Ironcraft

by Pedro Gabriel

  Malvizio groveled on the ground by his king’s feet:

  “My lord, my intentions were…”

  “Do intentions matter in the least? Did my father not intend to lead the logizkal to a better future? Yet you deemed him inept for this task, since his passions blinded him. For this alone did he die and leave the throne to me. Now answer me: Did your passions not blind you also, that you stepped into treasonous acts to attain your purposes? Were you not inept in bringing about your mission of crowning me in his stead, hindering my ascension instead of aiding it? Should you not die for that crime, as my father did?”

  The old priest thought he would meet his end. He prostrated his face on the ground and dared not look up to the king. But soon, he felt Sanquivio’s hand resting on his hairs. The king had knelt before him, so Malvizio would hear him better:

  “Do not worry, my good Malvizio. That ineptitude merits death is your law, not mine. My law is different. Your crime merits death indeed, but it is a crime of a different sort. You have not committed it yet, so I will spare you.”

  “Oh, thank you my lord! A thousand thanks!”

  “I need you to keep presiding over the Moabite religion. What have you done with Moab’s seven gifts?”

  “My lord, they remain locked away inside my library, as they were a few days ago…”

  “Release them. Let them roam free throughout my domains!”

  “Release them? But… my lord… we need them caged and rattled to invoke the Dark Beast once we decide to storm Ophir once again… On their own, the seven creatures are completely unsuited for war. They do nothing but evoke pleasant feelings.”

  “Perfect. Release them, then.”

  “I… do not understand, my lord.”

  Sanquivio placed his hands over Malvizio’s shoulders and raised him from the ground:

  “It is not incumbent upon you to understand. That burden belongs to the pharaoh. Do not question my orders!” But as the old giant kept stammering, the king yielded and said, “We made an error in judgment in forcing the Dark Beast out of the seven gifts. The Dark Beast is too advanced an art for us to wield as yet. Maybe we were wrong in doubting Moab. Maybe the seven gifts were given in an already suitable form. They may be useful as they are, if we just let them free. So let them.”

  Malvizio trembled. As one of Thebel’s most renowned scholars, he had trouble following orders he did not understand. Sanquivio raised his eyebrow, and thought necessary to clarify:

  “Also, let me tell you of the crime that truly deserves death. If you dare do to me what you did to my father,” Sanquivio said, slowly drawing the Lauz-Ispariz from the scabbard, “If you go behind my back to seek another king on account of some whim of yours”—and he caressed Malvizio’s neck with the sharp edge of the sword—“If I as much suspect you have done so, then your crime will be considered consummated, and your penalty shall be exacted forthwith. My eyes and ears will be on you. Are we clear?”

  Again, the elder trembled. Sanquivio sheathed Lauz-Ispariz as slowly as he had drawn it. Malvizio followed the blade with his eyes, and through this action he slowly bowed towards the king:

  “Yes, my lord. We are clear. And I shall obey your orders at once.”

  “Perfect. You are dismissed.”

  Malvizio bowed once more, and was gone. As he left and smelled the fresh air outside—something which, moments earlier, he thought he might never do again—he saw himself rent between two antagonistic feelings. On the one hand, he missed Skillotz, whom he had betrayed, as he surely felt more secure under his rule. On the other hand, he felt a sense of pride: He knew now this was the king who could truly lead Nephil into victory.

  ***

  After much parley, all nations agreed: The peace treaty would be signed at the seat of the Council of Peoples, the magnificent city of Melchy-Zedek. That day would be a feast day all around Thebel. There would be slaying of auroch calves, and breaking of wine barrels, and song and dance around the streets. Also a parade, as all those dignitaries entered the Blessed City for the peace ceremony.

  Bilidio, the pontiff, was the first to be seen in that most blissful morning. No great feat it was, since he was already inside the city, whilst all others needed to still themselves at the outskirts to perform the purification ritual. The blood and filth of war were now a thing of the past—yet they must needs be left out of Melchy-Zedek, lest they profane it. So, Bilidio was the first to arrive at the cothon palace, where the Council was to be gathered.

  The first to complete the purification ritual was Amizdel. No one else had distinguished himself more in battle, at least on the Republic’s side. The melchin offered him a hippogriff, the most elegant and graceful in the whole city. It had silvery fur, a very rare hue. Amizdel mounted it and brought it along the main streets in a slow trot, with a retinue of his most brave soldiers marching behind him.

  As head of the allied forces, Amizdel the Brave was received with a deafening choir of cheers and applause, so loud it hurt the ears—though joy was much greater than the ear pain. From the windows and balconies, the giants threw colored crumbs of paper, or grains of rice. Some even waved palm branches, as if they were military banners, which they laid down at the hippogriff’s hooves or the soldier’s feet.

  Amizdel and his warriors kept marching on, hoisting the azure and silver colours of Melchy-Zedek, and the golden and sable colours of Ophir. Once in the main plaza by the bay, they were received by the pontiff. More and more councilors were arriving as well, with their linen capes and majestic features.

  The isthmus folk came next, councilors and captains alike, with Fugizlo at their head. By that time, the crowd’s furor had grown weary. Throats were coarse and parched—they yearned for the water gushing from Melchy-Zedek’s infinite fountains. Arms and hands, tired as they were, did not wave as much. The crumbs of paper were spent, and the palm branches were trodden. Still, there was enough applause. Fugizlo’s countenance, however, was heavy. For him, his father’s absence was greatly felt, though many watching missed Gomer more.

  Afterwards came Sanquivio, along with Moruzio, Malvizio, Perezim, and a few other ambassadors. They marched into Melchy-Zedek a couple of hours after the last of the isthmus dignitaries had passed. Not because they had arrived much later, but because the brobnin refused to let the southerners follow them too closely during the procession, lest they would be stabbed in the back. So Fugizlo demanded: The nephilin were to leave a big gap between them and all the northerners.

  Moruzio was of the opinion that the whole feast should be called off, on account of this most grievous offense. But Sanquivio smiled at these demands and gave them the importance of a child’s tantrum. There were more important things to consider.

  Nonetheless, the isthmus folk’s plan failed. When the nephilin passed through the streets of the Blessed City, throats were already refreshed, and hands and arms well rested. Furthermore, the distance separating the northerners from the southerners had brought attention to Sanquivio, who had not mingled with the rest of the procession, and whose glory was now at the foreground. How imposing was he, brought on a chariot pulled by two gryphons! His tunic was purple, but otherwise indistinguishable from any soldier’s tunic. His cuirass was of iron, but carved with meticulous craftsmanship, bedecked with floral patterns imitating Ophir’s architecture. On his head, he did not wear the crown Razil, but a helm with wings protruding by his temples. Other than that, his armour was no different than any soldier’s. And in his right hand he brandished Lauz-Ispariz, which shone with a sylphic glow.

  This stupendous vision aroused the melchins’ hearts: It was Sanquivio, after all, who had sued for peace, after so many years of war. Rumours of his prudence and wisdom had overflowed beyond the confines of the League, right to the Republic’s far north. Surely he was worthy of praise! There was much cheering for Sanquivio in Melchy-Zedek that day, and there were even some more palm branches for him as well. And Moruzio, marching behind his king with his heavy, thorny armour, and Rubizioli
z in hand, was most glad the procession had not been called off.

  When the southern entourage arrived at the cothon, they too were received with open arms by none other than the pontiff. As a father who embraces a returned son, so did Bilidio embrace Sanquivio.

  But the procession was not over yet. Someone else was there to be received. It was Inimois, the crizia. Yea, she too had been invited to attend this most blessed day. After all, this triumph was hers as well, for Ophir had withstood the siege unconquered.

  Just as Sanquivio seemed stupendous to the northern folk, so stupendous did Ophir’s princess appear before Sanquivio. She was indeed small beside him. But there was more beauty in her than in the most colossal of the logizkal, just like a small butterfly is fairer than a behemoth. Her freckles sparkled with the sunlight, as the grains of sand on a beach at sunrise. Her scarlet hair seemed like a sunset sky. Her simple, girdled gown was as white as snow, whiter than Nod’s light-grey dress. All of this invaded Sanquivio’s eyes, and he let himself be fascinated by that small, gracious creature.

  But the same vision was not as pleasant to the other nephilin. While Sanquivio was asking himself, “How is it possible that such a splendid creature was the cause of this war?” his army murmured, “How is it possible the cause of this war dares to set foot in our presence?”

  “Hail, oh Thebel’s star, Dumah’s most precious jewel!” Sanquivio greeted. “I believe we have never been properly introduced, for I was born your enemy, through circumstances not of my choosing. For see, I was begotten on the other side of a war I did not begin. But now I give thanks for peace, on account of the lives that will be so saved, yea, but also because otherwise I would have never been graced with such a magnificent vision! What a wretched life I would have lived if I had been deprived of your beauty throughout the expanse of my years!”

  The crizia did not answer him. Not out of rudeness, or resentment: She was flustered. Such words she did not expect, nor think possible. She answered not with words, but by blushing her ruddy complexion with a deeper red hue.

  Unlike Inimois, the other nephilin knew what they would answer these words, given the chance. But Sanquivio seemed to hear their murmurs as if they had been whispered into his own ear. Without turning himself, he subtly placed his hand on Lauz-Ispariz’s hilt, reminding his followers of who wielded the invincible sword. And no southerner dared harbour any more ill words against the king.

  “The Council is now convening,” the pontiff said. “Let us discuss the future of Thebel and the terms of our imminent peace. My dearest Sanquivio, my dearest Inimois, you are invited to join us and take part in this Council.”

  Sanquivio bowed his neck slightly and crossed the bridge towards the cothon palace. The crizia did likewise. As soon as the pharaoh’s imposing presence had departed, many other southerners kept silent no more, and growled murmurs they had heretofore repressed. But Moruzio was there, and he would not tolerate insurrections. The captain was Sanquivio’s right arm, and trusted him blindly. As the right arm protects the body, even when the arm does not understand the thoughts of the head, so did Moruzio protect Sanquivio that day. He turned towards the nephilin, and menacingly placed his finger before his lips, while holding the Rubizioliz in the other hand.

  Chapter

  24

  Nemrod

  As the councilors took their places, Bilidio went up the tribune. As guests, Inimois, Sanquivio, and Amizdel took seats in the first row. Nod was absent, for she said that, as a star, she had already interfered too much with the affairs of mortals. The Council could now begin.

  “Most hallowed chamber, and dearest brethren,” began the pontiff, “after so many years of division and strife, how good it is for us to be at peace! It is like unto the sweetest and freshest of ointments flowing down a logizkal’s beard. It behooves us, for the sake of everyone, to negotiate the terms of this same peace so it may last forevermore. Let us not allow this most propitious day to end without assuring our children and our children’s children of this most noble promise. I give you the ears of the Council. Let words of peace be heard.”

  His words were not left to echo for long. Fugizlo, the Brobnin, asked to take the floor:

  “Members of this most hallowed chamber, hail! It is as our dearest pontiff has said: It is good for us to be at peace—good, also, to have memory. I see the League’s heads sitting amongst us today. For years, the League challenged us, reviled us, fought us, killed us. They sit now amongst those whom they challenged, and reviled, and fought, and killed. But as for those who were killed, we at Kain-Phah honour their memorials. Their spilt blood shall not be forgotten. And forgotten it shall not be as we negotiate peace.”

  “I hear you, venerable councilor,” Sanquivio answered him, with an astoundingly calm voice. “I assure you also, the nephilin’s spilt blood shall not be forgotten as long as yours is not.”

  “Peace, dear brethren, peace!” Bilidio appealed from his pontifical seat. “These words are most unprofitable. If peace be lost today, even more blood shall be spilt. Remind yourselves not only of the blood spilt in the past, but also of that which may be spilt in the future.”

  So did the pontiff silence the voices running throughout the Council, though not the thoughts. The isthmus folk kept growling to themselves about the profanation of Kain-Phah. But Sanquivio sighed and shrugged. As for Bilidio, he misinterpreted this silence, thinking he had opened not only ears, but also hearts. So he proceeded:

  “We keep dividing ourselves according to boundaries that should no longer exist. ‘Northerners,’ ‘isthmus folk,’ ‘southerners,’ and who did what and when. Truly I say to you: peace is impossible whilst these divisions persist. We should therefore set about mending these divisions and healing our schisms. By the power invested in me as pontiff, I hereby invite my southern brethren to rejoin the Republic.”

  There was a rumble of whispers, chiefly from the brobin. They did not know the pontiff would propose this, and vehemently disagreed with it. They wanted the nephilin to be allowed to rejoin only after due compensations had been paid, and acts of reparation made; after the southerners had undergone harsh and public penance, the League disbanded, and all their leaders deposed and imprisoned.

  “The Five Cities will be recognized by the Republic,” said the pontiff, “and each can send their own councilor to represent them. If Lamech and Enoch are to be rebuilt, they may profit from a similar arrangement. We may also help with the reconstruction of those cities if you would like. Sanquivio may be made councilor as well, with all the rights that come with this title. And, of course, Sanquivio may keep a certain degree of authority among these southern cities. We may make accommodations as to how to reconcile that authority with the role of a councilor…”

  The pontiff kept enunciating offer after offer, as he kept his gaze fixed upon Sanquivio, desperately searching for a favourable reaction. But the southern king did not move a brow. His vague eyes were lost in deep and secret thoughts. At long last, he rose from his seat and spake:

  “Most gracious pontiff of this Republic. Your gentle words touched my heart, and your benevolence towards us as well! Your generous offers, given our troubled past, were especially dear to me. Notwithstanding, in the name of the League which I represent, I must sadly decline…”

  At once, the isthmus folk burst with censures and reproaches: “We knew they could not be trusted!” And one could not quite know—and it is possible they themselves did not know—if the brobnin were revolted or relieved by Sanquivio’s refusal. Bilidio, on his end, was as speechless as the brobnin were restless:

  “But, but why? Why would you not rejoin the Republic of Peoples?” asked a most confused pontiff. “This wound must be healed for peace’s sake!”

  “If you will allow me, venerable pontiff,” Sanquivio interrupted, “this wound must indeed be healed, yet not denied nor buried. A wound scars, and a scar is not the same as it once was. At the moment, not one city or town in the League wishes to rejoin the Republic. We
belong to the League of Nephil, and that is our own republic. We wish for a strengthening and deepening of the bonds between Republic and League, but the League must remain apart from the Republic. Otherwise, peace would only leaven resentment and war would inevitably return.”

  Bilidio felt peace escaping between his fingers as crumbling sand. His mouth opened to speak, but no words came out. Biting his lip, he said:

  “Very well. Let League and Republic coexist and bond. But can I ask that you cease to use the name of my predecessor, self-entitling yourself as ‘Faris-Romil,’ or ‘Pharaoh’ as you call it?”

  “Once again I feel myself crushed with grief, but I cannot acquiesce. This title is part of our heritage. It is not important to me if you call me not by that name, or if you do not recognize me by that name; but my compatriots shall not be deprived of calling me such, if they so wish.”

  The pontiff could only stammer:

  “Would, would you… then… require an ambassador of yours… here, to represent the League in the Council?”

  Sanquivio kept speaking most calmly, as if he was merely remarking about the weather:

  “Once more, I am most grateful, but we have no need for ambassadors. In the spirit of good relations between our two federations, I will accept any herald you send to me when the need comes. The doors of my throne room are open for parley requests, whenever you so wish.”

  “But… but…”

  “Well,” Sanquivio clasped his hands with a solitary clap; then he rubbed his palms with a frustrating satisfaction. “The meeting is already long and I am sure everyone here is tired. Peace has been made and the terms are most acceptable. Now, I do believe someone mentioned a banquet to celebrate our new peace! Let us eat and be merry, for we are brethren once more! Let us feast before night comes and robs us of the vigour necessary to celebrate!”