“Thou art fated to fulfill thine oath: ‘That no one who wieldeth thee shall ever be vanquished.’ But thou canst not be wielded against thy will. If thou refusest to be so wielded, thou shalt not break thy vow! And so thou shalt not be tainted by defeat, for who can call himself defeated, if he belongeth to the victor’s side?”
“Oh, even my star has deserted me…” the pharaoh sighed, with a sadness as deep as death.
Sanquivio heard all of this, and fell upon his father, delivering a mighty blow against his right wrist. Lauz-Ispariz flew through the air, as if dancing with joy at being released from the pharaoh’s oppressive grip. Pain bent Skillotz’s knees, but desire bent Sanquivio’s, so that he snatched up the sword and took possession of it.
With Lauz-Ispariz in his hand, Sanquivio held it high above the contending armies, as if it were a beacon amidst the storm. The rebels rejoiced: Not even Moruzio’s Rubizioliz could face them now! When the loyalists saw this, they promptly surrendered, so that their lives would be spared. Skillotz writhed on the ground in pain. As he did so, his crown—which had shone so much during the previous hours—fell from his head, as a disgraced hallow.
“Come, my lord! Come this way!” Moruzio rushed to Skillotz to lift him up from the dust and save him from certain doom. “I have a gryphon with me, on which I had hoped you would triumphantly enter Ophir. It cannot fly over the lake, but it surely can fly above the walls and return Your Lordship back to Lamech, where you will find a safe haven! There shall we mount our resistance! Go! Go with the wind, Pharaoh, I shall cover your retreat! No blade shall hinder you while you escape!”
Skillotz, already conformed with his demise, could not hear his words, or comprehend them. Still he obeyed without questioning. For his body was now hollow of thoughts, and would move wherever anyone would direct it. Moruzio and a few loyalists drove him to the gryphon and mounted him on the animal’s flank. Then, the captain slapped the gryphon’s side and the creature flew off towards Lamech, for it already knew the path.
As for Moruzio and his followers, they sought to hold off the rebels’ final charge, so that their king would be saved. But Rubizioliz trembled in Moruzio’s grip, for the axe feared the day he would face the terrible Lauz-Ispariz.
***
Alas, the pharaoh did not find a safe haven in Lamech. Beside his Warrior City’s pointed obelisks, which had threatened to pierce the skies, there rose also many columns of smoke, invading the firmament as spears.
As soon as he had launched his rebellion, Sanquivio had sent heralds to Lamech, riding in their own gryphons. In the city were giants of many stripes: not only descendants from Enoch, but also many from the Five Cities, who had gone there to train and serve. As Skillotz arrived, Lamech was rent in twain, and fighting broke out between the rebels and the loyalists.
Happily for the pharaoh, the summit of his ziggurat, where his house was, still remained under the loyalist’s control, and Skillotz landed safely near his abode. He went in and locked himself away. There he lingered for long hours, seated on a throne that was now a glorified chair of no consequence. There he stayed, still as a lamb, embracing his own knees. Truly, he had never felt so powerless in his entire life. Never had he been so weak, for never had he been less than a councilor’s son.
In the midst of his loneliness, he remembered Aigonz’s Song, the song permeating everything in Dumah. But who could hear the Song in the midst of the thunder of war rumbling outside? The Song was no more—yet even so, Aigonz had beaten him, the pharaoh surmised.
At last, the thunder rumbled outside his door, inside his entrails. The doors weakened and faltered. His foes broke into the sepulchral silence that Skillotz so wished would entomb him forever while he was still alive. Nay, it could not be over! He willed it not to be over! He was not ready! Not ready yet to meet his end! If the cruel fates willed to drive him unwillingly towards his death, they would have to drag him by the hairs! Yet this wish was more like a burden to him than a hope! Skillotz felt weary of living and wished for the eternal slumber inside of the city of Mathusal… if only the City of Ancestors would open its gates to him! But what did he wish, after all? To live, or to die? He did not know. All he knew was that he did not desire to live like this anymore, nor did he wish to die like this.
Skillotz was lost amidst this vortex of thoughts, when the rebels burst into the throne room. The prince was at their head, now crowned with Razil, the iron crown. Skillotz remained on his throne, and did not rise. If he had to die, he would do so in a place of his own choosing. He would die fighting whilst sitting on his throne. By doing so—so he thought—he would be dying with dignity; but for Sanquivio, that was a pathetic sight:
“Leave us be!” ordered the prince.
“Is it wise, my lord?” one of his followers asked. “Victory is within your grasp! Why endanger it? Let his demise fall upon our hands, while you save your grace for ruling and leading!”
“What would I endanger? Can you not see I wield Lauz-Ispariz? I am invincible! I said it once, and I say it again: Leave us alone! I shall not allow my orders to be uttered a third time!”
The nephilin bowed towards their new king and stepped aside, trying as much as possible to close the broken doors as they left. Skillotz turned his head aside: He could not face his son. But he could speak to him, as he had many questions:
“Have I done you ill? Did I not beget you with my own blood? Did I not feed you, take care of you, give you the best tutours? Did I not raise your station, did I not give you enough land or titles? Would I not gladly give you my crown as soon as I was gone?”
Sanquivio approached, step by step, with Lauz-Ispariz unsheathed:
“You have failed me not, as father. Yet you have failed miserably as king. A crown should have never rested upon your head, for your impetuosity clouds your discernment. You have put us at war against Ophir, against the Republic, against Aigonz himself! I am not willing to lose this war on account of you, for then I shall lose everything.”
“Are you going to surrender to Ophir, then? Will you forfeit everything I laboured to build?”
“I will forfeit what you built, as I build my own. Yea, more and better shall I build. I have my own plans. What matters is this: You are too weak to rule!”
“Well then, proceed, my son. The crown is yours, and so is everything I have. Let me go on pilgrimage to Mathusal. Therein I shall rest, and trouble you no longer.”
“Do not take me for a fool, or a weakling as yourself. Would you not rally your troops and try to retake what you have lost? Or would those loyal to you not fight till they had taken revenge on who dethroned you? Can I ever trust your promises on this?”
“So be it. Slay me. And I shall be venerated for all generations as the one who started all of this, the one who began the logizkal liberation.”
But Sanquivio had grown tired of this conversation. He would have no more of it. The former prince plunged into his father, and thrust the sword into his breast. Skillotz felt an acute, metallic pain in his bosom, and his limbs were voided of strength. He looked down and saw Lauz-Ispariz rigidly licking his insides. Sanquivio had promised a feast to the sword, and had fulfilled his promise. He had given the sword the most excellent of wines: the blood of a king! And Sanquivio bid farewell to his father, before the veil of death would come and cover his eyes:
“I am sorry, father. As pharaoh, I cannot share the throne’s solitary glory, lest the loyalists rise against me. I shall not give you a mausoleum where you shall be worshipped as a god of old. I shall tear down all you have created. No stone in Lamech shall be left unturned. Your work will I grind to dust. Your name will I erase from the annals of history. The forthcoming generations will know not of any pharaoh before me. It will be as if you had never lived. And I shall rebuild over your ruins, more and better.”
At that moment, Skillotz remembered someone else whom he had condemned to a similar fate: a certain Nameless Outcast. Skillotz ordered this outcast to be erased from memory, but Skillo
tz’s last memory was about this outcast. He had been the only one to love him, even if he stood up against him. He warned him of Nod’s treacherous machinations, and how his star would abandon him. The Nameless Outcast forewarned him not to take the crown, for he would be doomed to a most accursed fate if he did: That also had come to pass. Skillotz sought to kill this Nameless One’s son by bearing a son of his own, yet his own son ended up murdering him. And yet the Nameless Outcast never stretched his hand against Skillotz, for he preferred to be slain by him than to slay him:
“Ko… lin… zio…”
Skillotz whispered his name, breaking his own law. And this name was engraved on his tongue when death overtook him. So it happened, the Nameless Outcast’s name was more long-lived than Skillotz’s own name, for the latter was uttered in southern lands never again. Truly, Skillotz’s name is known to this day only because iperborin scribes recorded these events for posterity. But the nephilin know not his name, nor do they wish to.
So fell the first pharaoh that ever was, and so did Skillotz find the unhappy end of the path he chose.
Chapter
23
The Eye of the Storm
An eerie silence befell Ophir. Above the Sym-Bolon, the princess peered down below. She had seen the bridge fall, and many soldiers drown. Then she heard shouts coming from the other side of the lake, and thought her Guard to have commanded a retaliation against the aggressors. Now, however, there were no more war drums in her ears, only the distant tweet of the swallows and the coos of the doves. But she knew not who had won.
Below, in the ruined city, Amizdel heard this silence as well. He had retreated with his troops to Ophir’s most hidden alleys, so as to regroup and mount a sortie. But now, his enemies seemed to have vanished. When he glanced over Ophir’s empty streets, he saw nothing of the nephilin but their corpses lying left and right. He and his guard marched cautiously towards the beach, and found nothing more than what they had seen in the city. The captain feared the Sym-Bolon to have fallen, but saw no signs of smoke or commotion atop the mountain. The palace there seemed to have suffered no damage. Still, he ordered some scouts to fly up and gather news from the princess. Only when he knew her to be safe, did Amizdel sigh of relief. Yet he was still very confused.
The captain marched on to the walls, to survey their damage and reconnoiter the vicinity. The titan army had disappeared, as a raging wave disappears when it crashes onto the shore. The nephilin, though, would not remain vanished for too long. Soon a couple of gryphons were seen flying towards them. Amizdel and his guard drew swords, but kept them still. They needed to learn more, and could only do so by questioning these riders:
“Hail, oh Crizians!” said the nephilin. “We see you! We bring you a message from our lord, Pharaoh Sanquivio.”
A shiver went down Amizdel’s spine. Pharaoh Sanquivio, did they say? What had happened? They proceeded:
“We come to inform you of the new arrangements regarding the League. Our previous monarch perished. Sanquivio, his rightful heir, is now king. Our glorious pharaoh seeks to end the hostilities towards Ophir and the Republic.”
Amizdel shook his head, so as to shake away his stupour as well.
“We hear you, oh nephilin! Hail! Your message is well received, for you speak with Amizdel, Captain of the Crizian Guard. We shall relay your words to the princess and also, if you so wish, to the Council of Peoples.”
They so wished, and having fulfilled their mission they departed, for they still despised those to whom they had come to speak. As for Amizdel, he was true to his word. Soon Ophir and all Iperborea would hear of the truce.
***
Since Lamech’s army was greatly reduced in numbers, many of the soldier’s quarters were turned into dungeons for the war prisoners. One of the cells, in particular, aroused Sanquivio’s interest. Inside, there lay Moruzio, chained to a stake, stripped of his armour and garments.
“Hail, oh valiant Moruzio,” Sanquivio greeted. “I see you. You are now no more than a miserable prisoner, yet Pharaoh himself descends from his throne to visit you. Surely this shows the extent of your worth!”
Moruzio, however, did not raise his head, nor his eyes, nor his voice:
“I would not be a miserable prisoner if I had not willingly chosen this condition…”
“Ah yes…” Sanquivio sighed, as he went around him several times. “The prophecy…”
Both of them knew. Nod had bestowed upon Moruzio the following blessing: “Thy strength shall not be matched by any mortal creature standing before thee, if mortal hands or a weapon forged by mortal hands they wield.” But Rubizioliz had slipped from his hand, as the axe refused to fight Lauz-Ispariz in single combat. Still, the blessing placed upon Moruzio’s forehead could be very useful to an astute monarch such as Sanquivio. He needed to find how to harness his strength, for Moruzio was iron-willed—Sanquivio would say stubborn—and the new king did not curry favour with him.
“You know, my dearest Moruzio… I am seriously pondering granting you a pardon. Verily, you raised arms against me, but you were fulfilling your duty. You were serving the pharaoh, as you understood him to be. I accept that. Nay, I respect that. Even more, I admire that. For the new pharaoh asks nothing more than this. Do no more, and no less, than what you did for my father. Do so, and you shall be a free giant, and more: captain once again.” And he whispered in his ear, “Even Rubizioliz shall be returned to you.”
Moruzio’s thick beard quivered. Till then, Sanquivio’s words seemed to have no effect on the fearless giant. But Moruzio’s hand felt a great emptiness during his short captivity. He had grown used to holding Rubizioliz’s handle. Its absence itched his palm, and grumbled inside his entrails. Furthermore, Nod had been inside his dungeon for the past few hours, murmuring inside his ear, though he could not see or recognize her. However, he would still resist temptation:
“How can I serve you? You, who do not serve the logizkal, as your predecessor did? We had breached Ophir’s walls. We had successfully invaded the city. Because of your treason, we wasted our most advantageous position! We are back to where we once were. Nay, we are worse. Now—so my jailer has told me when he brought me my bread and water—you have made peace with our enemies.”
Moruzio so said, and spat on Sanquivio’s cheek. But the pharaoh did not shake or blink. He did not even clean up his face. It was as if Moruzio had said or done nothing of importance. Rather, Sanquivio kept looking upon him as one who looks upon a valuable possession.
“You misjudge me, brave Moruzio! You say Ophir’s outer walls were breached? So they were. Would it matter, if there were unbreachable hurdles before us? Had the lake been breached? Had the Sym-Bolon mountain been breached? Had the crizia’s palace been breached? You cling to a small achievement as if it were triumph, and fail to see the truth: It is no more than a mirage. Far from victory were you, and near annihilation, even if you do not see it.”
Moruzio said no word, but felt a sudden doubt inside him. What did he mean by those words?
“How many years,” Sanquivio resumed, “did it take for us to defeat the rock sphinxes on the outer walls? You had the golden sphinxes before you, and expected to subdue them in less than a day? Did the golden sphinxes not effortlessly defeat the Dark Beast, whereas the outer sphinxes failed? Did you expect to pass through the bridge unhindered? Do you judge the crumbling of the bridge to be an accident, and not the product of magic?”
A sense of doubt invaded the old captain’s chest. His enthusiasm had betrayed him. Had he followed Skillotz, he would have doomed all his army—and with it, the future of the logizkal race! What kind of captain had he been? Sanquivio kept talking:
“As for me, I have studied Nod’s prophecy since I was born. And I can tell you, most assuredly: Our approach has been wrong since the very beginning. There are other ways to achieve your purpose, without losing a single life. Give me your faithfulness, and I shall deliver Ophir unto your hands!”
These words resounded in
side Moruzio’s bosom, as a chord resounds in the sitar’s box. More than words, however, was Lauz-Ispariz’s blade. As the new pharaoh walked around him, the sword seemed to be face to face with Moruzio. He could see her sheath right before his eyes. And he thought to have heard a whisper, coming from the celestial iron: “Trust him! Dost thou not see? He knoweth what is to be done.”
Moruzio let his head hang. The prophecy notwithstanding, he had been defeated: not in a battle of blades, but in a battle of wits. Indeed, his opponent had Lauz-Ispariz in his possession. But still, Moruzio could not but smile at what had just happened:
“I, Moruzio, from the Bar-Kain people… hereby pledge my allegiance to Faris-Romil, the third of his name, Sanquivio the King, rightful heir to the throne.”
As these words were uttered, Sanquivio unsheathed his invincible sword and cut Moruzio’s chains. He was captain once more.
***
Moruzio would not be the only one to receive Sanquivio’s visit that day. The new king ordered his subjects to drag Malvizio from his house and bring him to his presence. When they so did, he bid them leave him alone with the elder:
“Why do you treat me so?” asked Malvizio, as the doors behind them closed. “Did I not hand the throne to you? Did you not seize the opportunity I gave you?”
Sanquivio stood beside him, and cast his kingly shadow over Malvizio’s hunchback. There was not a drop of emotion in his voice while he spake these words:
“You handed me naught but danger; and the opportunity I seized, you almost brought to naught. What if my father had discovered you hid the Dark Beast from his knowledge, and I with you? What if my father knew of your treasonous words, and that I had heard them? What throne would I have inherited if I had been found a traitor? This crown I wear upon my forehead in spite of you, not because of you.”
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