CACERÍA | ⛺️ La Fogata ⛺️ Concurso de literatura creativa. Edición # 4 | [ESP/ENG]

El viento traía al templo el aroma a incienso de los peregrinos, enmascarando el hedor a muerte que se ocultaba entre sus muros. Durante mucho tiempo, los nobles habían pagado buenas sumas de oro a los monjes para que sus huesos encontraran descanso en la casa de los dioses, que ahora era un cementerio.

Los monjes y yo compartíamos en parte el oficio: a mí me pagaban por matar a esos mismos hombres y sus familias pagaban a los monjes por enterrarlos. Muy pocos están destinados a escapar de la mortaja.

Pero esta vez mi cuchillo lo buscó, aunque creyera que podía engañarme con el disfraz de aquel viejo monje, como si las oraciones bastaran para detener mi venganza. Tenía sed y el anciano esperaba pacientemente mi llegada en la biblioteca.

Creí que dormía hasta que notó mi hoja, gritó y estaba a punto de degollarle, pero su voz temblorosa dijo "serpiente". No recordaba la última vez que alguien había reconocido mi arma o mi oficio.

Los que conocían a La Serpiente estaban muertos o eran demasiado viejos. No era mi objetivo, solo un viejo comerciante retirado con un pequeño cofre de oro que esperaba un final tranquilo.

Le pregunté por el viejo monje, el disfraz con el que viajaba mi presa. Mi voz en la lengua del norte, a pesar del tiempo, sonaba áspera. El hombre se atrevió a mentirme y además me advirtió que derramar la sangre de un hombre santo condenaría mi alma.

Como si eso pudiera preocuparme, "no es la primera vez que pruebo su sangre", le confesé y entonces vio mis colmillos. "Demonio" fueron sus últimas palabras. Dejé su cuerpo seco junto a su oro para que los monjes le dieran descanso. Un descanso que los dioses me negaran hasta completar mi cacería.

The wind brought to the temple the scent of incense from the pilgrims, masking the stench of death hidden within its walls. For a long time, the nobles had paid good sums of gold to the monks so that their bones would find rest in the house of the gods, which was now a cemetery.

The monks and I partly shared the trade: I was paid to kill those same men and their families paid the monks to bury them. Very few are destined to escape the shroud.

But this time my knife sought him out, even if I thought I could fool myself with the disguise of that old monk, as if prayers were enough to stop my revenge. I was thirsty and the old man waited patiently for my arrival in the library.

I thought he was sleeping until he noticed my blade, screamed and was about to slit his throat, but his trembling voice said "snake". I couldn't remember the last time anyone had recognized my weapon or my craft.

Those who knew La Serpiente were either dead or too old. He wasn't my target, just a retired old merchant with a small chest of gold who was waiting for a quiet end.

I asked him about the old monk, the disguise in which my quarry traveled. My voice in the northern tongue, despite the weather, sounded rough. The man dared to lie to me and further warned me that shedding the blood of a holy man would damn my soul.

As if that could worry me, "It's not the first time I tasted his blood," I confessed and then he saw my fangs. "Demon," were his last words. I left his dried body next to his gold for the monks to give him rest. A rest that the gods denied me until I completed my hunt.