The Warrior Prophet

by R. Scott Bakker

  And not only was it happening, it was happening the way Prince Kellhus had said it would.

  No one knows you. No one.

  He glanced at the retreating forms of Gotian and Sarcellus as they thudded down the slope. The thought of sacrificing them—as Prince Kellhus, or the Gods, had demanded—suddenly deadened his heart.

  Punish them. You must make sure the Shrial Knights are punished. Something cold caught his throat, and as quickly as Gilgaöl had possessed him, the God fled.

  “Is something wrong, m’Lord?” Kussalt asked. It was uncanny, the way the man could guess his moods. But then, he’d always been there. Saubon’s earliest childhood memory was of Kussalt scooping him up into his arms and racing into the galleries of Moraör after a bee sting had nearly choked him.

  Without realizing, Saubon resumed chewing on his knuckles.

  “Kussalt?”

  “Yes?”

  Saubon hesitated, found himself looking away to the south, to the Battleplain. “I need a copy of The Tractate … I need to search for … something.”

  “What do you need to know?” the old groom said, his voice both shocked and curiously tender …

  Saubon glared at him. “What business—”

  “I ask only because I carry The Tractate with me always …” His chapped hand had wandered to his chest as he spoke; he laid his palm flat across his heart. “Here.”

  He’d memorized it, Saubon realized. For some reason this shocked him to the point of becoming faint. He’d always known Kussalt to be pious, and yet …

  “Kussalt …” he began, but could think of nothing to say.

  Those old, implacable eyes blinked, nothing more.

  “I need …” Saubon finally ventured, “I need to know what the Latter Prophet has to say regarding … sacrifice.”

  The groom’s bushy white brows knitted together. “Many things. Very many things … I don’t understand.”

  “What the Gods demand … Is it proper because they demand it?”

  “No,” Kussalt said, still frowning.

  For some reason, the thoughtless certainty of this answer angered him. What did the old fool know?

  “You disbelieve me,” Kussalt said, his voice thick with weariness. “But it’s the glory of Inri Sej—”

  “Enough of this prattle,” Coithus Saubon snapped. He glanced at the severed head—at the apple—noticed the glint of a golden incisor between slack and battered lips. So this was their enemy … Drawing his sword, he struck it from the lance, and the lance from Kussalt’s fist.

  “I believe what I need to,” he grated.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE PLAINS OF MENGEDDA

  One sorcerer, the ancients say, is worth a thousand warriors in battle and ten thousand sinners in Hell.

  —DRUSAS ACHAMIAN, THE COMPENDIUM OF THE FIRST HOLY WAR

  When shields become crutches, and swords become canes,

  some hearts are put to rout.

  When wives become plunder, and foes become thanes,

  all hope has guttered out.

  —ANONYMOUS, “LAMENT FOR THE CONQUERED”

  Early Summer, 4111 Year-of-the-Tusk, near the Plains of Mengedda

  Morning broke, and rough Galeoth and Tydonni horns pealed through the clear air, sounding, at the moment of their highest pitch, like a woman’s shriek.

  The call to battle.

  Despite thousands of Fanim horsemen and dozens of small pitched battles, the day previous had witnessed the reunion of the Galeoth, Tydonni, and Thunyeri hosts in the hill country to the immediate north of the Battleplain. Reconciled, Coithus Saubon and Hoga Gothyelk agreed to march out onto the northern terminus of the plains that very evening, with the hope of pressing their advantage—if it could be called such. Here, they decided, their position would be as strong as anything they might hope to find. To the northeast, they could shelter their flank behind a series of salt marshes, whereas to the west, they could depend on the hills. A shallow ravine, guttered by a stream that fed the marshes, wound the entire length, from flank to flank. Here they had planned to draw up the common line. Its slopes were too shallow to break any charge, but it would force the heathen to scramble through the muck.

  Now the wind came from the east, and men swore they could smell the sea. Some—a few—wondered at the ground beneath their feet. They asked others whether their sleep had been troubled, or whether they could hear a faint sound, like the hiss of foam in tidal pools.

  The Great Earls of the Middle-North gathered their households and their client thanes, who in turn gathered their households. Majordomos hollered commands over the din. There were cheers and raucous laughter, the rolling thunder of hooves as bands of younger knights, already drunk, rushed southward, eager to be among the first to catch sight of the heathen. Milling on carpets of bruised and trampled grass, thousands made haste to ready themselves. Wives and concubines embraced their men. Shrial Priests led crowds of warriors and camp-followers alike in prayer. Thousands knelt upon the turf, muttering aloud from their ancestor scrolls, touching morning-cool earth to their lips. Cultic priests intoned ancient rites, anointed idols with blood and precious oils. Goshawks were sacrificed in the name of Gilgaöl. The shanks of butchered antelope were thrown across the godfires of the Dark Hunter, Husyelt.

  Augurs cast their bones. Surgeons set knives upon the fire, readied their kits.

  The sun rose bold on the horizon, bathing the turmoil in golden light. Standards waved listlessly in the breeze. Men-at-arms gathered in irregular masses, making for their places in the line. Mounted cohorts filed among them, their arms flashing, their shields bright with menacing totems and images of the Tusk.

  Suddenly shouts broke out among those already gathered along the ravine. The entire horizon seemed to move, winked as though powdered by silver filings. The heathen. The Kianene Grandees of Gedea and Shigek.

  Cursing, thundering commands, the Earls and Thanes of the Middle-North managed to draw up their thousands along the ravine’s northern edge. The stream had already become a black, muddy basin, pocked and clotted with deep hoofprints. On the ravine’s southern edge, before the massed lines of footmen, the Inrithi knights milled in great clots. Cries of dismay were raised when those ranging farther afield discovered bones among the weeds, bundled in rotted leather and cloth. The ruin of an earlier Holy War.

  Many different hymns were taken up, particularly among the low-caste footmen, but they soon faltered, yielding to the cadences of one deep-throated paean. Soon the air thrummed with the chorus of thousands. The hornsmen began marking the refrains with sonorous peals. Even the caste-nobles, as they arranged themselves into long iron ranks, joined:A warring we have come

  A reaving we shall work.

  And when the day is done,

  In our eyes the Gods shall lurk!

  It was a song as old as the Ancient North, a song from The Sagas. And as the Inrithi gave it voice once again, they felt the glory of their past flood through them, brace them. A thousand voices and one song. A thousand years and one song! Never had they felt so rooted, so certain. The words struck many with the force of revelation. Tears streamed down sunburned cheeks. Passions ignited, swept through the ranks, until men roared inarticulately and brandished their swords against the sky. They were thousands and they were one.

  In our eyes the Gods shall lurk!

  Taking the dawn as their armature, the Kianene rode out to answer them. They were a race born to the fierce sun, not to clouds and gloomy forests as the Norsirai, and it seemed to bless them with glory. Sunlight flashed across silvered battlecaps. The silk sleeves of their khalats glimmered, transformed their lines into a many-coloured horizon. Behind them the air resounded with pounding drums.

  And the Inrithi sang,

  In our eyes the Gods shall lurk!

  Saubon, Gothyelk, and the other ranking nobles conferred for one last time before dispersing along the line. Despite their best efforts, it remained uneven, the ranks painfully shallow in some p
laces, and pointlessly deep in others. Arguments broke out among clients of different lords. A man named Trondha, a client thane of Anfirig, had to be wrestled to the ground after attempting to knife one of his peers. But still, the song thundered, so loud some clasped their chests, fearing for the rhythm of their hearts.

  A warring we have come

  A reaving we shall work!

  The Kianene drew closer, encompassing the grey-green plain, endless thousands of approaching horsemen—far more, it seemed, than the Inrithi leaders had supposed. Their drums thundered out across the open spaces, throbbing through an ocean of rumbling sound. The Galeoth longbowmen, Agmundrmen from the northern marches primarily, raised their yew bows and released. For a moment the sky was thatched, and a thin shadow plunged into the advancing heathen line—to little effect. The Fanim were closer now, and the Inrithi could see the polished bone of their bows, the iron points of their lances, their wide-sleeved coats fluttering in the breeze.

  And they sang, the pious Knights of the Tusk, the blue-eyed warriors of Galeoth, Ce Tydonn, and Thunyerus. They sang, and the air shivered as though the skies were vaulted in stone.

  And when the day is done,

  In our eyes the Gods shall lurk!

  Crying “Glory to the God!” Athjeäri and his thanes broke ranks, crouching forward on their mounts, slowly dipping their lances. More Houses abandoned the line and pounded toward the Kianene: Wanhail, Anfirig, Werijen Greatheart, and then old Gothyelk himself, bellowing, “Heaven wills it!” Like an avalanche, House after House followed, until almost all the mail-clad might of the Middle-North cantered out to greet their foe. “There!” footmen on the line would cry, glimpsing the Red Lion of Saubon or the Black Stag of Gothyelk and his sons.

  From a trot the massive warhorses were urged to a slow gallop. Nesting thrushes took flight, burst slapping into the sky. Everything became breath and iron, the rumble of brothers before, behind, and to the side. Then, like a cloud of locusts, arrows swept among them. There was a hellish racket punctuated by screaming horses and astonished shouts. Warhorses toppled and thrashed, yanking knights to the ground, breaking backs, crushing legs.

  Then the madness fell away. Once again it was the pure thunder of the charge. The strange camaraderie of men bent to a single, fatal purpose. Hummocks, scrub, and the bones of the Vulgar Holy War’s dead rushed beneath. The wind bled through chain links, tousled Thunyeri braids and Tydonni crests. Bright banners slapped against the sky. The heathen, wicked and foul, drew closer, ever closer. One last storm of arrows, these ones almost horizontal to the ground, punching against shield and armour. Some were struck from their saddles. Tongue tips were bitten off in the concussion of the fall. The unhorsed arched across the turf, screamed and swatted at the sky. Wounded mounts danced in frothing circles nearby. The rest thundered on, over grasses, through patches of blooming milkwort waving in the wind. They couched their lances, twenty thousand men draped in great mail hauberks over thick felt, with coifs across their faces and helms that swept down to their cheeks, riding chargers caparisoned in mail or iron plates. The fear dissolved into drunken speed, into the momentum, became so mingled with exhilaration as to be indistinguishable from it. They were addicted to the charge, the Men of the Tusk. Everything focused into the glittering tip of a lance. The target nearer, nearer …

  The rumble of hooves and drums drowned their kinsmen’s song. They crashed through a thin screen of sumac … Saw eyes whiten in sudden terror.

  Then impact. The jarring splinter of wood as lances speared through shield, through armour. Suddenly the ground became still and solid beneath them, and the air rang with wails and shouts. Hands drew sword and axe. Everywhere figures grappled and hacked. Horses reared. Blades pitched blood into the sky.

  And the Kianene fell, undone by their ferocity, crumpling beneath northern hands, dying beneath pale faces and merciless blue eyes. The heathen recoiled from the slaughter—and fled.

  The Galeoth, the Tydonni, and the Thunyeri raised a mighty shout and spurred after them. But the Shrial Knights reined to a stop, seemed to mill in confusion.

  The Inrithi knights spurred their warhorses, but the Fanim outdistanced them, peppered them with arrows as they fled. Suddenly they dissolved into an advancing tide of heathen horsemen, more heavily armoured. The two great lines crashed. Several desperate moments ensued. The orange and black standard of Earl Hagarond of Üsgald disappeared in the tumult, and the Galeoth lord was speared lifeless on the ground. A lance through the throat heaved Magga, cousin of Skaiyelt, from his horse and threw him into his kinsmen. Death came swirling down. Gothyelk himself was felled, and the roars of his sons pierced the din. The ululating cries of the Fanim reached a crescendo …

  But war was bloody work, and the iron men hammered their foes, split skulls through battlecaps, cracked wooden shields, broke the arms bearing them. Yalgrota Sranchammer beheaded a heathen horse with a single blow, tossed Fanim Grandees from their saddles as though they were children. Werijen Greatheart, Earl of Plaideöl, rallied his Tydonni and scattered the heathen who assailed Gothyelk. On the ground, Goken the Red, the Thunyeri Earl of Cern Auglai, butchered man and horse alike, and cut his way back to his struggling standard. Never had the Kianene encountered such men, such furious determination. Desert-dark faces howled against the turf. Hawkish eyes slackened with fear.

  A moment of respite.

  Householders dragged their wounded lords to pockets of safety. Injured in the arm, Earl Cynnea of Agmundr ranted at his kinsmen not to pull him away. Earl Othrain of Numaineiri wept as he lifted his family’s ancient standard from the lifeless hands of his son and raised it once more. Prince Saubon bellowed for another horse. Across the stretch they had thundered across only moments before, men stumbled or crawled, fumbling to staunch their wounds. But many more roared in exultation, the madness of battle upon them, cruel Gilgaöl galloping through their hearts.

  Their enemy was everywhere, before them, beside them, sweeping in on their flanks. Massive cohorts wheeled in the near distance, charged them from behind. Splendid in their silk khalats and golden corselets, the Grandees of Gedea and Shigek yet again assailed the iron men.

  Beset on all sides, the Men of the Tusk died. Taken in the back by lances. Jerked by hooks from their saddles and ridden down. Pick-like axes punched through heavy hauberks. Arrows dropped proud warhorses. Dying men cried to their wives, their Gods. Familiar voices pierced the cacophony. A cousin. A mead-friend. A brother or father, shrieking. The crimson standard of Earl Kothwa of Gaethuni toppled, was raised once more, then disappeared forever, as did Kothwa and five hundred of his Tydonni. The Black Stag of Agansanor was also overcome, trampled into the turf. Gothyelk’s householders tried to drag their wounded Earl away, but were cut down amid a flurry of Kianene horsemen. Only a frantic charge by his sons saved the old earl, though his eldest, Gotheras, was gored in the thigh.

  Through the din, the Earls and Thanes of the Middle-North could hear horns desperately signalling retreat, but there was nowhere to withdraw. Jeering masses of heathen horsemen swirled about them, peppering them with arrows, rolling back their flanks, shrugging away their disjointed counter-charges. Everywhere they looked, they saw the silken standards of the Fanim, stitched in gold, bearing strange animal devices. And the endless, unearthly drums pounded out the rhythm of their dying.

  Then suddenly, impossibly, the Kianene divisions blocking their retreat scattered, and lines of white-clad Shrial Knights swept into their midst, crying, “Flee, brothers! Flee!”

  Panicked knights galloped, ran, or stumbled toward their countrymen. Bloodied bands tumbled through the ravine, careened into their own men. The Shrial Knights fought on for several moments, then wheeled, racing back, pursued by masses of heathen horsemen—a howling rush of lances, shields, dark faces, and frothing horses, as wide as the horizon. Limping across the Battleplain, hundreds of wounded were cut down within throwing distance of the common line. The Men of the Tusk could only watch, aghast. Their song was dead.
They could hear only drums, pounding, pounding, pounding …

  Dread and the heathen were upon them.

  “We had them … Had them!” Saubon screamed, spitting blood.

  Gotian seized him by both shoulders. “You had nothing, fool. Nothing! You knew the rule! When you break them, return to the line!”

  After he’d skidded through the muck of the stream and pressed his way through the ranks, Gotian had sought out the Galeoth Prince, but had found a raving lunatic in his stead.

  “But we had them!” Saubon cried.

  There was a sudden shout, and Gotian reflexively raised his shield. Saubon simply continued to rave. “They broke like children before—” There was a clatter, like hail against a copper roof. Men screamed. “—like children! We hacked them to the ground!”

  A heathen shaft stuck from the Galeoth’s chest. For a moment, the Grandmaster thought the man was dead, but Saubon merely reached up and snapped it. It had pierced his hauberk, but had been stilled by the felt beneath.

  “We fucking well had them!” Saubon continued to roar.

  Gotian grabbed him again, shook him. “Listen!” he cried. “That’s what they wanted you to think! The Kianene are too nimble, too pliable on the field and too fierce of heart to truly break. When you charge, you charge to bleed them, not to rout them!”

  Saubon looked at him dully. “I’ve doomed us …”

  “Gather your wits, man!” Gotian roared. “We’re not like the heathen. We’re hard, but we’re brittle. We break! Gothyelk is down. Wounded—perhaps mortally! You must rally these men!”