Cursed Bloodline

By Barón de Pretto

"I am the King. The last heir of a millenary dynasty of kings and emperors. The most powerful man alive on earth.

Yet I feel helpless to fight the disease that wounds my subjects and corrupts their souls. My legacy and even the lives of my own family are in danger and I can do nothing to stop it.

I believe I am closer than ever to my sanity being twisted for good and succumbing to the curse of my lineage. If that were to happen, it would be the end, and chaos would take over the Realm.

Only you can save me, my love, save us all. But if you abandon me, what will happen to all of us?"

• Language: English
• Publisher: Salmantia SA
• Release date: Sep 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667462639

Book preview

Prologue

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It was Wicked Night. Such a sinister one, it seemed taken out from a horror story. The moon gave the mist covering the earth and men’s houses a purple glow. They were all locked up to keep the horror at bay, along with worse things that hid within it. The only sound sleepers were full-bellied babies, madmen, drunkards and fools. And the dead. Though not all of them.

Only a matter of life and death could force any of the realm’s inhabitants to abandon the safety, perhaps just imaginary, of their homes. Even the bats did not dare to beat their wings, between which they would have preferred to remain that night. Nature itself appeared to have muted. The graveyard silence was only faced by the cadence of iron horseshoes beating against the cobblestone road.

The horseman had been riding at breakneck speed since shortly before sunset. Once the mount could no longer stand the fierce rhythm, it collapsed, foaming all over its snout. It wouldn’t be long before it was devoured by the night horrors. In any case, he wouldn’t need it anymore. Either he went home with something much better than a horse, or he would not go home at all. Perhaps they would both share the same end, but it didn't matter anymore. The dice were already rolling. Had he stayed keeping watch in his palace, sword in hand, he wouldn’t have been able to avoid death. He had chosen the way to perish: between handing himself into men’s cruelty, or into the devils of the night, of which it was said that they consumed not just the body, but soul too.

Damn, at least now I would be with her he spit and cursed at the sky to emphasize his words. He really regretted not being close to the woman who had dragged him into that deadly mess. After a while, he forced a half-smile. If he was born a hundred times, a hundred times he would condemn himself if only to touch her skin. To woo her again... He would gouge out his eyes and cut his tongue off, and yet he would still be well below the price he’d be willing to pay.

He ended his mount’s suffering with a slash, wishing for someone to return the favor to him if his worst portents came true.

He had stopped fearing for his life some days ago. Both he and she had faced the same dilemma at the same time, and they both had decided to exchange all the years they might have ahead separately for a few weeks —which had ended up being too short— in union of both body and soul. An uncertain future unfolded before them now they had been discovered.

His boots faced the steep slope that lay finally before him. His unbending will seemed to open the way. It cut up the mist hiding the place where his last hope lay. The moon had almost gone through half its night journey. It was not too late for him yet, but it was not early either. He was just where he was supposed to be and at the proper time. That night, his heart spoke louder than usual and made all the choices without his counsel. He understood what the old ones meant when they referred to fate as a powerful current against which one could but let himself be dragged. In his case, up to the top of that age-old volcano where his future would be set. What he didn’t know was that his whole bloodline would suffer the same fate, anchored by centuries of glory and power, as well as catastrophe and madness. His blood would be a bridge between generations. Through it, invisible, climbed at his side the son he didn't not expect yet, the grandson he would never meet, his great-great-grandsons and even their own great-great-grandsons. Perhaps he would be reassured by knowing this: not all the spirits looking on to his climb from the shadows were evil. Or perhaps not.

Which was undoubtedly evil was the presence waiting at the top. He knew it instinctively as soon as he lay his feet on it. He felt as if he had pierced a bubble of darkness. It was not the mere absence of light, as the sky’s purple contrasted now with the orange glow from the volcano’s entrails. It was more like an aura of pure evil.

Is someone there? He called, imprinting his voice with all the determination he could muster to mask his fear.

The volcano sizzled. Its noise and his own words bouncing off the crater’s walls were his only answer. Was no one there?

He waited with his sword always in hand, given it was obvious there were other beings stalking him in his surroundings. However, there was no sign of he who lived there according to the legends and old folk songs. The dark moon moved along another quarter in the sky. The celestial body’s indifference irritated him. In the end, he understood his hope was in vain. He squeezed his fists as he took his failure in. He had been a fool. Rage boiled in him, and when he could no longer keep it in, screaming he let it out throwing his sword at the volcano. Spinning in the air, the iron stuck into the crater’s rock. Now they were lost. On top of that, being alone and exposed during a Wicked Night and without a weapon long enough to keep the darkness at bay, it was unlikely he could say goodbye to her. And the worst part was he had wasted his final hours on earth chasing smoke.

Smoke. That was what started forming in the volcano’s inner underground fires. An immense column ascended from there, devouring the lost sword first, and later him, to melt then with the outer mist.

His every instinct woke up immediately. He coughed blindly as he managed to make his way through the smoke. By then, it was starting to take shape. That volcanic gas, or indescribable substance, wasn’t natural at all. He went from fear to terror when the dark adopted a scandalously preconceived form. As a child, he used to look at the clouds in the sky for hours, letting his imagination run wild to find resemblances in them. That silhouette, however, was so perfect it couldn’t be caused by luck alone. What lay before him didn’t just look like a winged bull... It was a winged bull.

A bison an otherworldly voice corrected his thoughts. At the same time, the volcano’s violent eruption swelled the smoke beast’s insides, lighting its eyes, mouth and wings up with fire. Do you really think I can release you from the weight of your sins? You came here seeking the power to save your life and that of your beloved, General Altedramir of Idria. But you will only find death here.

He was petrified. By habit, he tried to find some bravura to gain time, but his mind was too busy panicking.

Just as he feared, the voice drew on his muteness:

Where is your reputed pride? Don’t they speak over the land of your arm’s bravery as well as your tongue’s? Or perhaps before my shade you feel so insignificant you do not know what to say?

I came to make a pact he finally managed to say.

A pact? Don’t make me laugh. Your whole existence doesn’t represent a single sigh by the hurricane mine is. Do you know how many centuries I’ve been studying those like you? Those who preceded you and succumbed before you? I have watched the oceans fill and empty and the First Mountains rise. I was part of the tremor that pushed forth this world in its dawn, and without which everything would be still, and you would have never been born. What is supposed to interest me from you?

Everything I have: my soul.

It’s not enough.

Along with my soul, you’d have my body. Something you lack he encouraged himself. Along with my soul, you’ll have me. You say you set in motion everything I see around me, but I doubt the things that move by your design can fulfill your purpose as a warrior.

"Ha! And what makes you think I do not have my own warriors? As for your soul... Why pay for something they can sip off your corpse and lay it below my hooves?"

Something moved in the mist surrounding the supernatural meeting. He swallowed. Trying to keep himself firm, he said:

I have something I bet all your servants lack, but not you. Something that brings us together.

Surprise me.

Ambition. The word almost had the desired effect. He was moving the conversation into a course of his interest. He led it into his terrain, which granted him strength, and made him lose some of the fear. Making use of the pause, he continued. Besides, only the Goddess has power enough to take a soul by force.

Mother... the beast snorted strikingly. If She is so powerful, why come to me, child?

Because it’s not in her hand to grant me the same power that could destroy me. But you don't have such scruples. And though the road is dark and will stain my soul whole, I am convinced it can also help me save many. I’m willing to do it, even if I must jump headfirst into my doom.

Interesting. But if you yourself agree that the Goddess you revere won't come to your aid, and at the same time you lay all your hope in me... Shouldn’t you humble yourself and revere me, instead of Her?

No he shook his head. She is Queen. You’re nothing but a smuggler. Do you accept to pact?

It’s not enough.

The answer fell on him like a slab. The embers burning in the Bison's eyes kindled fiercely.

There was a tense silence. He didn't know how far he could keep up that dialectic battle against that being who, if his words were true, had been in the world since its beginnings. Perhaps if he convinced him that only he would be able to...

You’re a disgusting creature, General Altedramir the black beast interrupted his thoughts. You’d better shut up, and not tell me what you’re thinking. You’re vain. You deceive yourself by saying only you can bring justice over this land; I’ve met hundreds like you since the world was born, among all the races and civilizations who have trampled on it. From this very sin the Flood was born, but it seems not even divine punishment managed to purify you, because you carry your filth stuck to your souls. No. I shall not seal any pact with you to get what you offer: when I kill you, your soul will come to me, and prostrate before me under its own pride’s weight.

His last words seemed to fade out like the embers in a mostly consumed bonfire. And the worst part: it already stank of battle. He tried to bring his hand to his sword’s hilt with subtlety, but then he remembered he had thrown it, and it was stuck somewhere in the crater, hidden behind the smoke. In its absence, his fingers reached out to the small dagger he always carried hidden in his sword belt.

Nonetheless... It is true your ambition could be useful to me now, during the brief time your mortal life will last.

Make your choice then, Beast, for I am not a patient man.

The Winged Bison snorted and blew out two fire columns from his nose:

We shall seal a Blood Pact. These are my conditions. There is no way to alter any of them: accept them or lose it all. I’ll make you king. I’ll make you the father of a great nation. An empire. Larger than anything you could imagine. You’ll take command of this realm for which you work and the civilizations which compete or collaborate with it, the barbarians in the West, the sand dwellers in the South and every people in between. You’ll even manage to repel the horde of evil that plagues the other end of the Northern Mountain Range, in Borea’s cursed lands. I’ll make you the founder of a dynasty that will engrave its name forever in your history. I’ll save your life and your queen’s, and let you turn her into an empress, if you so wish. And you will have the glory in which your ambitious heart expects to finally find rest. I’ll give you all this, and the power to protect and bequeath it to your bloodline.

He heard the Bison’s proposition with a furrowed brow. He remained quiet for a while, pondering each promise to try and find all its hidden meanings, Finally, he spoke up:

It’s more than what I came to ask for.

I’ve always been generous.

Are you that interested in me?

Could you feel interest for a caterpillar? But I admit you amuse me.

Let’s leave the games aside. Tell me what the catch is already.

First I am the only hope for your lover and you, and now you call me a charlatan, Altedramir?

I do he replied, somewhat calmer now that he knew he had his amazing interlocutor’s attention.

You do well.

If laying my soul on the scales is not enough, what else could you want from me?

Your children’s.

So be it.

Excellent. Let us seal our Pact.

With what ink?

With your blood. We will have to make do with your hidden dagger as a brush.

He was not surprised the Bison knew of his secondary weapon.

It’ll be done as you say. He agreed.

Not so fast. He stopped the dagger in the middle of unsheathing, somewhat fearful for the deal he was about to close would crumble down in the end. I told you already you amuse me. But all the years in your existence will only be a sigh in mine. I want you to grant me amusement for centuries. Hence, we will include a final clause. Since your Pact will travel in time through your blood, descendant to descendant, my investment will dilute with each generation. Unless you marry a son and daughter among themselves.

Incest is a terrible sin in the eyes of the Goddess.

Going to smugglers is even worse in her eyes, and yet here you are, humbled and willing to lick my hooves. You will not back off now. Besides, you could not do so either. Not after having you notice what will now be the strongest wish in your heart, and of course not after offering you the way to attaining it. As I said, throughout the centuries I’ve met many like you. You are at my mercy.

You said so yourself he admitted, trying to hide his true thoughts. Shall we seal our Pact then?

Don’t rush, creature. Your deformed concept of time is extremely irritating to a deity of darkness such as me. I offer you limitless glory to you and all your brood. For, so it is: the glory of the Altédramir house will always be ascendant as long as it liaises with another of its lineage. However, the Bison’s tone became suddenly much more sinister, and its smoke silhouette started growing till it hid the moon and its purple light as soon as your blood’s purity alters, when the strength of this Pact wanes, all the blessings it grants will be turned into countless curses. Your bloodline will attract unnamable calamities which, like flies to honey, will seek not only your complete eradication, but also your whole dynasty’s, your realm’s, your subjects’, and all that you built with my strength, and loved. Did you understand?

I think so... Let me put it in my own words: the old age of which you boast so much had made you fearful of loneliness. That is why you want to ensure my children and grandchildren will have you in mind for all their lives.

The Bison applauded his daring with a frightening guffaw:

Exactly. And you say I’m a charlatan.

Alright.

For an endless moment both parts of the Pact looked at each other, until the Beast lost its patience and snorted annoyed:

What are you waiting for? Pour a drop of your blood into the abyss born under this smoke curtain.

I thought dark deities were never in such a hurry.

A new snort reminded him he was in the middle of a very dangerous game, and that a misstep could be fatal. Dealing with demons didn’t have anything to do with doing the same with men. He raised his dagger.

Before thinking twice about it, he tore the palm of the hand with which he never wielded his sword. He let the thick, black drop to slide down the edge of the dagger. It hung on for a moment, before falling into the void. He hesitated upon watching it fall before his eyes, but he fought against the impulse to intercept it in midair. Soon it was too late. The Blood Pact was now sealed.

I vow I will not bring any child to this world after this he told himself as the drop got lost into the darkness. He didn’t fear the Bison reading his thoughts, as he had now gained its favor. I am free to enter eternal damnation by my own foot, but I swear in the Goddess’ name that I won't drag any of my descendants with me.

Suddenly, he was sure he had made a grave mistake. It lasted for a single moment, then, his mind was taken over by pain. It started as a flameless fire staring on the wound in his hand, which soon spread all over his body. It was so intense, that it made him drop the dagger, and fall to his knees. It permeated into his veins and crept through them exploding into his heart. He was blinded and contorting all over, unable to verbalize the curses and damnations his mind tried to lay on his tongue. With desperate movements, he unburdened himself of the sword belt and his leather doublet, uncovering his chest. There, like a carbonized wound on his skin, appeared the Bison's Stigma, its signature engraved on his skin. Finally, he was able to voice his agony out into a thundering roar, more beast like than human.

Feel my strength flowing through your veins, Altedramir! Prove yourself worthy of me as you boasted, and I will turn you into the greatest monarch to have ever reigned over this world! Or, if you are unable to resist this fire, consume yourself in it and feed my fallen soul volcano!

Grinding his teeth almost to dust and tightening his hands to the point of shattering his bones, he stood up. His sobs turned into grunts, his grunts into something akin to laughter, each faster and more gruesome than the last, till deriving into mad laughter.

The Bison, who didn’t miss a thing about his transformation, was somewhat surprised and burly at the show:

Madness takes hold of you. Neither men’s flesh nor souls can harbor my gift!

Limping, he got back on his feet, but he was barely able to control the shaking assaulting his limbs. His every muscle contorted against his will, forcing him to adopt unnatural postures for a human body. With phenomenal effort he finally managed to ask:

What have you done to me?

What have you done to yourself, Altedramir. Didn’t I warn you about the terrible risk you and your bloodline would run of falling into delirium? From crib to grave you’ll carry the seed of madness infused in your hearts.

He recovered his sight little by little. He felt as if someone had hit the nape of his neck with a hammer. At the same time, he felt his hands were as strong as a stampede of oxen.

Look at me! The Bison bellowed and surrounded him with a smoke cloud blown from his nose. The gas concentrated on three spots: his left hand, his right and his head, and it started to solidify. Forged from one of my teeth, I grant you Fulminis, the mace that shall destroy all of your enemies. Forged from one of my hooves, I grant you Aegis, the great shield that shall make you invulnerable. And finally, forged from a splinter from one of my horns, I hand to you your crown: the Antler. There shall be no king who can look into your eyes without bending his neck and kneeling before you. However, it shall be your skull which must stand its enormous weight, none less than that of the empire you’ll reign over. Thus, you shall remember everything you owe to me and this Blood Pact which, now, is fulfilled. I crown you king. Now, raise the Three Regalia and use their power to annihilate those standing between you and your throne!

Once the smoke with which the Bison had covered him cleared up, he found out he now wielded a brutal mace, a shield as tall as a man and a black crown from which two horns sprouted. He raised his new treasures and howled furiously.

Kill them all! His benefactor urged him, kindling his murderous madness.

Death!

The new fire beating in his heart made him forget the crucial oath he had made to the Goddess after sealing the Blood Pact. He went down the volcano, running at a feverish rate. He had barely gone away when the night sky filled with infernal bellows, laughter from an entity which, again, extended its tentacles over the earth.

Interlude

Blossomspring, fourth month of year 1369 I.C.

Buenaventura de Altolucero, capital of the Madrian Republic.

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Legend says that night General Altedramir came out transformed from Flareback Volcano. Some say he came back as an angel, others, as a black beast. He surrounded himself with his most faithful followers and ambushed the army the King of Idria had sent against him. Despite his inferiority in numbers, they wiped them all out.

Bang! Altedramir minced all of his enemies with the power from the Bison’s Regalia!

His pupil’s interruption made Figaro furrow his brow:

Young master Carlo: your intervention is as irrelevant as it is vulgar, and I wonder it might be necessary to incise more insistently in lessons in Dialect and Rhetoric rather than in History of the Tiberian continent.

The boy met his eyes with such haughtiness that it bordered insolence, but he lowered his head in the end:

Yes, Master Figaro.

Talk like a plebeian, and you will think as such. Mind your language, even in your most mundane colloquiums, and it shall mind you.

Carlo was a young twelve-year-old noble, relative of the Laertes Family, one of the most powerful in Buenaventura de Altolucero, capital of the Madrian Republic. He came from a branch that remained in Vestalia after the excision of the Republic in the Independence War, which was evident due to his marked Vestalian accent. It appeared some trouble happening there, at the other end of the Alpinean Volcanic Range separating both countries, had caused the boy’s relocation to the Laertes’ villa along with his uncle. From defying looks like the one he just received, Figaro also intuited his parents must hold or had held high positions in Vestalian Aristocracy. Nevertheless, he decided to keep himself from delving into his curiosity. His years as a preceptor at the service of that house’s children had taught him discretion was a valued asset. He adjusted his monocle before retaking the lesson:

Then, Altedramir sieged and took the Realm of Idria’s capital, Volterra, annihilating both the monarch himself and his relatives, and married his wife. Up to my knowledge, there has not been any other queen in the Altedramir Dynasty who has been married to two different kings. Of course, the custom of incinerating them along with their husbands shortly after their demise did not allow for such liberties either.

Did they burn them alive, Master Figaro?

"It is difficult to separate legend from reality when talking about the Idrian Empire. Keep in mind it has been twelve centuries since its founding, Altedramir I’s coronation day, and such a long time has given way to much talk. By the way, as I suppose you already know, that day marked the beginning of the Imperial Calendar, or ‘I. C.’, which we keep using today all over Tiberia.

My uncle Bermudo told me the Empire reached the whole continent.

"And further still. It was so immense it spilled from Tiberia to the North of the continent of Arizone. There, in the land today inhabited by Zetswa, or Zetsua in our tongue, the Empire founded the Pharae Viceroyalty."

Zetsua Carlo muttered in awe. The land of the burned-skins...

Young master, I ignore the ways of the Vestalian Court, but here in the Republic we do not have the custom to denigrate other countries’ inhabitants neither by their skin color, nor any other anatomic peculiarity. That might be the explanation of our flourishing commerce with the Zetsonians. Thanks to which, by the way, a large part of our imports is then turned over to your Realm and many others at an appreciably massive price. We will talk about that when we study Market and Currency. In any case, if you want to triumph in Buenaventura’s social life, you must be more moderate when making these kind of comments. You will not find few Zetsonian merchants in its streets Carlo lowered his head at the admonishment. Figaro was satisfied that despite his high breeding, he remained somewhat humble. Though it might not be but simply a wish to thrive at all costs as it was usual among the nobles, particularly those fallen in disgrace. Now, let us carry on with the lesson. Do you know how many years it took Altedramir I to turn the insignificant Idrian Kingdom into the capital of the largest empire ever forged in history?

A century?

No. Much less.

Fifty years? Twenty?!

Fifteen! In three more years than you have been alive, Altedramir I annexed into his power the viceroyalties of Daguerre and Central Augustria, those of Vestalia and Madria from which our countries derive, and then those of Quentana, Turindra and the periphery of Magnusbay up to Old Pharae.

Amazing!

It is. And all of it he connected creating the Idrian ways, which roads keep on transiting a millennium later. Due to its unparalleled conquests, Altedramir I is also known as ‘The Supreme’ or the ‘Empire’s Father’... Which is the same as to saying father of our nations, Madria and Vestalia. And many others.

I’d bet they would have been a lot more if he had lived longer.

Clever comment, young man! Figaro praised him. They had barely started the class and he could already tell that Carlo Laertes showed some inclinations to the study of History. What a contrast with that blockhead, his cousin Pelayo! He thought if he helped him polish such inclinations, he might end up forming a distinguished scholar. However, the Volterran Massacre prevented the Supreme’s conquests from expanding its frontiers even more.

Figaro took the chance to make a dramatic pause. They took a long sip from his holyweed infusion and looked at the magnolias growing in the villa’s garden. His new pupil’s reaction didn't take long.

Master Figaro, what happened in the massacre?

We don't know exactly, though we do know its consequences: Altedramir I was pushed from his tower balcony in the Volterra Castle. His wife, three siblings and three out of his five children were murdered. And a large part of the high charges of the imperial army were mercilessly executed along with a group of servants, stewards, and court cooks, as well as the prisoners in the dungeons. There was barely a single soul remaining in the fortress.

And those responsible...?

I have never found a book or chronicle that throws any light into what happened, neither here in the Republic, nor during my research in the Vestalian or Augustrian Royal Libraries. I have not found more than conflicting theories and fairly obscure ones, for the most part. It is considered one of the great enigmas in Ancient History.

What are those theories?

"Young