Ironcraft

by Pedro Gabriel

  “It is not good that the nephilin breed according to Aigonz’s whims. Is not my son more excellent than the children of previous generations? Why would I deprive my subjects of children of the same worth? Let the nephilin breed not according to Aigonz’s ecstasy, but according to the ritual which created my son!”

  Since Nod’s fall, there had not been any adulthood rituals whereby young logizkal became fully matured ones. No longer did the southern giants journey back to the shores to get a pearl or a shell from the depths of the sea from whence they came. The pharaoh decided then it would be good to revive those rituals, but on his own terms.

  This is how it should be done. When a nephilin would come of age, he would receive two gifts: a sword to protect him in battle, and an effigy of the king made from the cast Malvizio had created. The youngling would then take the sword and with it blind his fore-eye at the top of his skull, severing his ties with the stars. Then, he would take the tears and blood exuding from his void eye and sprinkle them on the effigy, so as to give it life. Afterwards, the young adult had proven himself worthy, and would be assigned to a legion, and resume training at Lamech or somewhere where he would be needed. As for the new child, he would be taken away and be initiated on the mysteries of the moabite religion, until they too would come of age.

  And the numbers of the pharaoh’s armies swelled, as did the iron arms and armours. As for the Republic, it grew complacent. Their fear grew cold, since it was a fear of a tomorrow that seemed to never come. Sometimes, there would be skirmishes at the borders, but nothing important. So they learned to tolerate their southern neighbours’ eccentricity. And the iperborin resumed their pilgrimages from Melchy-Zedek to Ophir and back.

  They would rue this, for war was indeed at hand. Two decades after Sanquivio’s birth, Skillotz proudly looked upon his legions and his armouries and said: “We are ready.”

  ***

  A certain morning, Ophir was awakened by loud cries: The cries of the Crizian sentinels yelling alarm, the war cries of about a dozen nephilin soldiers charging against the Gilded City, and the cawing cries of the gryphons upon which the marauders rode.

  The gryphons and their riders flew above Ophir’s outer walls, above the range of the Crizian Guard’s arrows. Still, they would not go far. After all, they had flown in an open sally, without any concealment whatsoever. They were soon found by the all-seeing gaze of the Sphinx of the Lance, atop Ophir’s main gate. She opened her mouth, and released a scream as high as a trumpet, and as piercing as a needle. This scream confounded the gryphons, which started to fly haphazardly. It also awoke the Sphinx of the Sword nearby: The eyes of this sphinx were healed, and turned into fiery rubies. Her blade turned aflame, and so did her mouth. This sphinx flapped her wings and soared aloft, chasing all the bandits which dared to cross the sacred boundaries, one by one.

  The riders tried to escape, but it was already too late. The Sphinx of the Sword spit fire from her mouth, and brandished her fiery sword, whence issued a flaming hail. This fire chased the gryphons’ tails, no matter how much they might turn left or right. When the fire would reach the gryphon or the soldier, it would burst ablaze and consume both ride and rider till they would fall as a shooting star. And the Sphinx did not return back to its tower until all the invaders had been so punished.

  Inimois watched all of this from the Sym-Bolon’s summit, and said to the captain of her guard, at her right hand:

  “Oh, my good Amizdel, behold those poor souls! For lo! Many fell onto the lake, or willingly flew into the waters to put out those dreadful flames!”

  “So they have, my lady, after trying to invade your domains to do you ill!”

  “Be that as it may, I desire no such fate upon them. Set off boats into the lake, and save as many of those hapless logizkal as you can. And pray this kindness of ours may soften their hardened hearts.”

  Alas, not one had escaped. All of them ended up drowned, dragged downwards by some unknown current that swallowed them whole and never cast them up again.

  The crizia was not the only one to have witnessed all of this. Some nephilin sentries had stood watch from the hills to the west. They rushed back to Moruzio, their captain, who had ordered the attack:

  “My captain! None survived. The sphinxes awoke and slew them all.”

  Moruzio heard this, and did not quake an inch:

  “Now we know the power of the sphinxes to be no mere legend. They truly do protect Ophir. But do not fret: All of this was foreseen. We shall overcome, nonetheless.”

  In the meantime, another strike had been ordered. The attack on Ophir had been but a test, which the nephilin knew they could fail. But they would not allow Ophir to end that day with a taste of victory, lest Ophir would be emboldened against the League.

  The morning gave rise to the afternoon, and the afternoon slowly decayed. There was a Pilgrim City to the north of Ophir, the closest of such seven cities along the path between Ophir and Melchy-Zedek. Some pilgrims returned there, after witnessing the assault on the Gilded City that morn. The Sphinx of the Lance had lifted the drawbridge, and would not lower it till she was sufficiently at ease. All pilgrimages were suspended until further notice. The pilgrims started to reason amongst themselves whether they should await for Ophir to open again, or if they should turn back to the north.

  If they had decided to stay, they would have decided wrongly. If they had decided to flee, they would have decided too late. Either way, their fates were sealed. Soon a squadron of a hundred gryphons was seen approaching the city from the north and east. The flying soldiers had come from the south, but had flown around the city, to cut them off from the northern paths. Then they attacked.

  The gryphons made sweeping flights, razing through the crowd of pilgrims, wounding their victims with their claws and beaks or with the spears wielded by their riders. Even worse, some of the warriors sought to seize the pilgrims, snatching them with the gryphon’s talons or with iron hooks. Then they would drag their victims up through the air and drop them to their doom.

  Corralled, the poor pilgrims tried to flee to the south and the west, falling into their assailants’ territory. There, an army awaited them, riding on fully armoured mammoths whose tusks were glazed with iron. The pachyderms trampled the fugitives underfoot, and moved towards the Pilgrim City, and rammed against the houses and crushed their walls, until there was no stone over stone, or bone over bone.

  When the night came, almost no pilgrims had survived. The darkness befell the city, except on the quarters that kept burning throughout the night. And Mizar was once again given innocent blood to drink. This time, however, it was not just the earthy sylph who swore vengeance. Unknown celestial counsels did the same.

  ***

  Apart from the stars and the earth, no one knew of this massacre before the next morning. Ophir did not suspect, as they had lifted the drawbridge. They were still enclosed behind their walls when Carmel-sun came out the next day.

  But soon the northern cities were alerted to what had happened. A few days later, a couple of breathless pilgrims appeared at the city of Kain-Phah, near the isthmus of Brobnin, which separated the north from the south. They were not at the Pilgrim City at the time of the massacre, but they had arrived there the morning after, for they had hoped to find lodging there on their way to Ophir. They had no knowledge of what had happened. What they saw left them awestruck. Where once there had been a city bustling with pilgrims now lay a pile of rubble and ash, tainted with blood and corpses.

  As soon as Ranskil, Kain-Phah’s councilor, got word of this, he readied his hippogriff and flew to Melchy-Zedek, to bring these terrible tidings to the Council. But he charged his son Fugizlo to fly to the Pilgrim City with as many companions as he could muster, to see if their fears were true. Unfortunately, Fugizlo and his host would find the truth to surpass their worst fears. All the pilgrims had indeed been slain, and the Pilgrim City was no more.

  The nephilin were watching from above as the brobnin—the isth
mus folk, also called arimaspin—flew over the wreckage on their hippogriffs. The nephilin then heard the brobnin wail before the ruined city, since their wails rose up to the clouds in a cry for justice. Soon, their groans were muffled by Fugizlo’s wrathful clamour, crying for vengeance:

  “Look over yonder! The nephilin are there, watching over us! Let us finish this wretched race, so that their wickedness might die with them!”

  One by one, the laments grew silent, and new war-cries joined Fugizlo’s fiery bellows. The isthmus folk raised their arms towards the heavens, that Aigonz might bless them. And they soared towards the nephilin on their hippogriffs, to wage battle against them.

  “See how wicked the northerners are!” Moruzio said as he rallied his troops. “For we have done no wrong, save to defend ourselves against spies and trespassers, allies of our foes! Yet they come against us whilst we have not unsheathed our weapons against them! They are the ones thirsting for war!”

  So began the first battle amongst mortals that ever took place in Thebel.

  The nephilin were at an advantage, as they were aloft at a higher elevation. The isthmic hippogriffs had to soar towards them, losing speed as they went up. The ascending motion also slowed the stones the brobnin threw from their slingshots.

  Moruzio was at the front of the nephilin squadron. Whilst his subordinates each wore an iron cuirass over his torso, the captain’s armour covered his whole body, as the scales of a dragon. And there were iron thorns protruding from every hinge of his armour. His gryphon was the sturdiest of them all, so it might sustain the weight. On his hands, Moruzio wielded Rubizioliz, his mighty and invincible axe.

  Then, he issued the battle cry. His troops were ordered to charge. The southern gryphons plunged towards their prey. The nephilin wielded small bows from which they fired a shower of arrows at the isthmus folk. Some of the latter were struck down by the arrows and found their end, for their cuirasses were still made of leather at the time. But most of them, seeing the arrows coming at them, covered themselves with their small bronze bucklers.

  Then the first clash! The gryphons scratched the hippogriffs’ wings with their fearsome claws. The brobnin tried to counter with their cloddish weapons, fashioned out of their rustic tools: farmer’s scythes or shepherd staffs. They sought to push their enemies out of their saddles, or grab them mid-flight to take them down, or injure the gryphons’ underbellies.

  But the nephilin were superior, both in weaponry and tactics. While keeping their altitude, the gryphons turned around and chased the hippogriffs’ tails. The isthmus folk could do nothing but flee downwards, while their foes kept showering their arrows on them, or trying to snatch them with long shafts ending with iron hooks, smelted into cruel, serrated shapes.

  With the same passion of his former war cry, Fugizlo yelled to his comrades:

  “Retreat! Retreat!”

  They scattered and turned back to the north. Many nephilin wanted to give them chase, but Moruzio halted them:

  “Do not tire your gryphon’s wings. Let them return and tell their wretched neighbours of Nephil’s might, so that they may rightfully fear us. Let their souls be consumed with terror, and know no solace whilst they persist in their wicked ways.”

  The nephilin stayed back, savouring the sweet taste of victory for the first time. They kept firing their arrows at the brobnin as these flew into the distance—but they did so more as target shooting, playfully laughing along. Afterwards, Moruzio instructed one of his soldiers to return to Lamech and give account of everything to the pharaoh.

  The war had begun.

  Chapter

  18

  Suit for Peace

  When Moruzio’s herald finished relaying his tidings, Skillotz summoned all the kings and viziers of the League to his presence. Then he ordered the messenger to repeat his words once again, and declared:

  “The time is ripe! The Republic has at long last unmasked its malice! For years they have used the Pilgrim Cities to trespass on our southern territory! Then, they used our legitimate defense as a pretext to attack us! They threw stones at us, and came against us armed with staffs and scythes to take down our brave soldiers! And for what? To defend foul Ophir, the breeding ground of the vile ophalin! For many years have we prepared for this day, since we knew—to our great sadness—that it would be inevitable! Well, the day has come, and there is no virtue in delaying what is unavoidable! Let us declare war on Ophir and all its allies! Together, with our ingenuity and strength, under Nod’s mighty wing, we can end this menace! Only then will our children dwell safely on this world! As pharaoh, I shall lead you towards those tomorrows! Who is with me?”

  A resounding “Yea!” echoed through Lamech that day, shouted by every king and vizier of the League—save two only, who also did not say “Nay.” One of them was Prince Sanquivio. He did not say a word, but kept mulling all these things inside his head. To his mind, something seemed amiss with this plan.

  ***

  The pharaoh sent heralds to Ophir’s outer walls and to the northern boundaries, to deliver declarations of war. A few days later, a hippogriff was seen flying over Lamech’s walls. They hailed him with a volley of arrows, but he did not stay long enough to be stricken. The giant on the hippogriff’s back shot a single arrow, which sank into one of the battlements of the wall. Attached to the arrow’s shaft there was a small scroll of parchment, addressed to the pharaoh. It bore the seals of the Republic, the Council, and the pontiff.

  “Behold how shameless these northern traitors are!” Skilloz roared, when he took hold of the scroll and read it. “They invade my territory once more and shoot an arrow against my walls, as if that was not an act of aggression. And for what? To deliver this most cowardly message! They did not even have the courage to risk their miserable lives for a chance to entreat with me! They say they want to parley! Me, parley with such a kind?”

  Violently he tore down the parchment and threw it to his feet. But a voice came from behind him to appease him:

  “Despise not that petition, father.” It was his son, Prince Sanquivio, who thus spake: “Could the northerners not have repented of their misguided alliance with Ophir, and be seeking to join us now that they have seen our might? How would you know, if you do not treat with them, my lord?”

  “I do not treat with traitors, son! Heed this, for it is a lesson from a king to a future king: Do not let serpents close to you, lest they bite your heels!”

  “I hear you, dearest father! Notwithstanding, I must ask: Who is the serpent? Is it them, or is it us? If the serpent be them, how can you behead them if you do not let them come closer? But if they are serpents, let us be even more serpent-like! And how can a serpent bite the heel of her prey, if she is far away? So, I beseech you, father: Lower your serpentine hood, and silence your snake’s rattle, for you are scaring the prey away! And then, how will your mighty fangs counteract their powerful venom?”

  The pharaoh stood silent for a while. Slowly, he turned towards his son. For a moment, Sanquivio feared that his words had displeased his father. But truly, Skillotz was stunned by his son’s wisdom, so his words faltered.

  “I hear you, son! So let all Lamech hear you as well! Reason is in your mouth and also in your understanding!”

  As for Nod, she watched everything from afar. Floating slowly towards them, as if she was a mere echo, she chanted:

  “Those are wise words from a wise king-to-be! There is no doubt this prince is a worthy fruit of thy blood, oh pharaoh!”

  “Send a message to the Republic,” Skillotz proclaimed. “Let them send some legates, so that they may parley. Here is the pharaoh’s oath to them: No harm will befall them whilst they remain in Lamech! So let it be done!”

  ***

  A few days later, the Republic’s legates arrived at Lamech, and flew over the Warrior City’s obelisks. None dared shoot against them, for fear of the pharaoh’s command. As they landed, the nephilin could see the horror in the legates’ features. Disgust was stamped
on their faces, as they dismounted their hippogriffs. The nephilin rejoiced in their hearts, for they thought the legates were intimidated with the haughtiness of their obelisks. In sooth, the legates’ revulsion was due to the sacrilegious inscriptions they had seen engraved on those very same obelisks. But such was naught compared with what they would feel when they set their eyes on Moab, with its throne set atop of the ziggurat.

  There were two legates. One represented the Council: He wore a linen cloth from his waist to his ankles, and also had the councilor’s cape with him. He was a priest of the pontiff’s trust, and his name was Oiskal. He had found favour in Bilidio’s sight, since he spent whole days fasting and praying to atone for Thebel’s sins. He would certainly have been appointed High Priest, if the Temple of Salem was still at work. But there was also another legate from Ophir’s part: Amizdel, the valiant warrior, Captain of the Crizian Guard.

  “Hail, oh honourable legates! The pharaoh bids you welcome to Lamech!” a gentle voice behind them said. “I trust your journey was without problems?”

  These words were the first show of kindness the legates had received since arriving. They turned to see who was greeting them and found the gentleness to not be limited to words: There was a smile and a warm face as well. It was Prince Sanquivio who greeted them so. He had donned an animal skin which was strapped at his right shoulder and went down his chest to his knees, as was proper of the honour given to judges of old. No more embroideries or accessories did he wear. On his forehead, the prince displayed a diadem which was nothing more than a thin rim made of gold, without any thorns or jewels. His beard was lengthy, unlike Skillotz’s, which had grown thicker with the years, but not longer.

  “Our journey was without problems, indeed,” Oiskal replied to him, and glanced at the rest of the nephilin and their hostile faces. “Maybe just a little bit of coldness when we arrived here.” He then turned his fore-eye to the skies. “Also, the clouds are castling above. Rain will soon be upon us.”