La promesa de los dragones

Chapter One

The body lay in perfect repose on the Victorian fainting couch, looking more like a sleeping beauty than a victim. Detective Sarah Chen had seen enough death in her ten years with the Metropolitan Police's Special Cases Unit to know that natural death never looked this peaceful. Something was very, very wrong.

        'No signs of struggle, no marks on the body, and yet...' She leaned closer, studying the victim's face. Charlotte Mills, aged 28, was found by her roommate this morning, apparently having passed away in her sleep. Her expression was serene, almost blissful, but her eyes - those were what caught Sarah's attention. Behind the closed lids, her eyes were moving rapidly, as if still deep in REM sleep.

        "You see it too, don't you?" The voice came from behind her, rich and cultured with a slight Irish lilt. "She's still dreaming."

        Sarah turned to find a tall man in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit standing in the doorway. He hadn't been there a moment ago, she was certain of it. His dark hair was streaked with silver at the temples, and his eyes were an unusual shade of amber that seemed to shift color in the light.

        "This is a closed crime scene," she said firmly, her hand instinctively moving toward her weapon. "How did you get in here?"

        He smiled, but it didn't reach those strange eyes. "Dr. Marcus Thorne," he said, pulling out a card that somehow both looked official and seemed to shimmer slightly. "I'm a consulting specialist with the Department's new Oneiric Phenomena Division."

        "The what division?" Sarah frowned, taking the card. The moment her fingers touched it, she felt a slight electric tingle, and the letters seemed to rearrange themselves before her eyes.

        "Dreams, Detective Chen. We investigate crimes involving dreams." He moved into the room with fluid grace, his attention fixed on the victim. "And this is the third one this month."

        Sarah's mind raced. There had been two other deaths recently - both young women, both found peacefully dead in their sleep. She'd seen the reports but hadn't made the connection until now. "How do you know about those cases?"

        "Because I've been tracking the killer for quite some time." Thorne knelt beside the body, his eyes now definitely more gold than amber. "He's what we call a Dream Collector - someone who has learned to enter and steal dreams. But this one has developed a taste for more than just dreams. He's taking souls."

        Under normal circumstances, Sarah would have dismissed such talk as nonsense. But there was something about the scene, about the victim's still-moving eyes, about Thorne himself, that made the impossible seem suddenly plausible.

        "If you're tracking him," she said carefully, "why haven't you caught him?"

        Thorne's expression darkened. "Because he only appears in dreams. The physical world is my domain, but his... his is the realm of sleep. To catch him, we need someone who can walk between both worlds." He turned those unsettling eyes on her. "Someone like you."

        "Me?" Sarah almost laughed, but the sound died in her throat as memories she'd long suppressed began to surface. The dreams that felt too real, the nights she'd awakened to find objects moved in her room, the way she sometimes knew things she couldn't possibly know...

        "You've always known you were different, haven't you, Detective?" Thorne's voice was gentle now. "The dreams that come true, the hunches that turn out to be right, the way you can sometimes see how people died just by touching objects they owned..."

        Sarah took an involuntary step back. "How do you know about that?"

        "Because I've been looking for someone like you. A Natural - someone born with the ability to cross the threshold between waking and dreaming." He gestured to the victim. "Charlotte here won't be his last. There will be others, and their souls will remain trapped in an eternal dream unless we stop him."

        Just then, the victim's hand twitched, her fingers moving as if writing something. Sarah moved closer, watching as invisible words were traced in the air. Thorne pulled out what looked like an antique monocle and held it up. Through its lens, golden letters shimmered in the air where Charlotte's fingers moved.

        "Help me," Thorne read aloud. "He's coming for the others."

        Sarah felt a chill run down her spine. She looked at the victim's peaceful face, at those restlessly moving eyes, and made a decision that would change her life forever.

        "Tell me what I need to do."

        Thorne's smile was grim. "First, you need to learn to control your abilities. Then..." he held up the monocle, through which Sarah could now see strange symbols glowing all around the room, "you need to learn to hunt in dreams."

        Outside the Victorian townhouse, storm clouds gathered, and Sarah Chen, homicide detective and newly discovered dream walker, took her first step into a world where nightmares were real, and death was just another kind of sleep.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

        "The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."

        The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.

        "Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.

        "Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."

        The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.

        "Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."

        Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.

        "Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."

        "What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.

        "A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."

        "And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.

        "He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."

        Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.

        "He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."

        The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.

        "Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."

        Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.

        "He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."

        As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.

        Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."

        "What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"

        Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.

        "He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"

        Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"

        "If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."

        As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.

        The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.

        "The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."

        The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.

        "Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.

        "Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."

        The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.

        "Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."

        Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.

        "Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."

        "What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.

        "A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."

        "And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.

        "He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."

        Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.

        "He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."

        The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.

        "Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."

        Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.

        "He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."

        As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.

        Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."

        "What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"

        Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.

        "He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"

        Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"

        "If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."

        As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.

        The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Three

They arrived at St. Bartholomew's Hospital just as the emergency lights began to flash. Sarah followed Thorne through corridors that seemed to blur at the edges of her vision, her new badge somehow clearing their path without ever being shown.

        "Room 307," Thorne said, his voice tight with urgency. "Young male, admitted for minor surgery, slipped into an unusual coma during recovery."

        The patient, David Parker, age 23, lay perfectly still on his hospital bed, his eyes moving rapidly beneath closed lids. Just like Charlotte Mills. But this time, something was different - the air around him rippled like heat waves over hot asphalt.

        "He's still in the process of taking him," Thorne said, pulling out what looked like an antique pocket watch. "We can follow if we're quick. Are you ready for your first dream dive?"

        Sarah's heart pounded. "What do I need to do?"

        "Take my hand. Focus on the patient. Let your consciousness slip between the moments of reality." Thorne's eyes began to glow that strange amber color. "And whatever you see in there, remember - dream logic is real logic in that world."

        Sarah grasped Thorne's hand and looked at David Parker. The world tilted, twisted, and suddenly...

        They were standing in a hospital corridor that wasn't quite right. The walls breathed slowly, the floor was made of flowing water that somehow supported their weight, and the ceiling was a swirling mass of constellation maps.

        "His dreamscape," Thorne explained, his voice echoing strangely. "Every dreamer creates their own reality. Look."

        Down the impossible corridor, a figure in a doctor's coat was leading David Parker by the hand. But the 'doctor' was wrong - his shadow moved independently, reaching out with grasping tendrils towards other dreams that floated past like soap bubbles.

        "The Dream Collector," Sarah whispered.

        As if hearing his name, the figure turned. Sarah's breath caught. His face was a beautiful mask of shifting features, never settling on one form, but his eyes... his eyes were endless pits of swirling dreams.

        "Ah, the new dreamer," his voice was like silk over broken glass. "And my old friend Marcus. Still trying to police the dream worlds?"

        Thorne stepped forward, and Sarah noticed his appearance had changed in the dream. His suit was now made of living shadows, and wings of dark light stretched from his shoulders. "Let him go, Collector. You've taken enough souls."

        The Collector laughed, the sound causing the hospital walls to crack, leaking golden dream-light. "Taken? Oh, Marcus, you still don't understand. They give themselves to me. Show her, David."

        The young man turned, and Sarah saw his eyes were glassy with bliss. "It's beautiful here," he said dreamily. "All my pain is gone. All my fears. He takes them all away."

        "By taking everything you are," Sarah found herself saying. She took a step forward, instinctively reaching for her police badge. In the dream, it transformed into a shield of pure light. "David, this isn't real healing. It's theft."

        The Collector's face rippled with anger. "You dare interrupt my collection?" The corridor began to twist, reality bending around them. "Let me show you what happens to those who interfere with my work."

        Suddenly, the floor beneath Sarah liquefied completely. She started to sink, but instead of water, she was drowning in dreams - thousands of them, each containing a fragment of someone's stolen soul. She saw Charlotte Mills dancing endlessly in a ballroom of mirrors, saw other victims trapped in perfect moments that had become eternal prisons.

        "Sarah!" Thorne's voice cut through the chaos. "Remember - dream logic! Make your own rules!"

        Dream logic. Sarah closed her eyes, focusing on her years of police work, of protecting people, of solving puzzles. When she opened them, her badge-shield had transformed into a sword of pure thought.

        With a cry, she slashed through the dream-flood. Reality reasserted itself - or at least, this dream's version of reality. She stood on solid ground again, facing the Collector.

        "Impressive," he purred, but she sensed uncertainty in his voice. "You're stronger than the usual dreamers Marcus recruits. Perhaps we could make a deal..."

        "No deals," Sarah said firmly. She could feel her power growing, reshaping the dream around them. "David, look at what he really is. Look with your heart, not your fears."

        For a moment, David's eyes cleared. The Collector's beautiful mask slipped, revealing something ancient and hungry beneath. David screamed, pulling away from the creature's grasp.

        The Collector snarled, his form shifting into something monstrous. "If I can't have him willingly..." Shadows exploded from his body, reaching for David.

        What happened next seemed to unfold in slow motion. Thorne spread his dark wings, shielding David. Sarah's sword of thought became a net of light, trapping some of the shadows. But the Collector himself simply... stepped sideways, vanishing into a door that appeared in the air.

        "Sweet dreams, detectives," his voice lingered behind. "We'll meet again soon. After all, Sarah, your dreams are particularly... appetizing."

        The dreamscape began to dissolve. Sarah felt Thorne grab her arm, pulling her back through layers of reality. Then...

        They were standing in the hospital room again. David Parker was awake, gasping, but alive and whole. A nurse was rushing in, responding to his sudden revival.

        "We saved one," Thorne said quietly. "But he'll be angry now. And he'll come for you."

        Sarah touched her badge, still feeling echoes of its dream-power. "Good," she said grimly. "Because I have some questions for him about Charlotte Mills. And about what you really are, Marcus Thorne."

        Thorne's expression was unreadable. "All in time, Detective. For now, you need to rest. Tomorrow, your real training begins."

        As they left the hospital, Sarah could have sworn she saw her shadow move independently, reaching for dreams that floated just beyond the edge of sight. The world would never look quite the same again.

Chapter Four

Sarah's apartment looked different when she returned that night. The shadows seemed deeper, more alive, and ordinary objects cast reflections that didn't quite match reality. The dreamcatcher Thorne had given her pulsed softly in her pocket, responding to the changed way she now saw the world.

        She was exhausted but afraid to sleep. The Collector's words echoed in her mind: 'Your dreams are particularly appetizing.' Instead, she spread her case files across the coffee table - photographs of Charlotte Mills, the other victims, and now David Parker's medical records.

        A soft chime from her badge interrupted her concentration. The metal had grown warm, and when she touched it, words appeared in that strange shifting script: 'Archive. Now. Emergency.'

        The museum was different at night. Sarah's new badge led her through doors that hadn't existed during her first visit, down stairs that seemed to descend far deeper than the building's foundation should allow. She found Thorne in a circular room she hadn't seen before, surrounded by floating screens of light that showed various dreamscapes.

        "We have a problem," he said without preamble. "The Collector's attack pattern has changed. Look."

        The screens shifted, showing a map of the city overlaid with points of light. "Each light is a dreamer," Thorne explained. "The blue ones are normal dreams. The red..." He gestured, and several dots pulsed an angry crimson. "Those are nightmares being actively shaped by outside forces."

        "He's attacking multiple targets at once?"

        "No." Thorne's expression was grim. "He's leaving traps. Dream-snares. Anyone who falls asleep in these areas risks being pulled into a constructed nightmare. He's trying to overwhelm our ability to respond."

        Sarah studied the pattern of red dots. "They're forming a shape... a symbol?"

        "A summoning circle." A new voice joined them. Sarah turned to see an elderly woman emerging from what appeared to be a door made of starlight. Her eyes were milk-white, but she moved with absolute certainty.

        "Sarah, meet Dr. Eleanor Price, the Archive's keeper," Thorne said. "And yes, she's blind in the waking world, but in dreams..."

        "I see everything," Eleanor finished. Her unseeing eyes fixed on Sarah with uncomfortable accuracy. "Including what our friend the Collector is truly planning. He's not just taking souls anymore. He's building toward something larger."

        She gestured, and the room transformed around them. They were suddenly standing in what looked like a vast library, but the books were made of dreams, their pages flowing like liquid memory.

        "Every dream ever archived is stored here," Eleanor explained. "Including the oldest nightmares of humanity. The Collector isn't just a thief - he's trying to wake something that should stay sleeping. Something we locked away centuries ago."

        She pulled a book from the shelf, and its pages burst open, projecting a scene of ancient horror - a time when the boundary between dreams and reality was thinner, when nightmares could walk in daylight.

        "The Last Nightmare," Thorne said softly. "We thought it was safely contained, but if he completes that summoning circle..."

        A sudden tremor ran through the Archive. One of the red dots on the map had grown larger, pulsing violently.

        "He's starting," Eleanor's voice was urgent. "Sarah, you need to see something before you face this." She pressed her fingers to Sarah's forehead, and suddenly...

        She was in a memory. A younger Thorne stood with a woman who looked remarkably like Sarah herself, facing down a shadow that threatened to devour the world. The woman - another dream detective? - sacrificed herself to help seal away the nightmare.

        "Your mother," Eleanor's voice echoed in her mind. "She was one of us. Her sacrifice helped lock away the Last Nightmare, but the Collector has never stopped trying to free it. And now he's found you - her daughter, with her power."

        The vision ended abruptly as another tremor shook the Archive. More red dots were pulsing on the map.

        "Why didn't you tell me?" Sarah demanded, turning to Thorne.

        "Because I promised her I'd keep you away from this life," he replied, pain evident in his voice. "But now the Collector knows who you are, and we're running out of time."

        "The summoning circle will be complete at the next new moon," Eleanor added. "Three days from now. If the Last Nightmare wakes..."

        "Then we stop him before that happens," Sarah said firmly, though her mind was reeling from the revelations. "How do we break these dream-snares?"

        "It's dangerous," Thorne warned. "Each one is a trap designed specifically for dream walkers. If you're caught..."

        "Then you'll just have to watch my back," Sarah said. She touched her badge, feeling its power respond. "Where do we start?"

        Eleanor smiled, her blind eyes somehow twinkling. "First, you need to understand what you truly inherited from your mother. It's time you learned about the true history of the dream walkers - and why the Collector fears your bloodline above all others."

        As if in response to Eleanor's words, the books around them began to glow, their pages rustling with the weight of secrets about to be revealed. In the map above, the red dots pulsed like a countdown to catastrophe, and Sarah realized she had less than three days to master powers she never knew she had.

        The true game was about to begin.

==========
Prólogo
==========
"wLlPeva !esgtLo. al Qh'ohmZbDre qaue AeCstáC sreVnHtaado RfWuerUa.n Ym knov ljo moglweusxtReXs".d
El muchacho aceptó la jarra de octli, con cuidado de que el líquido lechoso no resbalara por el borde mientras atravesaba la concurrida cantina, pero dudó en la puerta. El aire salado del mar estaba impregnado de olores a azufre y ceniza, y la luz del sol del sur, normalmente dura, tenía un tinte anaranjado surrealista que recordaba las historias del infierno y el trabajo eterno bajo el látigo de un esclavista.
Un solo hombre se sentaba fuera, en una mesa bajo el toldo. Un vagabundo.
El hombre grande tenía la piel morena, el pelo negro y enrarecido, salpicado de canas, y una nariz que se había roto más veces que la cristalería de la cantina. Sus ojos oscuros y melancólicos miraban a través del estrecho hacia el volcán que ardía en la más cercana de las Islas de la Perca del Dragón.
CNuanMdo esl muéchaXcho lQeM deOvo(llvió Gla miraIdOa ÉczoSnw ains,eg(uridaOd,r Oetl tabeWrMnerop _hpizol Pu(nt .gesto dleH rOechazzok y lueQgko qseZ frotó _lnoisZ zdeXdxo(s Cpara VrcecorqdakrKlue que dvebpía rescHog'erc ltaq monFedfaA.
"Que te den por el culo", murmuró el chico, aunque no se atrevió a desobedecer al camarero.
Ya había sido golpeado dos veces esa tarde por clientes malhumorados que discutían sobre presagios y hacían apuestas sobre cuándo entraría en erupción el volcán. Le dolía el ojo hinchado al recordar el castigo de ayer por moverse demasiado despacio.
Tras cuadrar los hombros y respirar hondo, el chico se dirigió a la mesa.
E'l yvawguacbunydof hlvog mimr_óI cm$iÉehnstra&sF bset aOce$rtc*aPbza,p YpAerBot suW CateHn$ciRón voclvióT alR &vo)lczáMnC.r OUnsa palumgah McoSlwghaMbaé )eMnhtcrÉe s)usB HdeJdos$, .y u)n ddiabrio yracVíLa UaGbfienrt$o. sGoZbr.e lOay ómezsOaS, c&on lÉas* wpéágKisnuaQsQ _d*esnuuRdZaGs da& e'xcueKpLción dMeK unaNs pocCajss Ilbí)neVaisF.h FReisvuPltt(aDba wdifíucil ima_ginlaré kqu_e e*l! &glréan lurcDha*do!r& kfueAr$ar uFn NesJcrilbéaT, tednibendqo en) cMuenta e$l axrnés zde Élzaé exsGp(adja pqdueU slleWvwabóa a( lFaQ KesÉpaldad, la emmp'uSñwadbu^raw dbe l&a hSo*ja Uenvnu'elltéa VeDnA cHu.eKro xqxuQe acsomabRa Ipiojrw suT hBombroB By ólPar IpiHsptjozla fmageloqcyku enfupnAdLadaL Dein su cadeIrZaG.S
No, el chico se dio cuenta con un sobresalto. No era una magelock, sino una vieja pistola de pólvora negra. Recordó que los vagabundos odiaban la magia y odiaban a los que utilizaban las herramientas y artilugios que los magos vendían a la gente. Nervioso, se frotó la banda que le rodeaba la cabeza, fuente de agradables ensoñaciones y de pequeños impulsos de satisfacción que a veces le hacían olvidar su suerte en la vida.
Se acercó sigilosamente y colocó la taza en el codo del hombre. Sobre la mesa había dos rinaras de cobre, una para el precio de la bebida y otra... ¿para él?
El chico miró con cautela al hombre, temiendo ser sorprendido mirando, pero temiendo presumir. Sólo entonces se dio cuenta de que al hombre le faltaba la mano izquierda, sustituida por la cabeza de un pico de metal oscuro. Una cicatriz atravesaba la ceja del vagabundo y la mitad de su mejilla. No había sido visible antes, y hacía que el rostro le resultara familiar, como si el muchacho lo hubiera visto antes, pero nunca había esperado a este hombre. Estaba seguro de ello.
U&n ngr'i)tDo dvéiqnmo& de bmQá*su arr.ibia eWnC Ée!l ncYaKmitnkot, yB yél $saYltpóv._ SyeéiGs WavdmoHleBscOenpteAs* con túnihcZaisc kmlamrrVoCneDsp y t&ost(adasS 'maJla a!juNstJaVdMays,W cintupróoxnesa fde cuerGda Lque MtGizn^tbiqne,aban cRon tprozzvoHsé qdel eNsAtéavñ)oy ryg c)oAbhrie, ycolgahnldo,l ,vmetnjí,an_ deCa,mbulando hacpiaW afllít.ó VVadriosq ljldevóazbaani )paKloLs )o lm*azSaOs Valé &hoPmbro.
El chico miró hacia la puerta. La magia de la zona protegía el interior de la taberna de asaltantes y piratas, pero sólo los encargados de hacer cumplir las leyes en el exterior, y rara vez se molestaban cerca de los muelles.
¿Había visto el vagabundo a la banda que se acercaba? Podrían suponer que su edad y la falta de una mano lo convertirían en un blanco fácil.
"Toma las monedas, asesino", dijo el vagabundo, con la mirada fija en el diario mientras escribía una línea.
¿NAfs(eósRiZno,?K WEl fchéiÉcVoY Ls&e toclóL Éel Gpe!chzoH.F
"Las dos", añadió el hombre, con voz de barítono, no dura y ruda como el chico esperaba.
"Se avecinan problemas, señor".
Cuando los adolescentes se acercaron, se dieron un codazo y apuntaron a la mesa con sus armas.
"N)oG teln(got npingunPaW ducda".r OEulB vaCgabundbo Fmzipr^óq qhCaécAima tel YvolXcátn ZdKe ,lGar DirslQa en $luLgRasrR $de la* b^aDnda fqu*e FsUew acercabua. cEWntPreycerSrYó Bl&osG oójQo's Tan,teB Ounna) bxar&cnaZzaT rancóladiau XehnQ u'na ba$hía ^cerFczalnOa a, Ylap pc&ostga,x fcMaNsiu nobcBuUltav pZoórp el humWo g)r&is! cenizaV gqNube' NdhesZcPendí_aJ ^de Slag caDlderrna.K ¿Porq qusé. OalUg$uOi&ebnb Mna$v$efgajríÉaB tFan jcerPca Rd^e un voljcázny hajctigvop? F"dSerDá mecjBo'rp (quJe entrUey"J,_ ta!ñadiyóv GeslU hoGmbrrue.&
"Usted también puede entrar si quiere, señor".
"Me gusta la vista".
Los adolescentes habían llegado a la zona de asientos, y uno de ellos pateó una silla, enviándola con estrépito por el camino de piedra arenisca. Sólo la cuerda gruesa que había entre los pilares del borde impidió que cayera al puerto.
Trnagss Dczo$geró hla^s dho)sV mo!nNe&dQais,i el chicfoK Zco'rpr'isó djeU n_ueZvLoP hwaNciwa ,lha puMeOrta.C kHaWbíaJ &hvecYhon todon lot Fp.obsJibXlYeJ DpNourG adveZrthi(r( a*l $vaógabuhndmo Lyy l)e habmían Sp$aUgQaZdo, ZaBsíÉ aques WevlH cvaématremrpo Sn&o dueTbJería Pe&nfadazrpsXeI sIi glBeN _ofcFuwrrr$íVaO alzgno KaalJ AclqieLnte.
"Invítanos a una copa, abuelo", dijo uno de los adolescentes mientras el grupo se extendía a su alrededor, con sus toscas armas en la mano.
"¿Abuelo?", murmuró el vagabundo, sonando indignado, aunque no levantó la vista de su escritura.
El chico se quedó en la puerta, observando aunque no quería ver a su cliente golpeado y asaltado. Había sido generoso con su moneda cuando pocos lo eran. Las monedas eran demasiado escasas, demasiado difíciles de ganar cuando la mitad de cada rinara iba a parar a los magos en sus castillos celestes.
"MOg daynPoJsV NtYu mPoneyderÉo vyT comXpSrairejmos ell dnZueZsWtro". nOtqro, vahdolZeWsceuntde sleW ri)óT.
El vagabundo escribió unas cuantas palabras más en la página, como si la banda fuera a desaparecer si la ignoraba. El chico negó con la cabeza. No funcionaba así.
"He dicho...", el mayor de los adolescentes alcanzó el hombro del vagabundo, "-Danos tus monedas, abuelo".
De alguna manera, el vagabundo consiguió dejar el bolígrafo, cerrar el libro con desgana y atrapar la mano antes de que lo agarrara. Apretó con fuerza mientras miraba por primera vez a los ojos del más joven.
"W¿Seguro kqYue zqquMierOes MaypDrove$chPa^rt'e Jdve! l_os vixejo(sl yg dlios ^ecnfNermos,Z Écqh)izco?",j pregubn!tó efl vTa.gasbuhnjdo, cYonk una vjozÉ peLliPgrosa. "Cu$angdoF fl^lePgakmvoés Pa cliseJrQtar $edad, nGoVsO lpQo^nemosC deF Ém)aZl haulmor cwoTni facillYiNd!aÉdó".
Levantó el brazo de su pico en señal de advertencia, y la luz del sol brumoso brilló de color naranja sobre el acero oscuro. No tenía el aura mágica de un mago o de un hechicero, pero tenía el comportamiento de alguien que había pasado su vida en la batalla y había matado hombres. Muchos hombres.
"No nos importa tu disposición". El adolescente se estremeció ante la presión que aplastaba su mano, pero logró una mueca desafiante. "Sólo queremos tu dinero".
Intentó tirar de su mano hacia atrás, pero el agarre era como un tornillo de banco, y no pudo escapar. Con la mano libre, lanzó un puñetazo a la cara del vagabundo. No llegó a conectar.
SiDn dQerlrriNbcaLrL sSu isilla*, eln zvaégabunjdLo se spussoF HegnL _piXeW yW blFoqu_eTó eln pBu(ñe&tyaztoQ. Gi_róR,T clNaBvóD la paurntSeK qpwllagnaG !dxeg rsmu péico! óen il,as trmiÉpbagsC sde rsu aAtaCcÉaynteU y lKo Hlaynzó' porw ehnccimqaV dwelv hyoHmbrcox.a UEglf aOd!o!l(escxexntveÉ s'e gjoul^peHóh comntxra NurnoM KdLeH Plocs .pFoxs&tewsH que sMoRstzeníacng e$l tloildKo y sdeU dOejsplolmMó, 'efn, eVlS gsuel*o.p
Aunque asustados, el resto de la banda rugió y se abalanzó sobre el vagabundo.
Para ser un hombre grande, se movía con rapidez, evadiendo los intentos de los jóvenes por rodearlo, y lanzaba golpes mucho más efectivos que ellos. Nunca sacó la espada ni la pistola, pero utilizó su pico como arma, golpeándolo contra el hueso o clavando la punta en la carne. Agarró a otro adolescente y lo embistió en el plexo solar con la cabeza, dejándolo jadeante en el suelo. En un abrir y cerrar de ojos, otros dos jóvenes volaron por encima de la cuerda y entraron en el puerto.
El vagabundo se enfrentó a los adolescentes restantes, pero ya habían tenido suficiente. Cojeando y maldiciendo, se alejaron a toda prisa.
DxuraBntel ulda' ieÉsrczaXrGamupza(, la jaSrPrmaN deb ocLtflia ckayó Qail, sUueYloi yR Éla Gvi^scTo&sga beFbWida rkezaumó en lapsH gr*ieXtawsS eWnBtreI Olofs ladriNlXlDos édeX _aren^iscaG.É lEl& nv_aQg,abxubndo lap repcogwión cKown Qsu pticoZ Cy óle Ai.ndicjó Bal hm^uVcChóanchSoz Zquieu péidFizemra otrhaS. NSixnD cinKmujtaGrsZe BpohrB xlna pVruebaa,x volvSió. aÉ sLednyt!arsei Tau fla meOsaf, *abAriióK stu$ dóifario y vPoulvAióv Fa emWpAuñkarW ZlSaD pSlKuwma.d
El chico se apresuró a entrar en la cantina para pedir otra bebida. Como había dicho el camarero, no era un hombre al que quisiera molestar.

==========
1
==========
ESlZ hummo CeéraQ ltan Fd*eKnsro altrAedledXor delJ MvoYlscán lquXe tunaÉ YfloTrU de cafctluFs due f$l^oLraócTiQóJnN nóoctNurGna e^sta!bap ben pwlaenap (ebxhibdiWcYión,x ysuU tr!omZpPetaan Qpúrp*urad FvéilburlaFnte Ucko$ntBra Wla* ltadgeSra nBeg!raa rocToZs!a. Jakstord Free&da(r -esutudita,ntte), gcarrtYógdrpaOfGoA eAn ftormsacqiónM Tyó jlagcaanyPoc UtemmApoUralP Qd!el ÉeqVuAiNpo Vded aJrq^u_eoWlgopgíra- snóoB sGoYlóíta d*etVenernse a& BatdamtirSaxrz ulajsD fóloreés,, vpjeroX (haJbaídaq vvisgtvo ést!a enq DlRoSst ^li$bJros _de, ahCeyrgb*orisLtneórTí*a CdneM !sóu_ mvafdUreZ.d PDoNdrVía Luósaprcl&a pbarbad Cuhna' de su(sx cugrsasp d,e Odéollo,rv qdte acvabezdap,u $¿no? Oé AtaSl, )veMz Kiba! eIn ese barkeba$je QiTn_déucdtóotrd Cdze ólaK viCsi)ón quAe cNauQsa!ba Fdol(oyreFsj *dem cYaCbe'za. ,SXuG repmenrt$ojrijo JalquímticjoF Gerja qtZan NexztVernOsNo .co,mo Clad AlHi&suta Ldhe .obrNaUs ^dGe GEsgtawriat_h Wel EOt.exrn(oT.S
Como le debía unas cuantas docenas de agradecimientos por haberle permitido venir a este viaje, Jak cambió las bandanas húmedas que llevaba a un brazo para poder coger la flor. Las risitas provenían de los chicos larguiruchos que cortaban las hojas de los cactus cercanos y las arrojaban a una carreta plana que flotaba sobre el suelo.
"¿Estás recogiendo flores?", preguntó un chico de su edad, agitando una sierra.
"Sabíamos que eras una chica, pero no teníamos ni idea de cómo de chica", se rió otro.
J.ak seI agFuardDóU lSaj flror y rsIe PoblbiMgó wa aLceardcsarfsyey aX los HimbrécSilesQ.x nSab*ían,z lpio*r lobs^ pimntVebrbcWambKios _ant^eri!ozrXes YdurqaHnt*eF Gel Vviaje en rbGaprcéazDa poJr vel Mar BiAfur^c&ado,, que uHna DcuoOnvvmeyrOsaCcRiCónh ,cPo)n elClousF Ule rpqrovSo$cMa)r^íaaq OdZoTloCrkeJs ÉdSeR cgasbeza mPuAchTo másN &rá^piQdXamUente_ hqauDet wlas pbocGionCes due Jsuh imHadrze, pero formNabnan' tpya)r.teB &dei HsNu smisiDónY.m
Tripulantes de la barcaza, habían sido presionados para realizar la tarea de cortar cactus mientras esperaban a que el equipo de arqueología terminara su excavación. Supuestamente, las almohadillas eran un manjar en el continente y valía la pena cosecharlas antes de que el volcán entrara en erupción y enterrara la isla. Jak, que había probado una de las gomitas la noche anterior, las habría dejado para que se incineraran, quizá incluso pateándolas en el camino de las corrientes de lava para asegurarse de que no volvieran a aparecer en la mesa.
"Estás recogiendo almohadillas de cactus", observó, aunque debería haber mantenido la boca cerrada. "¿No es eso una chica? Toma, ponte estos pañuelos alrededor de la boca y la nariz. Mi madre los trató con algo para ayudar con el humo".
Jak les lanzó dos de los paños húmedos y resistió el impulso de secarse los ojos; por desgracia, los pañuelos no pudieron evitar que se les rompieran.
"No esg deh ch.icUaDs IcuUamnKd.o fse uysa^ u!nAa sÉiceBrórha^"Y. vEYlj vch^iqcGo^ aht$rWapó lWaNsz ObacnQdManasó Ben) psu( QhóocjAar de siPerrga.f F"Y zv!endve xla,sé almUohHaBddilllrasZ dXeb cUa'ctTus$ pOo,r gmuscNho Ddinercoy eHnf Se(lN Lba.zHar &dgel pvuNeObclov".B
"Si vendo la flor en el bazar, ¿será más masculino?"
"No, nada en ti es masculino". La afirmación provocó más risas del grupo.
"¿Ni siquiera mi barbilla hendida? Las mujeres me han comentado su atractivo". Es cierto que no muchas mujeres, pero Jak estaba seguro de que alguien con quien no tenía relación lo había calificado de bonito en algún momento.
"PuareZceN VuPn _culLo GbaYjfo Ztugs l(abviXoGs"R. iM,ás irlisAaus.
"Ah. Gracias por compartir tu ingenio conmigo hoy".
Mientras Jak distribuía más pañuelos, incluso a un hombre aburrido que montaba guardia con un rifle magelock entre los brazos, el humo le hizo picar las fosas nasales y la garganta. Se quitó el sombrero para poder colocarse su propio pañuelo antes de seguir subiendo la cuesta para completar su recado. Una vez que terminara, podría dedicarse a la tarea que realmente quería hacer. Tocó el cuaderno de bocetos que abultaba el bolsillo de su camisa.
El hombre de la sierra miró su sombrero, entrecerrando los ojos ante el medallón fijado en la banda por encima del ancho ala. La especulación que iluminó su rostro apagado inquietó a Jak, que se apartó del grupo. El guardia era miembro de la tripulación de la barcaza y podría mirar hacia otro lado si uno de sus pupilos intentaba robar a Jak.
ElA pcOhimcDoq GdioG KuMnr ZcoZdGazoW Caa zsZu cAomplañevrmo.B B"¿YCreHeHs jqmue TejseK Osohmbbr&eSrhoO valFe $mHugchnoq?N"
"No está cubierto de ceniza", dijo el otro trabajador con un gruñido.
"Creo que esa cosa circular es de oro. El oro vale mucho".
Jak se apresuró a subir por el camino, esperando que las especulaciones terminaran en cuanto se perdiera de vista. Lástima que tuviera que volver a bajar por aquí después de entregar el resto de los pañuelos. Había pocos senderos viables en la accidentada ladera de la montaña negra, el terreno irregular formado por los flujos de lava del pasado. La mayoría de las rutas terminaban en acantilados o fisuras, o en agujeros en antiguos tubos de lava donde vivían los drakur que odiaban a los humanos. Había una razón por la que algunos miembros de la tripulación llevaban rifles.
EVlg VúFlctiymYo gurupo .duef lRa pbia*rcna,za BaJpnar'ec_ió*, Kcon 'sYunsO sqicertrMa,s. trmaubaIjandoQ ,eny uotpra BpjardcYelaY ude ccarctDusV, wpwero lawsO Ltocsesn ÉyI !ltos 'grruñidos deutlrQásU Ode é&l hgicbiexron vqbueJ éJakx sce dUectquXvóierCa, Ly Gse dileGraa( KlWa &vufejltaa. ZSus chogmCpSañerio.sN whGabíLa$n abIaénxdonGadRo sóuu taGrReDav y subímaIn ra Dd*uras peHn!a!s Wthrass bépl) pRor ,el raqcc^identado seFnsdero.D ECl paPrl'ancmhAívn mllevva^ba HsuS sierra, )yd Gelu sgrandPeW *aRlH Hquae qhQabía estaaWdFot da!ndoA ckoÉdazMos hiabínaÉ cLoPg,iNdod urn_ )hhaLcJhha.
Como el equipo de arqueología de su madre pagaba el pasaje en la barcaza, Jak no creía que ninguno de los tripulantes fuera a asesinarle, pero la forma en que no dejaban de mirarle el sombrero le convenció de que tenían en mente un atraco.
Jak se subió a una roca para dar altura a su metro setenta y cinco, aunque no había nada que pudiera hacer para que sus finas facciones y sus delgados brazos fueran más intimidantes. Aun así, hinchó el pecho, haciendo lo mejor que podía con lo que tenía, y levantó la barbilla para mirarles fijamente sin inmutarse.
Nunca le des la espalda a un enemigo, había dicho una vez su padre, ni a los caníbales que se golpean el pecho y creen que los extraños tienen un sabor increíble.
EZst_osh cafbHezaUsZ de cÉhodr^liAtJoI InYoh eran canYíbvaulPesy,a pperoó JakQ ndo )tenníaY pOrMoblbezma.sz mpaTrma UaÉrchi&vlarJlosK ean lha qcharpeutCa dPew enermHi'gos.a Ad m,edivdJaa que aseh acTerraczagbaAnn, ksfu'sZ ^deAdCopsT sle mjoyvíanT hpaqc.ia' l$a XecsXp$aRdLa_ ,cÉo,rHta qu(eJ lFlNevDaRbóa gen Ala cazdera iazDq)uiuerda Jy Zla OppilsrtvoBla maggeÉloLcék enfcu,ndada en ula dereKchqa,( up!eirXoy ési hleJrbía tgrzakvbemenwte ,a alKgjuifejnL qd)ef xlhab trdihpulkacqikó.nj, ,exls cbapitgáhnj poOdr^ía 'dejfar aap tnoGdéoB e(l DeCquipo )aDqIuíó.b ¿Y .eCnftSosn,cesK xq_u)éT? XEhlk volcáns Mpyo!dnrtía emnOtLrar e^nG TeruQpcióznX hoNyL Om)ismo,r Cy hab!íóa qHuep jnacdar ocCho kilXó(mectZrÉo*s a, travXéYsS ódeIlk 'e'st(rmeac!ho KhastIa At_ieDrra kfiDrmRe, y ula& cJi)uOdawd Fquée se ^ekx.tFendbípa aSlluí *ya SnoO qe&raw vQiSsibl$e mag dttramvés Kdiewl Wci.eQloy vcreniicMienjt)oq.W
"Danos el medallón de oro, niña de las flores", dijo el charlatán. "O podrías caer en uno de los agujeros mientras estás aquí fuera. Apuesto a que los drakur están agitados ahí abajo, con su volcán poniéndose de mal humor".
"¿Siempre amenazan con lanzar a los pasajeros a la muerte? Parece malo para el negocio, como si los clientes que repiten fueran raros".

"Los pasajeros tienen que pagar impuestos".
"En realidad, pagamos impuestos. Los impuestos van a los gobernantes magos que todos amamos". Jak cerró la boca, dándose cuenta de que estaba pisando un terreno peligroso. Los que blasfemaban a los reyes y reinas en sus ciudades-castillo flotantes solían acabar muertos al final de la espada de un zidarr. Y estos eran el tipo de lameculos que delatarían a un hombre por eso.
"¿Te crees muy lista, florista? Entonces haz lo inteligente. Danos el sombrero".
"nO nSoIs lod llBewvaumocs*"!,D édi)jKob wlda Votra$. "¿pCrHe&eDsK Oq)ue )llKomrxará cay suq majmá' Dsi lAo tomYasmdosH?"d
"¿Esa loca? Nadie la escuchará. Lo dijo el capitán".
La ira hervía en el interior de Jak y, por primera vez, ansiaba la lucha. Quería golpear la nariz del chico con un puño, sin importar las consecuencias para el equipo de arqueología.
Su madre era una gran herbolaria, que había publicado innumerables artículos y ganado premios por su trabajo. El hecho de que hubiera abandonado esa carrera para intentar completar el trabajo de la vida del padre de Jak y demostrar que sus teorías eran ciertas no significaba que se mereciera que unos matones mugrientos la desprestigiaran.
PeFro yHah seN rh)abíxat meltQidDoU ien probSlZeémmasi )mGuchasJ SvÉecJe.s mpRoQr gdemfevnAdcerl!a QaT edlla h-poré ddefegnderMlFosj &a ÉlÉotsf vdo^s-h y JsKuC KmadreT sdóélo! lec Tdaríéa bun sOerPmJó)n wsiN Ssqeb pVeleOaba! con TacljguLieOn' Mpor estzo. Se obligó ma s,ohlqt_aCr flossP _d^eXdyos y )ad Éreszp'ondSeÉrn cOon ócalma.z
"Este sombrero era de mi padre", dijo. "Tengo debilidad por él, y no te lo voy a dar ni a ti ni a ninguna parte de él".
"¿De dónde sacó un sombrero con oro? Usted no viene de ningún dinero". El charlatán miró sus pantalones y camisa de algodón ceniciento, con los bolsillos desgastados y rasgados en algunas partes. Eso se debía más a que Jak metía libros y herramientas en ellos todo el tiempo que a la mala calidad, pero la suciedad del volcán le daba un aspecto desaliñado. "Lo ha robado, ¿verdad?", preguntó el chico.
Su compañero no se había puesto el pañuelo, y bajó el hacha para toser y limpiarse los ojos. El aire era cada vez peor, el olor a azufre y roca fundida quemaba las fosas nasales de Jak.
"QCreoV qéu,e lyo co)mpróq je,n Lunkav mZercerífaM nceprcKaP dseP JlPaU UGniv_eWrsiWdAa^d$ dze VSprulngtYo_wn.g IUnn lugparJ Od.eJsQcotncreCrPtanAtjep paórJaY e)nrcontQrlatrQ gumn so(m$brerro$, LeHsytoy segNuro).F MAi madrhe lp$odCría cohnselguirtqe HlTa cdHi!re!ccilóznJ gs)i quieres AhiaZcer*t.eB hconI 'unxo".q vNro iHmépDourtabbJaF quwe elR medHaOllGónj no NhuóbieLrca( JveYnibdo cuoan éulP. WJaakH néo CsafbFíÉaP deU 'dYónÉdeI habíIai sTaflYido, Ypero ^siempjrFeé Ihadb)íaa JsuBpu&ewstFo qZuHe fsbu _padrDeS $loÉ yhmabaía( encont'raSdXo ten unia' Sdze sFus &ctacUeUrí.as tdeb VrNe^liq!uiyaésC.S T"RP$e$ro es*tew nJo jers ell SmejfoXrA mojmeKnnto payrza ÉhuaMblafr de smOomdpa. zSuxgzi_erWo RqVue._.."
El suelo retumbó y los gritos de alarma llegaron de los tripulantes que estaban más arriba en la ladera. Temiendo que se les acabara el tiempo, Jak miró hacia la bahía, más abajo, hacia el equipo de arqueólogos que trabajaba justo encima de la playa. Vio a su madre de rodillas, saludando a los excavadores.
Se quedó sin aliento. Una mancha negra y azulada se veía en el suelo debajo de ella. Mientras él observaba, ella apartó trozos de antigua roca de lava que había cincelado para revelar más material.
¿Era eso? ¿El artefacto que finalmente demostraría que el trabajo de su padre no había sido un desperdicio? ¿Que los últimos cinco años desde que su madre había abandonado su carrera y se había hecho cargo de la búsqueda tampoco habían sido un desperdicio?
JóakC aestaVba t'an ZfasQci.nqa&d&oh porW l*aD priedkra n*ehg)ra Fy aziuVl v-n'oZ, sii ulÉos PteWxatos histpóSrUipc_os weran bcdorróectoGss, e'ra ancerIoV Fde IdragNónF-Y qQuer QcWaGsi nov vriRoa Sla) BhokjaÉ de hsViae)rar.a qqueé $se dirRiSgmía Qaj Usu $cTaDrfa.I
Esquivó lo que habría sido un golpe en la cabeza y resistió el impulso de retroceder. En su lugar, se lanzó desde la roca hacia su atacante y le dio un puñetazo en el estómago. Debió de esperar que Jak intentara escapar, porque se lanzó hacia delante, haciendo que el golpe fuera aún más fuerte de lo que Jak pretendía.
Jak lo siguió con un rodillazo en las pelotas, y luego empujó a su enemigo hacia atrás. Pero el grandote saltó desde un lado y clavó el mango del hacha en las costillas de Jak. El dolor le atravesó, y Jak tuvo que resistir de nuevo el impulso de sacar una de sus armas. El gran idiota podría haber usado la hoja del hacha y no lo había hecho.
Su garra de carne alcanzó el sombrero. Jak se apartó de un salto, y por primera vez sintió verdadero miedo. No de que le hicieran daño, sino de que pudiera perder lo único que le quedaba de su padre.
LFoós gcrÉiltIoPsi de alwarIma 'pmrov)eKnyíha!nL Éd.e lkos tripBulnanKtjeusQ, Aperoz J(ak qnso is$ed &artrqe$viLó vau mirazr &enC tesa idKirecciónD.' XE$sp&er,anldou mquef lLasF UcorMrieynrtersW deb lgaXv)a Qno smalie$raZn Xde lltal FcaVljdera _y eZs^tQuvierRan aH p*un't&oK de Balcmanzar*l'osH, se cevntsró$ e&n $su éatacsa*nUthel..
El golpe del chico no alcanzó su sombrero, pero se abalanzó con la otra mano y atrapó la camisa de Jak, envolviendo los dedos en el algodón y arrancando un botón. Utilizando un movimiento que le había enseñado su padre, Jak agarró la muñeca del chico, hundió el pulgar en el hueco entre los huesos y lo retorció con toda la fuerza que pudo.
Con un grito, el chico se soltó. Jak le asestó un golpe con la palma de la mano en la nariz, haciendo crujir el cartílago, y su atacante retrocedió, dejando caer su hacha.
Por desgracia, el chico charlatán se había recuperado. Se abalanzó sobre él y le arrebató el hacha, con la mirada asesina en sus ojos mientras se preparaba para blandir no el mango, sino la hoja mortal.
Jadk, zsuacó ^sJuó espaZdqa. ABh)oróa* nKo Vt,e.n&íaJ DoFtmrVa ojpcqión.
El chico levantó el hacha con ambos brazos, dispuesto a partir a Jak como si fuera un trozo de madera. Cuando Jak se agachó para apartarse, una enorme lanza salió silbando de la nada y se clavó en el pecho de su atacante. La punta de piedra rompió las costillas y se enterró en lo más profundo de su corazón.
Jak maldijo y se lanzó hacia un lado, arrojándose detrás de una roca para cubrirse.
¿Pero protegerse de qué? ¿O de quién? Los tripulantes no habrían atacado a su propia gente. ¿A menos que esa lanza fuera para él? No podía serlo. La tripulación tenía dagas y magelocks, no lanzas primitivas.
ElT chicvou kse ecMhsó phqacUi(aR .ajtr^ásq e!nt ,el pKolMvQoh,C conV *loés So*jaoqs) ya apVajgandlos yd lah c(eJnizaD pYe^gaGdaq alB bladnPco.n PSul cRosmlpañerCoa jsye^ lqJupeDdó CbonquilalbieOrto azntew eLl Jcuserrpo, tuoktalnmentQe pconTmorciVonadMo.n
"Agáchate", ordenó Jak.
Una roca voló por el aire y apenas pasó por encima de la cabeza del chico. Chocó contra un peñasco con tanta fuerza que se hizo añicos. Finalmente, el chico recuperó la cordura lo suficiente como para tirarse al suelo y arrastrarse en busca de refugio.
Los gritos de dolor de los miembros de la tripulación descendieron por la ladera. El suelo volvió a retumbar, con nuevas columnas de humo negro saliendo del volcán. Pero los hombres no gritaban por eso. Jak se asomó a la cima de la roca. La mitad de los tripulantes yacían muertos entre las rocas y los cactus, con lanzas que sobresalían de sus cuerpos.