Forge of Stones

by Vasileios Kalampakas

  Darkly lit night

  The Disciplinarium’s large audience hall was exquisitely decorated with fine tapestries, hung from the columns and walls with golden ropes and aggrandized with silk laces, freshly picked fragrant flowers and all manners of decorations that go hand in hand with highly luxurious pomp and ceremony.

  Though night had already fallen, giant ornate silver and brass chandeliers hung from the high ceilings illuminating the grand hall with the light from thousands of candles. Their beams of light were enhanced and mirrored by all the brass, gold and silver decorations strewn around almost every object in the hall, making them glitter and shine, magnifying their splendor tenfold.

  Delicately detailed lifelike oil paintings adorned each wall: previous Castigators and Arch-ministers, Procrastinator Militants and Patriarchs, noble supporter families of the Castigator. Every important person that was notably recorded in the zealously well-maintained history books was to be found here in the form of awe inspiring portraits, paintings and sculptures from the most talented artists of each generation from around the lands.

  The mass of people was still flowing slowly but steadily into the hall, and for a time it would seem like the small swarm of men was going to swell to inelegant numbers. But the Castigator’s people in charge of the eventful night, had meticulously planned who was to be given the praise of summons. They also decided on the time of each person’s appearance as well as whether or not he should be given the privilege of being able to dine at the same table as the Castigator. Albeit always at an innocuous distance a table seating on the Castigator’s table implied an immense elevation in status and almost unrivaled political power.

  As the time for the opening ceremonies for the grand festive night grew closer, all the needed preparations were being doubly checked and the gathering of guests efficiently monitored. Everything seemed to be in place, refreshments and drinks served in silver plated cups; sweetmeats, fruit, and fine pastries circulating among the crowd in golden platters by busy servants dressed in fine cloth wearing the green livery of the Castigator’s office: a white eagle bearing a book and a key, a snake held in its beak.

  People were chatting in low voices, politely exchanging greetings and news of the lands, though some of the more brazen guests that either lacked the knowledge of etiquette or were in a position to ignore it as a whole or in part, were already laughing heartily at jokes or anecdotes between friends and close acquaintances.

  Everyone attending had been careful to dress as stylishly as possible, and according to wealth and status there were examples of extravagant overdressing, with some people closely resembling moving heaps of gold and silver, like treasure-laden mules.

  Others preferred to overstate their presence with exotic cloths and tailorings, usually uncommon and outlandish, suggesting time and money had been spent just for this one occasion. Indeed everyone was wearing the best and brightest they could afford, and maybe some had even took on a loan to have something special tailor-made in order to try and stand out in the crowd, in a certainly desperate bid to improve their fame and fortune.

  The atmosphere in the hall was generally convivial though mildly restrained because of the premises and significance of the night. The festivities were taking place in order to commemorate the Castigator’s 25th Term in Office, which coincided with the anniversary of the Pacification of Zaelin, the last of the Territories to be enlightened and brought under the Law of the Pantheon.

  Rumors circulated among the nobles’ elite as well as people in the army and the Ministry that the Castigator would be announcing a decision of major importance that would stir up the relatively still and quiet recent affairs of the Territories, perhaps ushering a new era of glory to the Gods, and perhaps for the people as well.

  In any case it promised to be an eventful night, with dancing troupes of wondrous abilities, unsurpassed technique and airy grace performing for the duration. Bards of worldly renown and enchanting voices had prepared to sing the Mythos in praise of the Castigator and the Pantheon, a telling re-enactment of the Pacification of Zaelin and the striking down of the last Heathen; Parnoth Larthiel, the Last Ignorant.

  The re-enactment would also offer a kind of prize to one of the guests who would be lucky enough for his name to be drawn amongst hundreds: he would have the chance to play as the Castigator in the final duel with Parnoth, the unclaimed role filled in by a lawbreaker due for execution. The honored guest in killing the lawbreaker-Parnoth would be spilling heretic blood in the service of the Ministry, the Castigator and the Law. It was quite possibly the highest service to the Pantheon possible, save sacrificing one’s self while enforcing or upholding the Law.

  A huge oblong platinum chime resounded by the stroke of an ornamental ram swung by two Protectors, the Castigator’s personally hand-picked guard, and judging by their imposing physical builds apparently chosen chiefly for their brawn. The sound of the chime drowned out the chatter of the milling guests; it reverberated with a majestic effect in the audience hall, and signaled the official commencement of the festivities. Acoustics was one of many things not left to chance when the grandiose chamber was built in the time of the Founding.

  The crowd of guests went by in silence, ushered inside by dutiful servants and thick-set expressionless Protectors gathered on two opposing sides of the hall, leaving a wide stretch of room where the Castigator was meant to walk through when he would be announced. Indeed, the voice of the Chief Functionary boomed like a cannon in the night:

  “All kneel or be chastised for now enters this hall his Holy Piousness, Olorius Menamon the IV th, Deliverer of Aconia, Pacifier of Zaelin, Proxy of the Gods, Procurer of the One True Law, and Castigator of the Outer Territories. Kneel or be chastised!”

  The last words were uttered with the gravity of a holy commandment, the obvious threat to be carried out with ruthless deliberation if the need ever arose.

  At once and in concert, the whole of the crowd including the servants, Protectors, Ministers, as well as the whole of the Disciplinarium’s staff, any and all figures of authority, military or religious including the Chief Functionary, knelt on both legs and bowed their heads deeply and solemnly, as if in wholehearted prayer.

  The workings of some kind of a large mechanism probably involving gears and other mechanical contraptions rang through the audience hall. The massive copper tinted Gates of Leor opened slowly but steadily, revealing the radiant form of the Castigator breathtakingly dressed in the formal robes of his Office: a deep crimson color dyed in the blood of heathens and heretics, solid golden runes written in Helica Preatoria adorning the hem. The first two pages of the Book of Law covered its surface in so fine a silk thread that its weavers were known to have gone blind in the effort.

  Above his robes the Castigator wore an immaculate platinum breastplate, without carvings, etchings or any other decoration whatsoever. On one side hung Urtis, the Mace of Judgment, the Castigator’s long ago chosen tool of enlightenment and battle, that was said to have cracked as many heretic skulls as there are stones in the walls of the Disciplinarium. Indeed, some claimed the very same skulls had been used in building the later parts of the majestic building as a morbid reminder that All is Law.

  The Castigator strode with a steady pace down the central lane where a raised block of marble floor had appeared in concert with the opening of the Gates. The only sound in the grand chamber was the sound of the Castigator’s boots: a simple, utilitarian set of metal plated boots a soldier would wear, finely polished but otherwise quite common. When he reached the dais on which the Seat of Office stood, he surveyed the crowd momentarily, sat down and clapped his bare hands once.

  “Stand and confess!”, the Chief Functionary bellowed sharply, and the crowd complied smartly and fervently:

  “All is Law!”

  The Castigator echoed back the mantra in solemn ritual, his voice carrying unusual depth and mesmerizing melody for a single man, however powerful and unique he may be.

  Those tha
t saw the Castigator and had not been granted such an honor before in their lives, were immediately left awestruck. Some of them even broke down weeping, pious fervor instantly occupying their hearts and minds. Those that had been blessed so before, did not immediately stand but rather silently prayed with tears welling in their eyes, before being able to stand again erect. The people that kept closer to the Castigator, his immediate entourage, the Ruling Council, and his guards intoned the holy mantra and resumed their places and functions.

  The Castigator then addressed the crowd which stood there reverently, their excitement and waiting evident in their glittering eyes and tense faces:

  “I shall call you my children, for I am like a father unto you. I guide you, protect you, offer you learning and sustenance, like a father does for his child. I ask you: Does not the Ministry keep a daily watch for the heretic, the heathen, the lawbreaker? Does it not preach the Law every day, for the continued enlightenment of all? The Army, does it not safeguard our lands, from enemies from within and from without? The Procrastinators, do they not wisely guide your everyday lives, always watching over you lest you stray into a horrible path with no redemption in sight? I ask you again, am I not like a father unto you all?”

  The Castigator’s voice turned from a sweet melody into a harsh pragmatist’s staccato tone, then back in a wavering, almost pleading tone, evoking sympathy and familiarity. The Chief Functionary struck down his distaff on the granite floor once, and spoke aloud while nodding surreptitiously, his bearded chin almost touching his chest: “Aye!”

  The crowd followed in check, the audience hall reverberating from the loud voices of what now seemed to be almost a thousand people.

  “This then I tell you as a father: For the betterment of us all, for the glory of the Pantheon, in two weeks time, the Holy and Righteous Armies of the Outer Territories shall march into the Widelands to bring it enlightenment, cleanse the land, and finally make the Land of the Gods whole, as is their mandate.”

  His voice rang true and clear around the chamber. His message rang inviolate and final, a decision that was to be carried out, not thought upon or discussed but a matter of fact that he had set in motion with but a few of his words.

  Most of the Ministers, Generals and other officials of the Disciplinarium were apparently surprised, though they instantly recovered a measure of composure and if one had not been eying them constantly, they would have looked easily unperturbed by the announcement and its implications.

  The Procrastinator Militant in his exquisite armor and fine silk sash was at a loss for words, and opened his mouth wide-eyed as if in protestation, but his disciplined service and training kicked in and he barely managed to save himself from embarrassment by nodding in the last minute and simply saying “His Piousness has spoken”.

  The other members of the Ruling Council, the Arch-minister, the Patriarch, and the Noble Representative had their gaze locked on the Procrastinator Militant, as if waiting for a sidestep or a slip that would bring him crashing down in a most shameful and undignified way, an affront to the significance of the night.

  The Noble Representative, dressed in a simple green robe of the practical sort, his chest adorned with the signet brooch of House Remis suppressed a grin at the nearly unforgivable blunder that would have definitely incurred a public lashing and a year’s donation to the Ministry, let alone probably kill the Procrastinator Militant’s career on the spot.

  “I have indeed! Now feast, enjoy and praise the Gods!”, the Castigator raised his arms in jubilation and smiled broadly, the atmosphere in the hall warming up in the blink of an eye. People started to shuffle around seeking food, drink, or whoever they had been talking with before the Castigator entered the hall. The announcement of setting out to pacify the last wild region, the Widelands, was definitely going to spur debate however hushed it might be.

  Lord Ursempyre Remis, the Noble Representative, was seated in the council in order to speak on behalf of the noble families of the Outer Territories. His was a purely consultative role, expressing current views among the noble houses, informing the Ruling Council of the ebbs and flows of power, wealth, and status, as well as the reactions and thoughts of the nobles on affairs of state, religion and Law.

  Even though he had no voting rights in the Council, his input was often quite impossible to receive otherwise and any network of informers too crude in comparison. The Castigator seemed to consider him a quite valuable asset, judging by the special dispensations recently appointed to House Remis. Likewise, Ursempyre Remis was the insightful eye and ear of the Noble houses concerning the inner workings of the Ministry and the Castigator, and solid knowledge of what went on in the Disciplinarium sometimes could buy things money could not.

  His was a unique position where he could not be accounted for practically anything since he was not part of the decision making process, but was amply able to exchange information and insight as he saw fit, to better suit the continued survival of his House.

  He smiled brightly at the still uneasy Procrastinator Militant, and made a gesture to straighten his shoulder-high long black hair, in an almost overly bland demonstration of cool confidence.

  The music that would accompany the dancing acts had started with a brass fanfare which soon settled in a soft string melody, oddly accented in parts by flutes and bass drums. The dancers performed practiced choreographed scenes from the Mythos, reliving the handing down of the Law from the Gods to men.

  The Patriarch noted the interest on Lord Remis face who was more than visibly enchanted by the dancers’ performance, while the Procrastinator Militant had hurriedly called for his chief aide more so in order to look busy and industrious, rather than because actual operational planning could happen at such a time and place. The Arch-minister was indeed busy on the other hand, a trio of scribes jotting down notes and letters to be sent immediately in order to notify key personnel of the imminent rush of preparations that needed to start as soon as possible.

  “Lord Remis. A patron of the Arts should be more circumspect in his admirations, don’t you think? Some may misinterpret your artistic admiration for mere lust. And lust is a sin, Ursempyre.”

  The Patriarch’s tone was precipitously balanced between the whimsical and playful, and the vehemently dangerous and cunningly suggestive, his mouth and face a rigid, expressionless mask. The man was an almost complete mystery to Remis; he had to confess to himself that the Patriarch’s remarks and suggestions always left an aftertaste of sourness.

  Remis was not decisively put off and managed to respond appropriately, though the effect on the Patriarch seemed to be minimal at best:

  “The day we look upon the Mythos with lust, Your Reverence, is the day all sin will be revealed.”

  “Ah, quoting Law back to me. I see. Am I making you uncomfortable, Noble Representative? Is there a reason about it that you would care to share?”

  The Patriarch was now smiling genially with a nearly fatherly candor, eyes darting around Lord Remis face with a seemingly genuine worry apparent on the craggy old man’s face.

  “No, not uncomfortable Patriarch. I would say, curious,” said Remis without looking directly at the Patriarch.

  “Curious? Of the coming, final campaign?”, the Patriarch ventured, raising his eyebrows and hinting he knew better than that.

  “No. Of you, Your Reverence. You are always shall I dare say, fleeting.”

  Ursempyre turned and looked the Patriarch directly in the eyes, seeing cold pinpricks of blue that reminded him of icy death and men disappearing in a deep watery grave.

  “Oh well then. I would dearly hate to spoil your idea of me,” the Patriarch answered, his head and gaze locked in place in front of him and walked into the crowd, his figure soon blending in until the point it disappeared.

  Remis was bereft of any other thought, trying to ponder what really went on in that man’s head when the Castigator’s voice reawakened him back into his immediate surroundings:

  “Ah, my dear
Ursempyre. Is the Patriarch causing you trouble?”

  The Castigator touched one of Remis’ shoulders, a rare gesture of unmatched camaraderie. Such an act could only mean he was indeed the Castigator’s favorite for ascension. Ursempyre turned and bowed slightly, careful with the words he chose as well as his body language:

  “Trouble is what a drunkard might cause, or a hapless wife. The Patriarch feels like a man who causes death, Your Holiness. He always seems to be, so detached.”

  “Ah, the toils of the Church. Holy Communion with the Gods can be too much sometimes. However gifted and trained a man might be. You say he reeks of death? I say if the Gods will it, I shall follow wherever I must. Won’t you, Remis?”

  The Castigator’s look had been transfixed on him, awaiting a sure and clear answer that would dispell all doubt. Ursempyre indulged him accordingly:

  “All is Law, Lord. Unto death and beyond. For the glory of the Pantheon.”

  Remis recited the last phrase of the Oaths and crossed his hands over his chest, further reaffirming his loyalties.

  “You are a good man Ursempyre. Now, drink! It is a night of feasting, and joyous celebration. Won’t you join me?”

  The Castigator’s eyes suddenly turned ablaze with wrath and fury, menace hidden under his voice. Ursempyre was taken aback taking care not to show it, and simply bowed and said:

  “Of course, Your Piousness.”

  The Castigator broke into laughter as if having heard a joke no one else could, and started the rounds of the audience hall, like a perfectly good host.

  Ursempyre followed close behind, not so happy of his singular position as he would have normally been. He took a silver cup filled with mead and drank it in one go. There was a long night ahead of him.