The Warrior Prophet

by R. Scott Bakker

  “Convince?”

  Cnaiür snorted. “This war,” he snapped in Scylvendi, “is simply your war made honest.”

  Kellhus acknowledged nothing. “Belief … You’re saying battle is a disputation of belief … An argument.”

  Cnaiür squinted, peered once more toward the south.

  “The memorialists call battle otgai wutmaga, a great quarrel. Both hosts take the field believing they are the victors. One host must be disabused of that belief. Attacking his flank or his rear, overawing him, bewildering him, shocking him, killing him: these are all arguments, meant to convince your foe he is defeated. He who believes he is defeated is defeated.”

  “So in battle,” Kellhus said, “conviction makes true.”

  “As I said, it is honest.”

  Skauras! I must concentrate upon Skauras!

  Overcome by a sudden restlessness, Cnaiür tugged at his mail harness as though plagued by a pinch. Barking several brief commands, he dispatched a rider to General Setpanares. He needed to know who’d beaten the Ainoni back from the hilltops—though by the time the man returned, Cnaiür knew, the battle would likely be decided. Then he ordered the Hornsman to remind the General to secure his flanks. Out of expediency, they’d adopted the Nansur mode of communication, with batteries of trumpeters stationed about the field, relaying coded numbers that corresponded to a handful of different warnings and commands. Though the Ainoni General struck him as solid, his King-Regent, Chepheramunni, was a rank fool.

  And the Ainoni were a vain and effeminate race—something Skauras wouldn’t overlook.

  Cnaiür glanced at the Nansur and the Thunyeri. The farther Columns, those adjacent to the Ainoni, appeared to be storming up their ramps already. Closer, where he could actually distinguish individual men, the first of the rafts were slamming into place. Wherever they fell, several Shigeki vanished—crushed. The first of the Thunyeri charged forward, howling …

  Meanwhile Proyas and his stalwarts waded through disintegrating ranks of Shigeki. Sunlight flashed from their threshing swords. But farther west, beyond the mud-brick village and dark orchards to the immediate rear of the Shigeki, Cnaiür could see distant lines of approaching horsemen: Skauras’s reserves, he imagined. He couldn’t discern any of their devices through the haze, but their numbers looked worrisome … He dispatched a messenger to warn the Conriyans.

  Everything goes to plan … Cnaiür had known the Shigeki flanking Anwurat would collapse before the fury of Proyas’s charge. And Skauras, he assumed, had also known: the question was one of whom the Sapatishah would send into the breach …

  Probably Imbeyan.

  Then he glanced to the north, to the open fields, where the Fanim horsemen had fallen back before Gothyelk and Saubon, taking high-walled Anwurat as their implacable hinge.

  “See how Skauras frustrates Saubon?” he said.

  Kellhus searched the pastures and nodded. “He doesn’t contest so much as delay.”

  “He concedes the north. The Galeoth and Tydonni knights possess the advantage of gaiwut, of shock. But the Kianene possess the advantages of utmurzu, cohesion, and fira, speed. Though the Fanim cannot withstand the Inrithi charge, they are quick enough and cohesive enough to execute the malk unswaza, the defensive envelopment.”

  Even as he said this, he saw streamers of hard-riding Kianene sluice around the Northmen.

  Kellhus nodded, his eyes fixed on the distant drama. “When the attacker over-commits on the charge, he risks exposing his flanks.”

  “Which the Inrithi usually do. Only their superior angotma, heart, saves them.”

  Inrithi knights stood their ground, suddenly beset on all sides. Some distance away, the Galeoth and Tydonni infantry continued to trudge forward.

  “Their conviction,” Kellhus said.

  Cnaiür nodded. “When the memorialists counsel the Chieftains before battle, they bid them recall that in conflict all men are bound to one another, some by chains, some by ropes, and some by strings, all of different lengths. They call these bindings the mayutafiüri, the ligaments of war. These are just ways of describing the strength and flexibility of a formation’s angotma. Those Kianene the People would call trutu garothut, men of the long chain. They can be thrown apart, but they will pull themselves together. The Galeoth and Tydonni we would call trutu hirothut, men of the short chain. Left alone, such men would battle and battle. Only disaster or utgirkoy, attrition, can break the chains of such men.”

  As they watched, the Fanim scattered before the long swords of the Norsirai knights, drawing back to reform even farther to the west.

  “The leader,” Cnaiür continued, “must continually appraise and reap-praise the string, rope, and chain of his enemy and his men.”

  “So the north doesn’t worry you.”

  “No …”

  Cnaiür whirled southward, struck by an inexplicable apprehension of doom. The Ainoni knights appeared to have retired for some reason, though too much dust still obscured the heights to be certain. The infantry had resumed their climb, all along the line. He dispatched messengers to Conphas, bidding him to send his Kidruhil to the Ainoni rear. He ordered the Hornsman to signal Gotian …

  “There,” he said to Kellhus. “Do you see the Ainoni infantry advance?”

  “Yes … Certain formations seem to drift … to the right.”

  “Without knowing, men will lean into the shield of the man to their right, seeking protection. When the Fanim charge to meet them, they will concentrate on those units, watch …”

  “Because they betray weaknesses in discipline.”

  “Yes, depending on who leads. If Conphas were directing them, I would say they drift right purposefully, to draw the Kianene away from his less experienced formations.”

  “Deception.”

  Cnaiür clutched his iron-plated girdle tight. A tremor had passed through his hands.

  Everything goes to plan!

  “Know what your enemy knows,” he said, hiding his face in the distance. “The ligaments must be defended as fiercely as they are attacked. Use knowledge of your enemy, deception, terrain, even harangues or examples of valour to guard and guard vigorously. Tolerate no disbelief. Fortify your host against it, and punish all instances with torture and death.”

  What’s Setpanares doing?

  “Because it spreads,” Kellhus said.

  “The People,” Cnaiür replied, “have many stories of Nansur Columns perishing to the man … The hearts of some men never break. But most look to others for what to believe …”

  “And this is rout, the loss of all conviction? What we witnessed on the Battleplain?”

  Cnaiür nodded. “This is why cnamturu, vigilance, is a leader’s greatest virtue. The field must be continually read. The signs must be judged and rejudged. The gobozkoy must not be missed!”

  “The moment of decision.”

  Cnaiür scowled, remembering that he’d mentioned the term in passing months ago, at the fateful Council with the Emperor on the Andiamine Heights. “The moment of decision,” he repeated.

  He continued staring at the coastal hills, watching the long line of faint infantry squares ascend the distant slopes. General Setpanares had withdrawn his horse … But why?

  Save the south, the Fanim relented on every front. What plagued him so?

  Cnaiür glanced at Kellhus, saw his shining eyes study the distances the way they so often scrutinized souls. A gust cast his hair forward across his lower face.

  “I fear,” the Dûnyain said, “the moment has already passed.”

  Between her cries, Serwë heard the peal of battlehorns.

  “How?” she gasped.

  She lay on her side, her face buried in the cushions where Kellhus had thrust it. He plumbed her from behind, his chest a furnace across her back, his hand holding her knee high. How different he felt!

  “How what, sweet Serwë?”

  He pressed deep and she moaned. “So different,” she breathed. “You feel so different.”
>
  “For you, sweet Serwë … For you …”

  For her! She ground against him, savoured his difference. “Yessss,” she hissed.

  He rolled onto his back, pulling her onto him. He traced the ivory summit of her belly with his haloed left hand, then reached down to make her cry out. With his right, he yanked her head up by her hair, turned her so he could mutter in her ear. Never had he used her like this!

  “Talk to me, sweet Serwë. Your voice is as sweet as your peach.”

  “W-what?” she panted. “What would you have me say?”

  He reached down, lifted her buttocks from his hips—effortlessly, as though she were a coin. He began thrusting, slow and deep.

  “Speak of me …”

  “Kellhhhhussss,” she moaned. “I love you … I worship you! I do, I do, I do!”

  “And why, sweet Serwë?”

  “Because you’re the God incarnate! Because you’ve been sent!”

  He fell absolutely still, knowing he’d delivered her to the humming brink.

  She gasped for air upon him, felt his heart pound against her spine and through his member, thrum like a bowstring. Through fluttering lashes, she gazed up at the geometry of canvas creases, watched the lines bend and refract through joyous tears.

  She encompassed him. To his foundation, he was hers! The mere thought made the air between her thighs thicken, until every draft seemed palpable, like something twitching.

  She cried out. Such rapture! Such sweet rapture!

  Sejenus …

  “And the Scylvendi,” he purred, his voice moist with promise. “Why does he despise me so?”

  “Because he fears you,” she mumbled, squirming against him. “Because he knows you’ll punish him!”

  He began moving again, but with infernal wariness. She squealed, clenched her teeth, marvelled at the wonder of his difference. He even smelled different.

  Like … Like …

  His hand closed about the back of her neck … How she loved this game!

  “And why does he call me Dûnyain?”

  “What do you mean?” Cnaiür said to the Dûnyain. “Nothing has been decided. Nothing!”

  He tries to deceive me! To undermine me before these outlanders!

  Kellhus regarded him with utter dispassion. “I’ve studied The Book of Devices, the Nansur manual describing the various personages and their signs in the Kianene order of—”

  “As have I!”

  The illuminated pages, anyway. Cnaiür couldn’t read.

  “Most of the devices lie too far to be seen,” Kellhus continued, “but I’ve been able to infer the identity of most …”

  Lies! Lies! He fears I grow too powerful!

  “How?” Cnaiür fairly cried.

  “Differing shapes. The manual includes lists of each Sapatishah’s client Grandees … I simply counted.”

  Cnaiür swept out his hand as though beating the air of flies.

  “Then who faces the Ainoni?”

  “Overlooking the Meneanor, Imbeyan with the Grandees of Enathpaneah. Swarjuka of Jurisada occupies the remaining heights. Dunjoksha and the Grandees of Holy Amoteu hold the descending ground opposite the Ainoni right and Nansur left. The Shigeki, the centre. Even though Skauras’s standard flies from Anwurat, I believe his Grandees, along with Ansacer and the other survivors of the Battleplain, contest the northern pastures. Those horsemen beyond the village, the ones about to descend upon Proyas, likely belong to Cuäxaji and the Grandees of Khemema. Others ride with him, auxiliaries or allies of some kind … Likely the Khirgwi. Many ride camels.”

  Cnaiür stared incredulously at the man, his jaw working. “But that is impossible …”

  Where was Crown Prince Fanayal and the feared Coyauri? Where was dread Cinganjehoi and the famed Ten Thousand Grandees of Eumarna?

  “It’s fact,” Kellhus said. “Only a fraction of Kian stands before us.”

  Cnaiür jerked his gaze yet again to the southern hills and knew, from heart to marrow, that the Dûnyain spoke true. Suddenly he saw the field through Kianene eyes. The fleet Grandees of Shigek and Gedea drawing the Tydonni and Galeoth ever farther west. The Shigeki multitude dying as they should, and fleeing as everyone knew they would. Anwurat, an immovable point threatening the Inrithi rear. Then the southern hills …

  “He shows us,” Cnaiür murmured. “Skauras shows us …”

  “Two armies,” Kellhus said without hesitation. “One defending, one concealed, the same as on the Battleplain.”

  Just then, Cnaiür saw the first long threads of Kianene horsemen descend the faraway southern slopes. Skirts of dust billowed behind them, obscuring the threads that followed. Even from here he could see the Ainoni infantrymen bracing … Miles of them.

  The Nansur and Thunyeri, meanwhile, had charged and hacked their way past the final embankments. The Shigeki ranks dissolved before their onslaught. Innumerable thousands already fled westward, pursued by battle-crazed Thunyeri. The Inrithi officers and caste-nobles behind Cnaiür and Kellhus broke into full-throated cheers.

  The fools.

  Skauras need not fight a battle of penetration along a single line. He had speed and cohesion, fira and utmurzu. The Shigeki were simply a ruse, a brilliantly monstrous sacrifice—a way to scatter the Inrithi across the broken plains. Too much conviction, the wily old Sapatishah knew, could be as deadly as too little.

  A great ache filled Cnaiür’s chest. Only Kellhus’s strong grip saved him the humiliation of falling to his knees.

  Always the same …

  Never had he been so conflicted. Never had he been so confused.

  Throughout the battle, while the others had gawked, exclaimed, and pointed, General Martemus had watched the Scylvendi and Prince Kellhus, straining to hear their banter. The barbarian wore a harness of polished scale, the sleeves hacked short to reveal his many-scarred forearms. A leather girdle set with iron plates strapped his stomach and waist. A pointed Kianene battlecap, its silvering chipped in innumerable places, protected his head. Long black hair whipped about his shoulders.

  Martemus could’ve recognized him from miles distant. He was Scylvendi filth. As impressive as he’d found the man both in Council and in the field, the outrage of a Scylvendi—a Scylvendi!—overseeing the Holy War in battle was almost too much to bear. How could the others not see the disgusting truth of his heritage? The man’s every scar argued his assassination! Martemus would’ve gladly—gladly!—sacrificed his life to avenge those the savage had butchered.

  Why, then, had Conphas ordered him to murder the other man standing next to the Scylvendi?

  Because, General, he’s a Cishaurim spy …

  But no spy could speak such words.

  That’s his sorcery! Always remember—

  No! Not sorcery, truth!

  As I said, General. That is his sorcery …

  Martemus watched, unmoved by the prattle around him.

  But no matter how mortal his mission, he couldn’t ignore glory in the field. No soldier could. Drawn by shouts of genuine triumph, Martemus turned to see the heathen’s entire centre collapse. Across miles, from Anwurat to the southern hills, Shigeki formations crumbled and scattered westward, pursued by charging ranks of Nansur and Thunyeri footmen. Martemus cheered with the others. For a moment, he felt only pride for his countrymen, relief that victory had come at so slight a cost. Conphas had conquered again!

  Then he glanced back at the Scylvendi.

  He’d been a soldier too long not to recognize the stink of disaster—even beneath the perfume of apparent victory. Something had gone catastrophically wrong …

  The barbarian screamed at the Hornsman to signal the retreat. For a moment, those about Martemus could only stare in astonishment. Then everything erupted in tumult and confusion. The Tydonni thane, Ganrikki, accused the Scylvendi of treachery. Weapons were drawn, brandished. The deranged barbarian kept roaring at them to peer south, but nothing could be seen for the dust. Even still, the violence of the Scylvendi
’s protestations had unsettled many. Several began shouting for the Hornsman, including Prince Kellhus. But the Scylvendi had had enough. He barrelled through the astonished onlookers and leapt onto his horse. Within heartbeats, it seemed, he was racing southeast, trailing a long banderole of dust.

  Then the horns sounded, cracking the air.

  Others started running to their horses as well. Martemus turned back, looked to the three men Conphas had given him. One, the towering black-skinned Zeumi, met his eyes, nodded, then glanced past him to the Prince of Atrithau. They would run nowhere.

  Unfortunate, Martemus thought. Running had been his first truly practical thought in a long time.

  For a heartbeat, Prince Kellhus caught his look. His smile held such sorrow that Martemus nearly gasped. Then the Prophet turned to the distances seething beneath his feet.

  Vast waves of Kianene horsemen, their corselets flashing from their many-coloured coats, charged down the slopes and slammed into the astonished Ainoni. The forward ranks hunched behind their shields, struggled to brace their long spears on the incline, while above them scimitars flashed in the morning sun. Dust swept across the arid slopes. Horns brayed in panic. The air thundered with shouts, rumbling hooves, and the pulse of Fanim drums. More heathen lancers crashed into and through the Ainoni ranks.

  The tributary Sansori under Prince Garsahadutha were the first to break, scattering before none other than fierce Cinganjehoi himself, the famed Tiger of Eumarna. Within moments, it seemed, the Grandees of Eumarna were pounding into the rear of the forward phalanxes. Soon every phalanx on the Ainoni left, with the exception of the elite Kishyati under Palatine Soter, was either stranded or routed. Withdrawing in order, the Kishyati fought off charge after charge, purchasing precious time for the Ainoni knights below.

  The whole world, it seemed, was obscured by wind-drawn curtains of dust. Stiff in their elaborate armour, the knights of Karyoti, Hinnant, and Moserothu, Antanamera, Eshkalas, and Eshganax, thundered up the slopes, charging through the thousands who fled. They met the Fanim in an ochre haze. Lances cracked and horses shrieked. Men cried out to the hidden heavens.