by A. L. Knorr
Metal Guardian
Rings of the Inconquo, Book 2
A.L. Knorr
A.D. Schneider
Edited by
Nicola Aquino
Edited by
Brian Cross
Intellectually Promiscuous Press
Copyright © 2019 by Intellectually Promiscuous Press
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This book is written in British English.
Created with Vellum
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
Also by A.L. Knorr
Also by A.D. Schneider
Prologue
City of Kalhu, 5400 BC
Nighttime in the city was unnaturally bright, leaving Daria feeling exposed. It took all her self-control not to rush from shadow to shadow. Instead, she moved down the paved street, sliding between and around city folk going about their nocturnal errands. Men, women, and even some children carried on their business as though it were the middle of the day – commerce and community occurring under fireless lights shining from atop human-sized pillars.
Yes, light without fire, as though the heavens themselves had been plundered to offer their bounty to the streets of Kalhu. Night held no dominion here in Ninurta’s city, home of the Inconquo. In fact, as best she could tell, the only thing which held any dominion in Kalhu and the lands stretching to the horizon was Ninurta himself. In the days since Lamashtu’s chilling whispers had surfaced in her mind, she’d passed through the countryside to see firsthand the domains of the king. A king that men were now calling a god. Every village she crept through, and every town she’d nested in, was buzzing with rumors, uttered with equal parts wonder and terror, at the power that sat upon Kalhu.
“With but a thought he commands things to his will,” they wheezed among themselves. “A warrior’s sword bends in deference to him, and a king’s armour runs to the ground to cower before him.”
Herds of dull-eyed humans gasped and murmured. At first, Daria had fought to keep the mocking incredulity from her face and voice. But the stories grew more fantastic and yet more tangible the closer she got to the city.
“He works metal without a forge.”
“With only his mind, he can make things fit for court or the battlefield.”
“When he desires a thing, he has but to think it, and all the world turns upon that thought.”
The pervasive stories were growing to such heights she couldn’t stand it. When she came upon the first outlying town with its pillar crowned in fireless light, she decided to investigate. The pillar had been “gifted” to the town’s people by Ninurta’s children, to be placed at the centre of their collection of hovels. Men recalling the event spoke in dread-filled whispers of how the Inconquo had spoken of an end to the tyranny of the night, but to these farmers and herders, it was exchanging one lord for another. For all of the night’s tyranny, it never demanded a tithe of their crops like Ninurta did.
For a newly desecrated creature of darkness, this new order of things seemed so wrong, so perverse, that she’d braved the profane light atop the pillar for a chance to see what manner of sorcery created it. She’d been shocked. There were no complex engravings on a sacred tablet, or weavings of mystic energies, only a clay vessel with a perforation around the top from which the light emerged. Her eyes watering at the light’s glare, she’d investigated further and found only an arrangement of metal bars resting in an acrid smelling brine.
It was not magic, at least not in any sense by which she knew the word, and in serving Tiamat and now Lamashtu, she’d seen her fair share of magic. This was different, and though she did not understand how it could be so, she felt the first trembles of fear in her perpetually empty belly. Men had made these things, and if they could fashion such as these, was there any limit to what they could achieve?
She’d left the town quickly, keeping to the darkness of the scrublands until she’d arrived at the foot of the great walled city. She went under cover of darkness when her powers were strongest but quickly discovered the light pillars were everywhere––the city never shut itself in for the night. A steady trickle of travelers and beasts of burden passed beneath its gates at all hours, so it was an easy enough task to secret herself among a weary caravan.
She wound her way toward the central ziggurat of Kalhu, where her quarry waited. But she wasn’t alone: on that plain of fire-glazed tiles stood ranks of men and beasts, waiting their turn to ascend the broad stone steps to make their obeisance to the King and his court. Dark men from the far south holding the leashes of leopards stood shoulder to shoulder with pale-skinned northerns clutching flasks which smelled of honey, cloves, and liquor. All hoped for a chance to curry favor with the one whose fame was known far and wide.
Standing among the throng, she realized what radiated from each man like an odor: fear. These men were here not to venerate a beloved king or beneficent god. They were here because they were terrified.
What kind of man could inspire such dread? The fearful stirrings in the pit of her stomach awoke once more.
While slithering between the supplicants, her head bowed, she heard a low keening. She feared to look up toward the sound until an incredible crack like the earth splitting sundered the night. She watched through a veil of hair as a lance of light streaked down toward the top of the ziggurat. In the blink of a seared eye, the spear of brilliance arched away from the ziggurat and flew over the city. Somewhere out on the fields beyond the city, something bore the god-like wrath of the bolt with a terrible crash. Daria flinched at the display of power, but those around her seemed to hardly notice, even the beasts. Such was common in Ninurta’s city?
The line moved forward, but it was still a long way to the foot of the ziggurat. Even further to the top, where she needed to go. Daria felt the will of Lamashtu like the rough tongue of a cat, lapping at the back of her mind. The demon-goddess was impatient.
Daria slipped out of line and across the plaza toward a sidestreet. None seemed to notice or stir from their frightened stupor except to shuffle silently into the space she’d left. Like souls caught in a nightmare, they could not even consider escaping.
The streets around the ziggurat were close and cramped, but as her gaze swept around the ornate buildings, she saw no sign of the denizens of Kalhu. Only the Inconquo, children and acolytes of the prolific king could create such wonders in copper, bronze, and iron. The residents were no doubt at the top of the ziggurat.
Though the empty homes did nothing to quiet the anxious tone of the city, the lack of witnesses served her purposes admirably.
Reaching inside herself to the place where her soul had once been, Daria called on the att
ributes of Lamashtu and ascended the stepped pyramid. The black winds of the edimmu drew her up and up until she settled on a veranda just below the top tier.
Padding across the cold stone floor, she moved into the adjacent chamber, her unnatural eyes adjusting to the darkness. She picked her way between low tables and couches, richly ornamented in precious metals. Shedding her traveler’s cloak and dusty sandals, Daria stalked up the ramp-like hallway and paused at a landing that branched into three other passageways. Two led deeper into the ziggurat while the final led upward––towards dancing light and sounds of feasting.
After a quick check that her disguise was in place––two parts common fabric, one part subtle magic––she stepped onto the top of the ziggurat, just another one of the servants.
Illuminating the broad stone platform were braziers crackling with massive cedar logs. Under the fragrant light and before the throne of their king, the court of Ninurta feasted and reveled. The sons and daughters of Kalhu––many of them children of Ninurta through his wives and concubines––were arrayed in exquisite robes of linen, their bodies dripping with metal ornaments and jewelry. Wires of silver and gold wound through their braided hair and plaited beards. As a former priestess, she’d seen her share of wealth, but in one glance, Daria saw more riches on display than anything she’d ever seen in the temple. People laughed and cups raised in sloppy toasts, but there was a strained note in the merriment. As she began to move among the masters of Kalhu, she could feel it like a souring in milk. Something not quite right, something not as it should be.
Her eyes opened to the false glamour, noting the sharp glances between the ladies of the court and the way the men hid snarls with smiles. She heard the whispers beneath the tides of music, the poisonous words exchanged over untouched cups.
The house of Ninurta was a house divided.
And where was their lofty god-king? They feasted before an empty throne.
Daria moved through the crowd, her gaze roving until she glimpsed something huge moving behind a screen of onlookers. It took but a moment to pass inside their number, but once achieved, she beheld him and had eyes for nothing else.
Ninurta, Founder of Kalhu, Hunter before the gods, and Warrior without Match, danced near the center of the gathering. One look and anyone would understand why so many attributed divinity to his person. He was immense, head and shoulders taller than the tallest man present. The great bronzed muscles of his chest, stomach, and arms gleamed beneath his open sleeveless robe, yet he was neither ponderous nor clumsy. He moved lightly on gilded feet, with rings about his toes and ankles, his every gesture graceful as he moved to the music.
Despite herself, Daria became mesmerized by the display of athletic prowess. Womanly longing, something she hardly remembered, called for those powerful arms to embrace her. Daria prowled the circle that ringed the king, telling herself of the need to keep an eye on her quarry, but in her heart, she desired to get closer to this radiant creature. Lamashtu’s cold, clinging whispers pressed at her mind, but in Ninurta’s stirring presence, she found she could endure the demon-goddess’s wagging tongue.
He spun and danced, braided locks and woven beard glistening with sweet oils and glittering with gold. He took an immense leap and landed almost delicately before her, his chestnut eyes sparkling with desire and cunning. He smelled of frankincense and cypress oil kissed by wood smoke. His features were strong, brutal even, but paired with his knowing gaze made her desire him all the more. She wished to take that elemental visage in her small hands before those fierce lips took her, and she knew nothing but carnal ecstasy.
He rose from his crouch, looming over her like a magnificent tree of muscle and bone, and those lively eyes considered her. It was a piercing glance, and for a moment, terror gripped her that she’d been discovered. How could she hope to hide anything from this man, this god?
Daria might have run then, forsaking Lamashtu’s call for her to strike because she knew she could never hurt him. Some reasoning part of her knew that to run now would be to assure her death as surely as striking him, so she simply stood and waited on the king’s pleasure.
It took her a moment to realize the music had stopped and all eyes were upon her. Those viperish whispers hissed and buzzed. They saw her, knew her somehow. Daria suddenly felt small and naked; she cursed Lamashtu for the command that had brought her here to die.
An Inconquo who had drawn his silver bracelet into a lethal spike stepped to stand beside his king, an eager child approaching his father. “Lord-Father, let me slay it,” he pleaded, his zealot’s stare fixed on Daria. “The filth has desecrated—”
“Be still.”
The command, from a voice as deep as eternity, was absolute, and the man with the spike shut his mouth so quickly his teeth clicked.
“She is my guest.” Ninurta’s voice hardly rose but carried across the rooftop. “She is welcome in my home.”
He reached out and enfolded her hand in his.
“All are welcome in my home. Play on.”
As though an enchantment had been broken, the music began with gusto, the drums beating out a lively tattoo to underscore the string and flute. The cliques and covens turned back upon themselves to renew their hollow displays of celebration. Some of their number dared to make forays across the central floor to dance, knowing they were clumsy children aping the prowess seen moments before.
Ninurta guided Daria toward the steps where the supplicants waited.
Standing atop the ziggurat and looking down, the true number of gift-bearers was revealed. Their eyes, huge and unblinking, gazed up in fearful beseeching, and Daria saw the tremor in their limbs. Men mounting the stairs to the gallows would have looked more cheerful.
“What do you see?” His voice was soft in her ear, his breath warm on her neck.
Daria looked at those stricken faces, at their paltry offerings, and knew her answer though her whole body trembled as she answered.
“Slaves.”
She could feel the smile in his voice even if she did not dare to look.
“Yes,” he crooned. “Nations and nations of slaves. Every race and tongue of mortal that walks this world, all born slaves.”
She listened, and though she knew many of the supplicants must have been first-sons and princes, she could nearly see the chains about their necks and the rings through their noses.
“But what has enslaved them? From what are their chains fashioned?” Ninurta asked.
Daria’s voice failed her. After a few shivering moments, she willed herself to look up into his face, but he had already turned his gaze out over the masses.
“Fear not,” he intoned slowly, shaking his head. “Even the very wise have failed to answer me truly.”
His head bowed in a gesture of thoughtful melancholy, and Daria felt as though she would weep at the sight. The sadness passed like a cloud over the noon sun, and a ruthlessly beautiful smile broke out across his face.
“You see,” he began, his voice nearly a whisper, bonding them in conspiracy. “All of mankind is enslaved by fear.”
She found herself nodding, though she still did not understand what he meant.
“Fear of gods and demons, real or imagined. Fear of futures and dreams, possible or impossible. They fear their own death as surely as they fear their own meaningless lives. Fear has branded every man that walks this earth.”
Daria nodded again, but now out of real understanding. Her experiences bore out every word.
“Every man except me,” Ninurta pronounced, the statement without pride yet incredibly lonely. Etched into the ageless features, weariness resided, but within the light of his eyes, she could see a will that could not comprehend surrender.
“And thus I build my kingdom, my home,” he said with a sweep of his hand. “A place where man might be free of his fear. Where man may achieve what has been my birthright from the beginning. Free to climb up into the heavens and lay hold of the very stars.”
She watched
as his sweeping hand rose toward the sky, then curled as if he was gripping one of those stars in his fingers.
“All are welcome in my home,” he said over the low keening. “All are welcome, but not all will thrive here.”
The keening grew, and though she feared to, she looked beyond his upraised hand and saw a star streaking toward them. Painfully luminous, it drew nearer with every second.
“Some cannot bear the weight of the glory I bring,” Ninurta said, his words cutting the air. “They have been weighed down too long by their chains, and freedom will crush them.”
The star became a plunging lance of light. She wanted to run, but his grip on her hand was as immovable as it was tender. The god-bolt was coming, and she could only watch its approach––too terrified to scream.
“Yet I am merciful, and would not see them languish in a home where they cannot rest.”
Daria closed her eyes and cringed as the bolt seemed certain to strike, but through her eyelids, she witnessed the light pass by. Its passage was a whirlwind that threatened to carry her away, but Ninurta’s iron hand anchored her. Morbid curiosity peeled her eyes open just in time to see the lance strike the center of the plaza.
The same earth-shaking crash sounded, but this time it was not miles away. Her ears surrendered to static, which was just as well, for it spared her the sound of so many men and beasts dying. The force of the blast left a depression at the center of the plaza, a crater of charred tiles and blackened bodies. Waves of energy and fire washed out from the hellish pit, ripping men and animals apart, setting them ablaze.
