Sword From Heaven (1)
“The Great Earth was burnt by awful breath, and melted even as tin melteth when heated by the craft of men and in the well bored crucible, or as iron, which is the strongest of metals is overcome by blazing fire in the mountain glens and melted in the holy earth by the hands of Hephaestus even so the earth was melted by the blaze of burning fire.” (Hesiod) The Pharaoh stood on the highest balcony of the palace flanked by his astronomer, the High Priest Ahman. Slowly the priest turned, his arms outstretched, pulling taut the chord he held between them. He stared directly into the heavens, his eyes searching. The Pharaoh leant forward, squinting up into the night sky. Then Ahman pointed: “There it is Sire. The racing star which burns with the tail of the scorpion.” The pharaoh peered out along the horizon, following the line of Ahman’s hand. There, blazing against the blue black sheet of night, a single brilliant light, streaming tails of colour, lit up the land. The priest and his Pharaoh watched as the fiery ball tumbled onto the edges of the horizon before falling over and out of sight. “A goodly omen”, the priest breathed. “Righteousness will reign supreme”. But the pharaoh was now pointing out into the night. “Heed the sky Ahman. It seems the gods have not yet finished with us.” The priest looked up and again his eyes found the tiny shooting sparks which danced and twirled on their fiery journey to earth. He smiled. “Sky stones. We shall have swords from heaven O great one”. She watched silently from the high balcony. In the far distance, clear of the crowds of cheering onlookers, the snake-like trail of a burial procession wove its way over the scorching sands, passing by the towering statue of the late Pharaoh on its way to the Valley of the Kings. Iris waited until the large heavy sarcophagus was dragged over the hills and could be seen no more. She looked down at her people and her heart raced, beating against the dagger that pressed upon her chest. The empire was hers. His screams rang out through the ancient corridors of the Temple of Ra. The two small figures, huddled to one side, clung to each other desperately as the cries of their dying father grew weaker… And then they stopped. Salty tears stung Iris’ skin as she sought comfort in the closeness of her brother Rhai. Rolled up together like two young panthers, it was only the eyes, peering out from behind the glossy black wigs, which identified each sibling: one set of the deepest jade while the other smouldered so dark that they appeared almost black. Like the palace cats who stalked the corridors with regal disdain, the two appeared sleek and lithe, collared in gold and lapis and an unspoken bond; emotionally and spiritually they were one. “Where will we go”, Iris sobbed, her hands balled up in helpless paws. “Who do we belong to now?” “Shh”, her brother soothed, stroking her back. “You belong to me. You have always belonged to me and you always will.” He spoke with such assuredness that Iris thought she should feel better. Instead, a small shiver ran up her spine. And in the shadows, away from the spots of lamplight, Rhai smiled. They were to be placed in the custody of Akhmin, their father’s Vizier. Akhmin was a man who was neither liked nor revered. This sentiment was one shared by the general populace but it was felt even more by Iris and Rhai - Akhmin had been patrolling with their father the day he had sustained the injury. The wound had become infected and their father had developed a fever, a fever which tore at his lungs and soaked his linen with rancid sweat. A fever which would eventually kill him. From that day forwards, Rhai had blamed Akhmin for their father’s death. Iris had heard Rhai muttering that their father’s fall was no accident and that he had only to find the evidence to prove it… Footsteps broke her thoughts. Hard and fast, the figure of Akhmin came striding towards them: “Your father has passed.” The voice was emotionless. He looked at Rhai with a thinly disguised contempt. “Leave us.” Rhai’s eyes were set hard. Akhmin paused only for a moment, blinking, before continuing with his speech. “There are matters which must be-“ “LEAVE US!” Rhai thundered. Bristling with impatience, Akhmin opened his mouth, checked himself, then let the statement pass unchallenged. “You are obviously in no state to discuss your future.” He bowed stiffly and with a nod swept down the corridor and out of sight. The lively bustle of Thebes distracted Iris from the emptiness of the palace. She came here often, seeking both entertainment and escape. Wonderful sounds and smells assaulted her senses as she browsed the stalls. Sometimes she stopped to buy gifts, but today she was here only to look. The streets seemed to be even more crowded than usual and she had to shove and push her way through the throngs. A merchant, fat and sweating, called to her, waving handfuls of beads. Iris shook her head politely. Undeterred he grabbed up a brightly patterned shawl and swept it about his face, beckoning her with his eyes. Laughing, Iris again shook her head, ducking and weaving her escape down the street. The hand shot out. Rough and bony, it locked on her arm and dragged her into darkness. Gagging, Iris struggled, scratching and kicking. She let out a stifled sob as she stumbled back, her feet slipping on the rocky floor, her fingers scrabbling against the baked earthen wall behind her. “I have no money”, she squealed, but still creature came on, teeth bared, the dagger’s blade only a breath away from her face… The dagger. Ancient, terrible and utterly beautiful. She fell still. Her breath came in small rasps that made her skin prickle and her heart race. She felt the sands shift beneath her feet and the air in front of her become hazy with colour. It was as if she had been emptied, like wine poured from a skin. And then the creature laughed. Again and again the dry rasp tore at the still air as she lowered the blade, stroking it tenderly, her eyes unnaturally bright. She cackled with delight, nursing the blade in the ragged corner of her sleeve like a beloved infant. Squatting down in the dirt, muttering under the dirty curtain of hair she lifted her head and opened her mouth in a wide howl. Then, with eyes screwed shut, she silently thrust the blade at Iris. “Take it,” she whispered, the jewelled hilt clutched in her gnarled bones. “It calls for you.” “But…I don’t want it. Please…it is yours…” the girl murmured awkwardly. “It calls for you.” She repeated flatly, tears trickling through the creases on her weathered face. “It must be,” she repeated, more to herself than to Iris. Then empty and frail, she turned and shuffled back down the crowded street, slowly and without purpose. Like a husk. Iris looked down at the weapon in her hand – it was a small dagger in an intricately patterned scabbard, sprouting leaves of softest gold. The hilt-plate formed a small scarab, balancing on the scabbard, its wings outstretched. Inside, the blade was thin but strong and slightly curved, shaped from a dark metal with which she was not familiar. Ripples of colour spread across its smooth surface, like the opalescent scales of the sunlit river- fish. Why would a beggar woman part with such a prize? In her hand, the dagger felt cold and lifeless. It did not call to her. Nor did it pulse with any life as she slid it into her robes and pushed her way out into the crowds winding up and away from the stalls and alleys and out into the sun. A pleasant smell of spices rose from the kitchens below. Iris sniffed the air gratefully, leaning out over the stone parapets, stretching in the crisp evening. She let her gaze wander out over the barren plains, across the mud-flats to the towering statue of Pharaoh standing watch on the horizon. She felt the familiar pang of grief. Created to inspire awe, to her, the edifice simply symbolized pain and silent suffering. Nine years had passed since Rhai had assumed rule and his dark shadow had slowly wound its way through the kingdom and out across the land. At first, Rhai had been reluctant to assume control; his quiet nature had ensured that he was always satisfied to be instructed and led as a child. However, he had risen to the task and slowly; almost imperceptibly, he had begun to change… An uneasy feeling washed over her making the air suddenly seem sharp and strangely still. She shivered and turned, seeking the interior for warmth but finding instead a silent figure blocking her way. “You weren’t at dinner.” Rhai’s voice was cold. Dressed in nothing more than a white kilt, he was an impressive figure, his arms and torso corded with hard, sinewy muscle. Iris could barely contain the apprehension in her voice. “I was needed somewhere else.” “Obviously,” Rhai smiled coolly as he walked towards her, “you need to rethink your priorities sister.” A foreign feeling ran through her body – an aggressive, powerful feeling. She felt his emotions surging through her, threatening to overpower her: Still closer her brother came, a cruel look on his painted features. “Do you know why you could not have a reason worthy of excuse sister?” Iris sensed his anger rising as he continued, “Because the Pharaoh is greater than all. I am your master!” he shouted, his arm raised above his head. She shrank against the wall - he was going to kill her! “I am your GOD-” “Sire.” Cowering against the railing, Iris recognised the voice with a flood of relief – Akhmin. “You are needed in the Temple.” His voice was sharp and dry. Rhai did not turn, nor lower his arm. “It can wait.” “I fear, your Greatness, it cannot. The city elders have returned and the priest Amonheb demands an audience with you immediately.” Akhmin had grown leaner with the years and now walked with the aid of a staff. His air of authority, however, remained undiminished. He continued in the same dry tone: “I trust you understand the importance of these issues Sire.” Rhai lowered his arm. He wavered and for a moment, it seemed as if he were about to strike Akhmin. At the last minute he swung around and lunged instead at Iris. She cowered and he sneered; a minor battle won. Rigid with fear, Iris replayed the scene again and again in her head. She knew that her brother had changed, becoming hard and oppressive. But wanting to hurt her? She would never have imagined it. With a shiver she remembered the strange feeling which had washed through her, the inexorable desire for power, for dominance at all costs... For a few moments they had been as one. The room was silent except for the droning hum of a large bluish beetle. Iris followed its path with her ears as it buzzed about the high ceiling of her room. Slowly it lumbered through the air before finally coming to rest on the tall cabinet in the corner of the room. It contained her few personal treasures – those which had failed to attract the Pharaoh’s desire. Next to a turquoise scarab beetle carved from steatite, a statue of Isis and a small golden sphinx (given to her many years ago by Rhai) lay a softly glinting scabbard. The beetle, crawling now, reared up against it. Iris sat up. She had completely forgotten about the dagger. The strange events which had preceded her taking possession of the blade had all happened so long ago that she had convinced herself that it had all been a dream - a story created by the mind of a grieving child. Now, however, it all came flooding back and once again she was standing in the alleyway, backing away from a small leathery woman, who cackled and sniffled as she held out the ornately decorated blade. The dagger. She remembered distinctly that she had told no one of the gift, not even Rhai. She also remembered dragging a heavy chair across the floor and standing on the very tips of her toes to place the weapon in its place. Now, however, she could reach the scabbard unaided. Over the years it had gathered a fine layer of dust which she swept away with the hem of her robe before she drew the blade. It was just as it had been. Tentatively, she reached out but the moment her finger connected with the blade she was thrown from the frame of the universe. Unable to move or speak, she could only watch as the world around her grew lighter and strange shapes began to move and form in the haze. Gradually the fog took shape and her eyes could discern the Temple of Ra, filled with sounds and colours of ceremony and celebration. At the altar, at the far end of the hall, a small group of figures stood, their heads bowed. Moving slowly down the centre aisle, Iris picked out a solitary figure, holding aloft an elaborate headdress. She recognised it immediately – the Pschen: the Egyptian crown. The crowded room grew quiet as the figure in the centre stepped forward, face downcast as tradition dictated. The priest carrying the ceremonial crown approached and with a ceremonial flourish the crown was placed atop the head of the future ruler. Suddenly, the great hall was filled with the sounds of cheering and the new Pharaoh looked up and smiled. A smile with full lips and deep emerald eyes. A smile that was her own. Once again the world slid away into darkness and when it returned she was back in her room. What did this mean? Had she seen into the future? Was she to become Pharaoh? A dark thought crept around at the edge of her mind. It had formed as soon as she had held the dagger. What if she was supposed to use the dagger? Use it to become Pharaoh. But that would mean- No, she would not think of it. He was her brother. Still the thought persisted. He has led the people into famine. He has spent the taxes on building a shrine to himself. Our people are dying. If she were Pharaoh the people would flourish, if she were Pharaoh…what power she would wield. What authority. What domination. She would make her own destiny. It was a bitingly cold night when Iris stood once more on the empty balcony. She had been so consumed by her thoughts that she didn’t notice the fall of light into darkness. By the time she had risen back to the world of the living it was late evening. She now watched the dark sky above her swimming with stars. She knew that there was only one way. The dagger must be used. A sudden sharp tap sounded behind her. “You wish to kill me sister?” Iris froze as Rhai gave a short laugh and began to circle her, tapping out a tattoo with his staff. “Muttering to yourself still? Tut tut, you never know who is listening. I would never have thought you so…” He chose his words carefully, “pathetic.” “To think that you, you could ever hope of achieving anything of any worth, least of all unseating the Pharaoh… I find it amusing.” Still he circled her. “You know of course, dear sister, that you have committed treason. Plotting against the Pharaoh… I take it you know the punishment.” A cold sweat had broken out on her forehead. The penalty for treason was death. “I deserve the ri-” He silenced her instantly with a blow to the stomach, knocking her to the floor. “You will not,” a look of pleasure crossed his face, “speak in the presence of the Pharaoh.” Iris looked up at him, her eyes watering, the breath leaking from her lungs. “You are not worthy of a moment of his time.” With this he raised the heavy staff over his head. “You should know, I do this not because I find you any threat. You are nothing to me. It is a simple matter of principles.” He took a final step towards her, both arms raised, his eyes like jet. In one sweeping movement the small dagger flashed out from where it had lain hidden within her robes and tore into his flesh. A shocked rasp escaped pharaoh’s throat as he stared in horror, first at the great winged scarab crawling from his chest and then at the woman who had once been his beloved sister. For a few moments he sat staring at her. Then his staff shuddered and, like a dying star, hung in space for the blink of an eye before its slow lean into the final fall. “It will not love the hand it serves, neither will it abide with you long” (Tolkein) Isabella woke suddenly, blood pounding heavily in her ears and one thought filling her mind. The lure of the unknown made her curiosity unbearable. She gave in. Silently, she slipped from the bed, moving slowly, determined not to wake her husband. The cold night air drifted lazily through the open window, causing her light cotton night-dress to flutter limply and goose bumps to prickle up her arms. The room around her was dark and still; a dull light seeped through the round window. She stared, distracted by shapes in the shadows; sinister creatures that slid silently into dark corners. Myles suddenly threw out his arm, turned and muttered to the sheets. She froze. Her breath caught in her throat as she counted down the seconds, willing him to sleep, to slip into an unconscious world… Slowly she exhaled as his breathing settled into the familiar rhythm of heavy sighs. He had always been a good sleeper. “Isabella, my sweet, take Mr Edwards into the study and show him my latest acquisition. You know Charles, I think you’ll be rather envious of my newest find…a small gold sphinx...quite perfect in all proportions”. “You have as fine an eye for beauty as any man Mr Bower, that is obvious. One has only to look at the many fine objects with which you surround yourself to understand that particular of your character”. He smiled as he unbent himself from the velvet chaise-lounge and stood up, his eyes lazily taking in the room and coming to rest, finally, on her, a spot just below her chin. “Lead on my dear, let us visit this little den of forbidden treasures which your husband so charmingly refers to as ‘his study’”. He leaned over and picked up her wrist, smiling over his shoulder as her husband laughed cheerily. In his hand Myles cradled the full balloon of his brandy glass. She smiled and rose with eyes downcast; it was his second brandy for the night. She had prepared it for him especially. He would sleep well tonight. He slept on, corpse-still, washed grey by the night. She took one step towards the door, skin slick with longing. She felt an intense and mysterious power calling her through the darkness. She wet her lips hungrily before moving out into the black space of the hall. Bright white, her eyes betrayed her progress down the stairs: blinking lamps in the dark. If only Myles were here to see how silently and secretly she crept. How sneaky his little Bella was! What would he say! But no, he would not rouse for hours. She had made sure of that. A fit of violent giggles seized Isabella at this thought and it was a full minute before she had gained composure and was able to continue. She reached the study. She entered. She closed the thick mahogany door soundlessly, lighting a small oil lamp. Looking around the cramped room her eyes fell upon the small shiny tin her husband had brought home the previous day. He had told her that it contained a priceless artefact that had been recently discovered. Having little to occupy herself with at home, this foreign object sparked her interest and she had asked her husband if he would show it to her. She scowled into the darkness upon remembering his reply. “No, no, no.” Myles wagged his finger at Isabella. “This is a rare and precious find my little Bella, not a toy” He wore an infuriating smirk of superiority on his aged face. “How would I explain to Professor Crawford that the invaluable and remarkable item that I had so eagerly promised to show to him was damaged, all because my darling young wife wanted to play with the lovely little treasure.” With this he took the tin to his study. He did not reappear until hours later. Isabella now smiled to herself happily, where was Myles now? He couldn’t stop her. She had this trinket all to herself, it was hers. As she drew near she felt her hands shaking with a wild anticipation. She stroked the small case almost lovingly. Unable to restrain herself any longer she scrabbled frantically to flick the catch up and open the case. The object inside was wrapped in black silk. Slowly she peeled back the shadowy layers to reveal the hidden treasure. An elegant dagger lay beneath, gleaming maliciously in the flickering lamp light. Though in perfect condition, it was obviously a very old artefact, possibly ancient. But it was not until she held the dagger that she felt its true heritage: centuries of power. Drawing it from the ornate sheath, it was the cold, dark metal of the blade that she touched first. Smooth and slippery, it sent a chill down her spine and caused her breathing to quicken. The intricately patterned hilt however, felt strangely warm when she held it and a welcoming feeling of distant familiarity seemed to be seeping from within. She felt drawn to this deadly object and the ancient power it contained. The slightness of the gold hilt and fine beetle design gave the dagger the appearance that it was crafted for a delicate female hand, yet the slightly curved, snake like-blade was clearly not made for the purpose of opening letters. This idea of deceptive beauty excited Isabella. A sudden draught caught her from behind and she turned to see the heavy door lying open, and to her horror, the tall figure of Myles standing in front of it. “Bella…what are you doing?” Tousle-haired and blinking in the lamp light, his voice was husky from sleep. “Dearest, I just wanted to…I was just…” Her brain was buzzing with panic. “Why are you in my study?” His tone was exasperated. “This is no time for games”. He then spotted the dagger in her hand. “I told you not to touch that you silly woman! You don’t know the harm you could do…How much it’s worth!” He advanced towards her, an irritated expression on his tired face. An abrupt shock shot through Isabella’s body, causing her to convulse violently. For a moment she slumped on the desk behind her, feeling all the energy drain from her frail body. But it was a moment only. Myles, startled by his wife’s strange behaviour started forward to help her but stopped short. Isabella was straightening up stiffly. Somehow, though he could not quite place it, he sensed that something was wrong. The way she held herself; the look that she was giving him, it made him uneasy. His eyes shot to the knife which she still clutched firmly in her right hand and then back to his wife. He shuddered slightly. The weak fear that had clouded her pretty face seconds before had been replaced by an eerily confident smile.
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Copyright © 2006 Kristen Karlson |