Your only ally is an ancient creature thirsty for your blood. But you know hate, you’ve always lived with that. The only thing you’ve got now is your memories and you must defend them from everyone, even from those who would use them against you – and against the whole world. The end of the road, which you reached beyond the end of every hope and the loss of all friends, is nothing but the beginning of a new journey, the most dangerous, the one inside you and a memory which doesn’t belong to you. The incomprehensible memory of a god. Enemy eyes patiently stare at you in the dark, waiting for a misstep to remind you how pitiless is the nightmare from which you ran. But you don’t care. Because beyond the endless darkness shines a light that, now you know, you have been following since the dawn of time.
Genre: FICTION / Fantasy / Dark FantasyFourth book of the Dagger series, sold worldwide.
As the miasmic substance dripped down in the bucket, the shit boy watched the votive chapel down the way. It was once dedicated to the god of Emptiness, but it had been converted to the new goddess that Asmeghin Nehorur was imposing on his Tankars. Nailed to the red-painted apse, Our Lady of Sep-hul was watching him.
The shit boy had never seen anyone approach her for a request, a prayer, a tear. He always felt sorry for her, crucified to the wall and alone in the middle of nothing.
Just like me.
But that night a whole family kept her company. Hanging upside-down, father, mother, and son—a boy about his age—swung to the thoughtful sighs of the desert, their arms outstretched, their heads unnaturally bent, their eyes empty and lifeless. Their bellies were ripped open, and their intestines bonded in a horrid and complicated pattern, probably a five-pointed star. It was hard to tell, since the vultures had already checked the place.
The sense of Tankars for art…the shit boy thought, switching the buckets under the tank. Nothing compared to that of Gorgors, anyway.
Now the sweet family was dead, but the shit boy would never forget having seen them starve and die of thirst night after night, when he emptied the southern tank.
Infidel, was written on their foreheads, with more anger on the young one’s face.
The Tankar swinging in the middle, with a mane like fire, had told Nehorur that the new goddess could well build her temple on her own. The guards who silenced him had been so clement to allow his family to keep him company.
So now all the people of Hakanui were building a house to the new goddess. But during the endless working days, many of them shielded their eyes and looked southward, waiting for the answer of their god.
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Portuguese
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Already translated.
Translated by Giovani Fatobeni
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Spanish
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Translation in progress.
Translated by Talía García
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