Ironcraft

by Pedro Gabriel

  “They came!” the princess cried, as she jumped and clapped.

  “Hail, my lady. I apologize for the—”

  But he would not be allowed to finish. Inimois grabbed him by the hand and hauled him inside:

  “Hail, oh most honourable legate! Come and sit! Eat amongst us, drink amongst us, and be merry amongst us!”

  They entered the palace and then the throne room. Sanquivio went behind them, his lips twitching, his eyes burning. That presence disturbed him greatly, and he sought in his heart how to do away with it.

  Only then, by the light of the palace, did Oiskal notice how different the princess appeared to his eyes. He expected her linen tunic to mirror his linen cape, as was usual. But Inimois’ white gown rested now, folded and forgotten, in one of her drawers. A tunic she bore, but of animal skins, as was the southerner’s custom. She had found them quite comfortable during her stay at Nemrod, and decided to wear them ever since. Her bracelets, anklets, and armlet, were now not of gold, but of iron, as a present from the pharaoh. And they looked more like a slave’s manacles than a princess’ apparel. No longer was she adorned with flowers and feathers, but an iron diadem did she use about her head, mirroring her beloved’s crown.

  “Sit here, if you so please,” she said, as she seated the priest in a place of honour at her royal table. “Let the feast begin, for the last guest has arrived.”

  “No, please, my lady. Such is not necessary. If you so wish, I can sit and enjoy your company for a while. Yet I came not to eat, but solely to congratulate you. In the name of the pontiff, Council, and Republic, I wish Ophir much happiness with this newly acquired peace! May it last and may our bonds of friendship grow stronger than ever.” Sanquivio coughed, and Oiskal hastened to add, “Of course, the nephilin are also included in these wishes. May an enduring peace be forged between the Republic and the League as well.”

  “So let it be done,” said Inimois, as she raised a cup of wine and ordered a round to be served to all. She drank and everyone followed her, from Sanquivio to Oiskal. But the pharaoh would not leave it be. He got up and crashed open a keg of ale. He dipped his cup inside and raised it, as Inimois had done before:

  “Allow me, oh distinguished guests, to propose yet another toast. May the isthmus’ treacherous race be wiped from the face of Thebel, for peace can only last if their malicious lives cease to be. For they swore that there would be no peace whilst the League existed. Likewise do I swear, I will see no peace while there is a living brobnin to threaten my people. So let it be done. As the Colossus as my witness, I hereby make this libation in honour of Moab.” And he poured the beer on the blade of Lauz-Ispariz, from whence it flowed to the ground.

  This toast had been poured as a sacred oath. Who could refuse it without offending the nephilin? They all filled their cups and drank, from pharaoh to princess. But not Oiskal. He kept himself quiet, as a chameleon changing its colours to better merge with the surroundings.

  “What is the matter?” asked Sanquivio, feigning surprise. “Is our ale not to your liking? Could it be spoiled, perhaps? Do you wish me to get more from another barrel? Would you rather have some wine? Perchance water if you feel indisposed…”

  “No, no need, thank you,” Oiskal replied, visibly embarrassed. “It is quite all right, as it is.”

  Sanquivio continued with his theatrics, no longer feigning surprise, but scandal:

  “Then why the beer-filled cup?” And his brows grew tempered with anger. “Could you be siding with those who threaten our peace? Could you be offering toasts in the name of peace before us, while conspiring war with our foes on our backs?”

  “Dear sir, not at all! I simply believe in a peace without victors. Peace is impossible whilst these resentments persist. Was this not, oh King, how the isthmic folk erred when they accepted not our peace treaty?”

  Pharaoh ignored everything the priest said—it was not important for his designs:

  “What you call resentments, I call memory. My memory comes to my aid and falters me not, lest forgetfulness leads to my doom. The northerners have received brobnin refugees at their homes, have they not?”

  “Yes indeed. It is a holy duty to help our brethren in need.”

  “Those whom you call brethren, we call enemies. Those whom we indeed call brethren were slain by those brethren of yours. For years and years were they slain, both treacherously and in open battle. Oh princess, oh logizkal, is it not true we lived at peace before the isthmus folk attacked us, without any provocation or declaration of war? Were they not the ones who yearned for our destruction? Is it not reasonable that those who shelter such people are our enemies as well?”

  Sanquivio so spake, and brandished his empty cup as a sword, bespattering Oiskal’s face with a shower of droplets:

  “Decide, northerner! Decide here and now! Drink to the health of my toast! Nay, more is required! Deliver your refugees unto our hands! Do so, and you will prove yourself a friend! But if you decline, at least have some courtesy! Openly declare yourself our enemy! Remove that nauseating mask of hypocrisy! No other choice will be given you!” he solemnly proclaimed, and darted his eyes towards Inimois. Not only Oiskal would be forced to make a decision. The princess saw it and understood it, even if for some moments she pretended not to understand. But the pharaoh’s fixed glare kept hounding her till she responded. Sighing, Inimois got up from her seat, and said:

  “Truly, there is no other choice. Remind yourself, oh Oiskal, the isthmic race tried to abduct me. The nephilin slain to protect me, I must keep them engraved in my heart. I am reminded of Fugizlo’s stubbornness and hatred when we confronted him in the Council. They remain a threat. We shall not be safe whilst your harbour them under your wings.”

  Oiskal stared longingly at her. His eyes were wounded by sorrow, but in the end, resignation scarred them. The priest sighed. Slowly, he placed his cup down on the table. Neither did he drink, nor did he spill the liquid:

  “We shall not deliver our brethren into your hands. Do what you will.”

  The pharaoh’s countenance was deformed with wrath, even as his heart leapt with glee. His ploy had succeeded:

  “You made your choice, by siding with our enemies! There shall be no peace! On the League’s behalf, I hereby declare war upon the whole Republic.”

  Again, he looked at the princess. Again, she conceded:

  “Ophir will side with the League. We declare war on the Republic as well.”

  She said so with her eyes stuck on her feet and the limestone floor. She could not avoid the pharaoh’s pressing glare, but would still avoid the priest’s sad stare, if she could. And she kept herself thus, till she felt Oiskal’s eyes on her no longer, and his steps moving away. Only then, did she muster enough courage to lift her eyes from the ground. In this she was deceived, for as soon as she looked up, the priest’s steps halted. Oiskal hesitated. The fate of Thebel hung upon his shoulders, and he would not give it up so easily. Once he had hoisted the surrender flag; now, he had lowered it.

  “Do you fear not the stars? Or Aigonz himself? Are they not witnesses against us?” the priest said, gazing upward as if he could see the firmament through the palace’s ceiling. “Look up to the heavens. Can they not see all this spilt blood? Does not the earth drink this very same blood? Do we not enrage Mizar with its bitter taste? It is enough. The blood of our brethren who sought refuge amongst us will not be spilt, either by us or by you. We will not hand them over to you. But we also swear we shall not spill nephilin blood unless we are so compelled by your swords.”

  Sanquivio’s limbs shook, his countenance again deformed by rage. This rage, though, was more honest in kind, for it came from his heart and not his ploys. Oiskal continued:

  “If we so swear, then why war? For even if you fear not the stars, or Aigonz, you surely know: We do fear them. With full knowledge of this, I swore this sacred oath to you! Let all whom I fear bear witness against me! If the north does not keep this oath, let my blood be shed by Aigonz himse
lf.”

  “Beautiful words, those,” the pharaoh scoffed. “Not more than that. Words. What use have we of words, if your actions rule against them? You call yourself friend, yet you shelter our mortal enemies. Words made of wind are those, for wind is all there is up above in the heavens whereupon you swear. Who has ever heard Aigonz? If he abhors blood so much, where was he when bloody streams ran throughout the land? What of the stars? Have they ever spoken against those who done us ill? Has Thebel moved away from her course when our blood was spilt? Nay. Words are all you have. But Aigonz and the stars do not even have words.”

  The king lifted his eyes upward, as if his gaze and the priest’s were two invisible blades meeting up in the heights. But, unlike Oiskal, Sanquivio sought not the heavens beyond the palace’s ceiling, but the ceiling itself:

  “Nay, I fear Aigonz not. And I fear the stars not, not even the star that came down from heaven to ally herself with me. There is only one fearful thing in this world. This!” He pointed towards the ceiling. “This which we make with our own hands, matter from the earth’s womb ripped, molded according to our own thoughts. Moab, yea. Moab is truly fearsome, for he acts upon this world. Moab’s voice is my voice, and his words are my words. While I am not silent, Moab shall not be silent.”

  “There will be no silence indeed, for war is most noisy,” Oiskal replied to him. “Are you saying then, your words are the cries of those who shall perish because of your pride? For these cries will not be silent while you are not. Will you then blame the silence of the stars for the silence you have broken? One day will come indeed when mortals will yearn for a minute of silence, so that they may hear Aigonz’s voice as clearly as tonight, whilst the crickets and the owls and the breeze murmur outside.”

  Oiskal kept speaking and drawing nearer the pharaoh, till king and priest were face to face, measuring their words as two rival warriors in the battlefield.

  “So do not be too haughty when you proclaim, ‘I shall not be silent,’” Oiskal proceeded. “One day, all of us, mortal beings made of flesh, all shall find silence. No other cosmic law is more ruthless than this: Every mouth shall be dumb one day. Then, all the words you have declared shall be buried with you… and with you forgotten.”

  “I hear you. I shall challenge these laws and live forever, long after my mouth becomes dumb! Let Aigonz and I measure forces, to see who is stronger: his silence or my words! Go now, for your sermons bore me and ruin my bride’s feast! We must fill our bellies for the times to come!”

  Oiskal turned to the princess. For the third time that night, she would be forced into a choice:

  “Are you in agreement with all of this, my lady?”

  Inimois’ eyes darted everywhere. Her heart was rent; a wound inside her chest tore her asunder. She sought to speak, but only incomprehensible grunts she uttered. But Oiskal and Sanquivio were patient. They would wait. They knew how crucial her decision was. Insisting too much would not sway her, only drive her off.

  But Inimois’ scale was bound to fall on the side of her greatest passion. She feared the stars less than blades of iron, for these latter she had indeed seen going against her. And she feared the blades less than losing her king’s affection. For her king’s strength had been there when the stars were silent, and she wished not to feel forlorn ever again.

  “Yea, dear Oiskal, I am in agreement with my lord.”

  “I see.” The priest coughed and composed himself, disguising the icy shiver that had just overtaken him. “If that is so, I request one last favour of you. In the name of our old friendship, deny me not this courtesy. Let me take Amozia back to Melchy-Zedek. It is not fitting that Dumah’s most sacred relic be at the mercy of Moab worshippers who respect it not. Nor is it fitting that, when Ophir falls, Amozia should be profaned.”

  At that moment, the princess felt anger brewing inside her. No one knows to this day if this anger was against Oiskal or herself. Whatever it was, the explosion struck Oiskal the most:

  “What do you mean by those words? Do you believe Ophir shall be defeated? That Ophir shall fall into the northerner’s hands? Have you not seen so many who have come against me and failed, the least of whom were those ‘brethren’ you refuse to deliver unto us, so we can mete out justice?”

  “My lady, I cannot say whether Ophir shall fall into northerner’s hands. All I know is, Ophir shall fall. No one knows by whose hands, but fall it will. That much I can prophesy you, even with no oracle inspiring me.”

  “Your insults tempt me to concede you not what you request! However, your offense is even greater than my spite! This much is certain: Amozia was entrusted to me by Melchy-Zedek! Therefore, I want it not! Also, let it be known that I renounce the sphinxes’ protection, for they were built by a melchin pontiff! My king’s strength protects me, and that is enough! Go and take Amozia with you!”

  Oiskal bowed, partly as a respectful farewell, partly to hide the tears he could not contain. Always with lowered eyes, he took his linen cape from his shoulders. Then he carried the ark away with his hands wrapped in the cape, so as not to touch the relic with his bare hands. He bore the weight of responsibility and failure both, for this was the first time in centuries that Amozia left the Crizian Palace. As he left, he could hear the rattle of banquet and song behind him. The feast had finally begun.

  Chapter

  30

  The Last Stand

  With the isthmus gates wide open, the north was ripe for the taking. The cities of the Republic began to fall in swift succession. One by one, the seven Pilgrim Cities were scorched by Nefire. One by one, the bronze armies were defeated and forced to draw back. Step by step, day by day, the northerners were corralled into Melchy-Zedek, the last standing city of the once great Iperborea.

  So it happened that, when the nephilin crossed the Corona Borealis, Bilidio the pontiff called Oiskal to his presence and said:

  “Venerable priest with no temple, do you remember the last Council, when Ophir and Brobnin deserted communion with the rest of mortalkind? Did I not share with you a plan, which you should fulfill only at an hour of great darkness?”

  “Oh venerable pontiff, I do remember as if it was yesterday. Has the time come?”

  “The time has come.”

  At dusk, Oiskal took a hippogriff and flew west, far yonder whither the sun sets. And none of the nephilin scouts saw him or did him ill.

  The very next morn, another flying creature was sighted in those northern skies. It did not carry Oiskal on its flanks, nor did it come from the far west. From the south it came, beyond conquered and unconquered lands. A gryphon it was, with caparison gold and scarlet, Ophir’s colours. But the greatest of Ophir’s standards, the very Princess of Ophir, was brought on its back. This was one of Thebel’s smallest gryphons, especially handpicked to account for the princess’ short stature, but even so she had to be carried on a wooden cart placed on the animal’s flanks.

  “Have you sent for me, my lord?” she asked as she landed in the nephilin camp. The king was there, inspecting his legions, all lined up as a mountain range. She did not know whether she should appear before her beloved in battle or ceremonial attire. In the end, she surmised her king would protect her, so she forewent her armour. Rather, she placed her heart in pleasing him. She wore her southern garments, made of animal skins—the ones she had donned for the banquet. To the nephilin, these were as regal clothes as there could be, as they evoked the power of past hunts—though to the northerners they appeared much more rustic than her previous linen dress. But lest anyone would think she intended no war, she painted runes of power on her arms and face with ochre pigment, as the giants used to do in their adulthood rituals. On her head, she bore her iron diadem, mirror of the Razil crown; on her arms and legs, the iron bracelets, mirrors of the enochin slaves.

  “So I have, my lady,” replied the pharaoh. “I wished for your presence on this most triumphal day. Before Carmel-sun disappears in the western horizon, Melchy-Zedek will have disappeared from the fa
ce of the earth, fallen beneath my feet. Stand by my side, then, that it might fall beneath your most gracious feet as well.”

  “My lord, my heart swells with joy with these words! For I cannot know what brings me more delight: that you triumph, or that I stand by your side! But how will it be so? Many moons you took to conquer all land till this mark. Why do you remain so confident that this city, the greatest of the north, will fall in one day?”

  “Because the time is propitious to invoke our most dreaded weapon. As we speak, Moab fumes in Nemrod. For all these moons, it was fed by the blood of many fallen warriors. As before, the Dark Beast is ready for battle. For this reason I asked you to lend me again your seven gifts.”

  “The Dark Beast…?” These words sent Inimois’ chest into a turmoil. She remembered the fear—nay, the terror when the Dark Beast came to wage war against her. The princess did not wish such a fate on her worst enemy. But neither did she wish to thwart her beloved’s triumph, so she said nothing. In the meantime, Captain Moruzio came to his pharaoh and said:

  “The troops be ready, my lord. We may begin the assault at your pleasure.”

  “Excellent. Let the nephilin mount their gryphons, but do not take flight as of yet. Attack not. Let the Dark Beast blaze your trail towards the Blessed City. You shall enter Melchy-Zedek, not as conquerors covered in sweat and blood, but as renowned heroes in a most victorious procession. For lo! Here it comes! Malvizio, the priest, was successful in his task, as I predicted.”

  The day, which till then promised nothing but sunshine, fell beneath a sudden penumbra. The clouds started to condense and darken in the skies, siphoning pillars of smoke from leagues away, from Nemrod and from the extinguished fires of the conquered cities. And they kept swelling, till the black clouds were so heavy that they fell upon themselves and billowed and churned and spiraled. The darkness became so thick and vast, it set itself ablaze with a fire more terrible than the Nefire, or the fires of the furnaces, or even the fire inside Moab’s belly. The fire blended with lightning and drew two massive eyes and a gaping maw. Inimois could have recognized this storm anywhere: It was the Dark Beast indeed, but even greater and more ferocious, if that were possible.