The Dwellers In The Caves

On this narrow path the fire serpent descends towards the heart of the mountain.

We advance in the gloom, torches reveal the smooth contours of our armor and on the march we illuminate the tunnel.

The villagers asked for our help and a first group answered the call. Weeks went by without hearing from them, so we go back to finish the assignment.

Months ago, the miners discovered a copper vault where demons are prisoners. At first, they confused them with figures carved in stone, but they woke up when they sensed the presence of men. They lifted their stout bodies with twisted horns and tangled manes.

The twinkling-eyed demons watched the miners flee in terror. From the depths, a wave of bellowing invaded the tunnels. Those who had escaped sealed the mine and heard the screams of their companions drown.

We follow the latin prayer that comes from the tunnels, as we get closer a glow becomes more intense. We discover a monk kneeling before the cross that burns with a crucified man, his armor and body were charred, raises his head from his shoulder to look at us, in that instant we unsheathed our swords.

“Saints, back off!” Said the monk in a raspy voice and stands up, “this is my kingdom!”

With a sword in hand the monk strike, we dodge their attacks and curses. He is a man of God, nobody dares to fight him, one of us sent to preserve the faith of the first expedition. I take a side step when he dashes to me, the weight of the sword makes him stagger and he leans on it to stay upright, he recovers and looks to us, raises the edge and with a single movement I cut his arms with my sword. He falls to his knees observing his wounds. I pierce his chest and twist the blade bursting his ribs, wipe the blood on my face in front of the stunned gazes of the soldiers and continue my way to the copper vault.

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Please leave your comments if you like to contribute to improve the translation of this story. I’ll be very greatful.

Publicado por

Carlos Reeves

Soy como cualquier otro que le gusta leer y escribir, no estudié literatura y tampoco sé de grandes autores. La razón por la que comencé a escribir es porque desde niño tomaba esos cuadernos Scribe de hoja blancas y dibujaba todo el día. Esos personajes y escenarios empezaron a tener una narrativa, entonces tuve que escribir sus historias y saber dónde terminarían. Tengo problemas para concentrarme, si un colibrí vuela por mi ventana me la puedo pasar observando cómo se alimenta de las flores, incluso si se va, pareciera que me lleva con él a un mundo imaginario. Soy perfeccionista, escribir es un trabajo duro. Poseo una rivalidad contra las palabras y los renglones que conspiran en mi contra, paso horas editando y leyendo para aplacar su rebeldía. Antes me limitaba ocultarlos después de escribirlos, temía que lo leyeran y vieran semejante lío. Pero todo cambió cuando descubrí que hay personas que pasaron por las mismas rebeliones. Keanu Reeves, Steve Jobs y Scott Fitzgerald. Soy un soñador, no un escritor.

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