranz, that nest of eagles carved from living rock, there were huddled groups, bent heads, whispers, hands raised toward heaven offering vows to the gods, spirits and deities for the health of Hairón.  For the mercenaries of the Red Horde knew that without the Zemalnit they would no longer be such a powerful army, that they might even cease to exist.  None could guarantee that the Sword of Fire would fall into the hands of one of their captains, although many of them were grand masters.  There were many more Tahedoráns in the other realms of Tramórea; any of them could be destined to conquer the weapon of the gods.

At midafternoon the heralds announced the general’s illness.  They summoned all the men to form up on the parade grounds.  There, at the door of the tower, Hairón’s seat of honor was prepared.  Amongst some cushions, secured to the back with straps, and sedated with a potion, the head of the Red Horde held his last review.  The seven thousand soldiers paraded before him, incredulous.  Was that pale and sweaty man with sunken eyes the same one that they had seen riding like a youth just three days ago?

There had never been such silence in the courtyard of Mígranz.

Hairón’s last night was dreadful.  As much as Nalobas administered soothing potions, the head of the Horde twisted clutching his stomach and abdomen and moaned loudly that his bowels were rotting.  The ten captains watched over him all night, and when Hairón expired at the first light of dawn all breathed in relief.

Nalobas approached the body to close his eyes, but Aperión grabbed his wrist with his iron fingers.

"Let me."

And almost gently he closed his eyelids.  Kratos pulled back the curtain and opened the shutters.  Although sandalwood and cedar smoldered on an incense burner, the stench was so pervasive it was as if the body had spent days rotting in the sun.

Dreams of Steel - Part 4

Long... so long... and why does he keep saying "and"?!  I don't know about Spanish, but it just feels wrong for me to write "and" so many times in one sentence.  Anywho, enjoy!

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"Come closer.  I cannot speak very loudly."

Kratos took a couple of steps, but stopped a certain distance from the bed.  Hairón realized that, aware of it or not, his official made sure to not get too close.  He must already be showing a mask of death on his face, that waxy translucent pallor repugnant to those who still have both feet in the realm of the living.

"This is not going well, Kratos."

"Lord, you have been like this for only two days.  There is no reason to be alarmed."

Hairón looked at his hands.  In two days they could not have changed very much, nevertheless he no longer saw before him the hands of a warrior, but of an invalid, without color or substance, skin thin and brittle like an old sheet of papyrus.

"Open the chest."

Everyone in the world knew what the chest was.  It was located to the right of bed, by the wall furthest from the window.  Carved from gnarled and darkened wood, it hardly drew attention, but it guarded the most valuable object of all Tramórea.  It had neither latch nor lock.  It was not necessary.

Kratos lifted the lid and removed from the chest a sheathed sword.  Taking her by the scabbard, he handed it to Hairón with care not to touch the hilt.  Hairón took the sword reverently, and removed it from the black sheath.  Kratos moved back two steps.  Although the window was covered by a heavy curtain of felt, the room was filled with light.  The blade gave off a glow that at first glance seemed blinding, but could nevertheless be gazed on without leaving one blinded.  In truth, it became hard stare at anything else. Around its edge images shimmered, and the air became permeated with a sharp scent and vibrated with a dull and distant buzz that was felt in the bones of the chest.

Zemal, the Sword of Fire, was the most powerful weapon that had ever existed.  On many occasions it had fought for good and on still others for evil; everything depended on the viewpoint of the historians who narrated its feats.  There was no blade, shield or armor that could resist it, as only one of its strikes could slice a marble column.  It was said that, when he broke the siege of Ghim, Hairón himself had executed a turning maneuver with it which split in half the bodies of eight Inhumans encircling him.

But that was not the key to its strength.  The power of Zemal was based in something intangible:  prestige. When an arm wielded the Sword of Fire, there was not a warrior that would not follow it even to hell itself.

Hairón felt how the power of the weapon tingled through his arm.  He sighed.  That strength which was not his came from the outside and could not give him life.  I had plans, he said.  If there were something that one could bring to the other world it would be plans, thousands of them.

Hairón noticed the face of Kratos, which rippled indistinctly on either side of the blade.  The captain's eyes showed his admiration for the weapon forged by Tarimán, but they did not shine with the wet greed which Aperión’s betrayed.  What good would Zemal be in the hands of that man.  But, for better or worse, the Sword of Fire had its own will and would end up choosing its owner, as had always happened before.

Hairón kissed the pommel of his sword, sheathed it, and resumed to give it to Kratos.

"Guard it.  It will soon have another master."

Kratos looked at him with a lump in the throat.  He had just seen something that he should not have witnessed:  how a man says goodbye to his lover.

Dreams of Steel - Part 3

Thought of the day:  Should I leave off the accents in all of the names/words, or keep them in?  I really like keeping the spelling the same on borrowed words, but sometimes accents don't transition well into English.  Take the word "Tahedorán" for example.  The plural in Spanish is "Tahedoranes" without an accent, but in English you would just add an s, making it "Tahedoráns."  Hmm... decisions, decisions.

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During the day, Hairón thought he would improve and did not speak of his discomfort to anyone.  But the next morning he woke up worse.  Leaning out the window of the tower it seemed that the parade grounds rippled as if the cobblestones were an ocean of ​​larva.  His stomach turned and he vomited on the windowsill.  He returned to the bed, staggered against the walls, and collapsed.

Nalobas, the doctor, examined the vomit with a critical expression, sniffed it, even tested it with his index finger as his teacher had taught him, and declared it a mysterious fever produced by the rarefaction of the air.  In truth, the front of Hairón was burning, he was sweating from head to toe, and his body shook with violent tremors.  Nalobas prescribed him rest and in order to cool off ordered the slaves to moisten cloths with mountain water.  He also required him to eat a purée of vegetables and boneless chicken, though the patient protested.

"This is easy to digest and will settle your stomach."

At night, Hairón would not stopped raving, and in his restless sleep believed that he was once again confronting the Grey King, the sorcerer who ruled the Inhuman and who had been defeated thanks to the Sword of Fire.  Nalobas did his best to attend him until dawn; at least, so the tower servants commented with admiration.

The next morning, Hairón regained lucidity, but the fever did not subside. He had swollen tongue like an old rag. He drank half a pitcher of water without stopping for breath, with such anxiety that the corners of his mouth dripped with the fluid that his inflamed throat refused to admit.  Afterwards Nalobas presented him with another bowl of purée.

"No, by Himíe.  I can barely swallow.  I do not want to throw up again."

"You must heed Nalobas," recommended Aperión, stiff as a standard-bearer at the foot of the bed.  "When one is sick they are like a small child, and have to obey the advice of their doctor."

Hairón shook his head, but both Aperión and Nalobas insisted that he eat half the plate.  Afterwards he signaled with his head for them to leave him by himself.  Aperión resisted.

"I do not need you now.  Leave," repeated Hairón.

Aperión held his gaze for a few seconds more.  Then he bowed his head and left in a huff.  When they finally left him alone, Hairón summoned Kratos.

"Here I am, Lord."

Hairón started.  Without realizing it, he had fallen back into dozing.  For a moment he thought he saw the grey beard of Aperión and felt anger and even fear.  But the beard faded and in its place he recognized the shaved head and the slanted eyes and thin lips of Kratos’s face, and also the three scars that had been left on his neck by the claws of a corueco.  He felt safe.  Kratos was a man who held his gaze for the right length of time, without looking away or challenging with them, having nothing to prove.  As a master swordsman, he knew how to achieve the best out of his disciples without hoarse shouting or putting on airs as did other Tahedoráns.  He could be a great Zemalnit.

Dreams of Steel - Part 2

I am really uncertain about my descriptions of Aperión.  Enjoy!

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"Reserve that tone for one with whom you can defend yourself," he replied, gritting his teeth.

Hairón reached out a hand to calm his captains.  Aperión had only eight marks of mastery; but he had gained so much influence among the men of the Horde that Hairón had no choice but to name him his first officer.  Aperión was impetuous and tended to crush others like a charge from a horse, but under his howling and fits of rage crouched a soulless heart.  The others knew that he was the traditional man that if attacked by hand, would answer with a stone, if attacked with a stone, would draw a sword, and if drawn on by a sword, would use poison, fire, treason or whatever was necessary.  With such men one can only kill them, decapitate them, throw the body into a river and the head into a quagmire, and pray to the gods that they would not return from the underworld in search of vengeance.

The discussion among the officers dragged on like the buzzing of flies.  Finally, despite the objections from Kratos, they decided to send a thousand men to the endeavor.  When it came time to name the captains that would be in command, Hairón turned to his lieutenant.

"I see you're thirsty for action, Aperión.  Since you have defended this campaign with such interest, you should direct it."

Aperión looked at his boss with squinted eyes, which were cold and hard as glass beads, and stroked his beard.

"It is an honor that you entrust to me, tah Hairón."

"I trust you, tah Aperión."

"But I am always pained to be apart from your side.  Surely another captain, like Kratos..."

"I insist that it be entrusted to you.  I know you will behave to perfection and bring glory and gold for our common house."

Reluctantly, Aperión lowered his gaze.  Hairón, who was not accustomed to repeating orders, began to grow irritated that Aperión set to test his authority.  It was a good time to get away from Mígranz and make Kratos his right hand man.  When Aperión returned, he would have to accept the fact.  However dangerous he was, woe to him if he did not willingly obey the Zemalnit.

Dreams of Steel - Part 1

Just to clarify, the book is separated out into sections labelled as "books," the first actual book in the series is called The Sword of Fire.

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BOOK I

Dreams of Steel

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Among those who surrounded Hairón, the Zemalnit, there were only two that were not surprised by his death.  One only survived him a few weeks; the other hid it well that he knew for the rest of his life.

Hairón, governor of a small republic of mercenaries known as the Red Horde, had enjoyed a bull’s health during his fifty-seven years of life.  But on the 10th of Anfiundanil he rose from bed with vertigo, ringing in the ears, and a leaden heaviness behind the eyes.  He opened the shutters for air and leaned out the window of his tower, which dominated the fortress of Mígranz, just as the fortress ruled the plain from its solitary bluff.  From the east advanced a mass of low-lying storm clouds. The terón, the great lonely beast that nested at the peak of the Spur, was lost above them flapping his giant wings.  Hairón thought his discomfort was due perhaps to the gloomy weather and that it would pass when the sun reappeared.

Far from altering his plans, he held a council with the ten captains of the Horde to discuss the coming campaign.  It was vital to obtain funds, as in the citadel supplies were already scarce, money seemed to have hidden under bricks, men whispered and at the slightest excuse used others' skulls to shatter tankards of beer.  The mission that was offered to the Horde was to participate in a tribal dispute among the barbarous Trisios horsemen, but whatever the task it would be like water from heaven and everyone expressed this save Kratos May.

“I would not advise it.  It is a journey of more than thirty leagues,” he objected, pointing toward the center of the round table.

There lay a large map of Tramórea, on which seas and mountains, rivers and forests appeared finely drawn, and cities were displayed as miniatures walled in proportion to their size and importance.  However, it was no more than a small copy of the model created by the geographer Tarondas, which one could admire in the library of Koras.

"I know these lands well," continued Kratos, rubbing his shaved head.  "When it's hot, the rivers will dry up, the little water left in them will be corrupted and we will lose more men from dysentery than by enemy arrows."

"We will lose a lot more if we do not bring gold to Mígranz sooner!" Aperión responded, making the table tremble with a slap.  "If you cannot propose anything better, shut your trap!"

Kratos snorted and, with a theatrical gesture, rolled up the sleeves of his arms and put his right hand on the hilt of Krima, his sword.  Everyone saw the gold armband crossed by nine red groves.  Kratos was, along with Hairón, the only Tahedorán of the ninth rank who sat at that table.  He never boasted about it...

...except to assert himself in front of Aperión.

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Part 2 of this meeting will be finished in the next post.

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

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The Sword of Fire

by Javier Negrete

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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.

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