Those who climbed the southern walls saw divisions of many-coloured horsemen spilling across ridge lines and down sparsely wooded hills. At long last, Kascamandri I, the Padirajah of Kian, had taken the field against the Inrithi. The Great Names desperately tried to muster their thanes and barons, but with their men scattered throughout the city, it was hopeless. Gothyelk, still distraught over the loss of his youngest, Gurnyau, couldn’t be roused, and the Tydonni refused to leave the city without the beloved Earl of Agansanor. With the recent death of Prince Skaiyelt, the long-haired Thunyeri had disintegrated into clannish mobs, and, unaccountably, had renewed their bloody sack of the city. And the Ainoni Palatines, with Chepheramunni on his death bed, had fallen to feuding amongst themselves. The horns called and called, but far too few answered.
The Fanim horsemen descended so quickly that most of the Holy War’s siege camps had to be abandoned, along with the war engines and the food supplies amassed within them. Retreating knights set several of the camps ablaze to prevent them from falling into the heathen’s hands. Hundreds of those too sick to flee the camps were left to be massacred. Those bands of Inrithi knights who dared contest the Padirajah’s advance were quickly thrown back or overrun, encompassed by waves of ululating horsemen. By mid-morning the Great Names frantically recalled those remaining outside Caraskand and bent themselves to defending the vast circuit of the city’s walls.
Celebration had turned to terror and disbelief. They were imprisoned in a city that had already been besieged for weeks. The Great Names ordered hasty surveys of the remaining food stores. They despaired after learning that Imbeyan had burned the city’s granaries when he realized he’d lost Caraskand. And of course, the vast storerooms of the city’s final redoubt, the Citadel of the Dog, had been destroyed by the Scarlet Spires. The broken fortress burned still, a beacon on Caraskand’s easternmost hill.
Seated upon a lavish settee, surrounded by his counsellors and his many children, Kascamandri ab Tepherokar watched from the terrace of a hillside villa as the great horns of his army inexorably closed about Caraskand. Propped against his whale-like belly, his lovely girls peppered him with questions about what happened. For months he’d followed the Holy War from the fleshpot sanctuaries of the Korasha, the exalted White-Sun Palace in Nenciphon. He’d trusted the sagacity and warlike temper of his subordinates. And he’d scorned the idolatrous Inrithi, thinking them barbarous and hapless in the ways of war.
No longer.
To redress his negligence, he’d raised a host worthy of his jihadic fathers: the survivors of Anwurat, some sixty thousand strong, under the peerless Cinganjehoi, who had set aside his enmity to his Padirajah; the Grandees of Chianadyni, the Kianene homeland, with some forty thousand horsemen under Kascamandri’s own ruthless and brilliant son, Fanayal; and Kascamandri’s old tributary, King Pilasakanda of Girgash, whose vassal Hetmen marched with thirty thousand black-skinned Fanim and one hundred mastodons from pagan Nilnamesh. These last, in particular, caused the Padirajah to take pride, for the lumbering beasts made his daughters gape and giggle.
As evening fell, the Padirajah ordered an assault on Caraskand’s walls, hoping to use the disarray of the idolaters to his advantage. Ladders made by Inrithi carpenters were drawn up, as well as the single siege tower they’d captured intact, and there was fierce fighting along the walls around the Ivory Gates. The mastodons were yoked to a mighty iron-headed ram made by the Men of the Tusk, and soon drumming thunder and elephant screams could be heard above the roar of battling men. But the iron men refused to yield the heights, and the Kianene and Girgashi suffered horrendous losses—including some fourteen mastodons, burned alive by flaming pitch. Kascamandri’s youngest daughter, beautiful Sirol, wept.
When the sun finally set, the Men of the Tusk greeted the darkness with both relief and horror. For they were saved and they were doomed.
The deep, staccato thunder of drums.
With Cnaiür standing behind him, Proyas leaned against a limestone battlement on the summit of the Gate of Horns, peering through an embrasure at the muddy plains below. Kianene teemed across the landscape, dragging Inrithi wares and shelters to immense bonfires, pitching bright pavilions, reinforcing palisades and earthworks. Bands of silver-helmed horsemen patrolled the ridge lines, galloped through orchards or across fields between byres.
The Inrithi had chosen the same plains to launch their assaults: the burned hulk of a siege tower stood no more than a stone’s throw from where Proyas had positioned himself. He squeezed shut his burning eyes. This can’t be happening! Not this!
First the euphoria—the rapture!—of Caraskand’s fall. Then the Padirajah, who’d for so long been little more than a rumour of terrible power to the south, had materialized in the hills above the city. At first Proyas could only think that someone had made a catastrophic mistake, that everything would resolve itself once the chaos of the city’s ransacking passed. Those silk-cowled divisions couldn’t be Kianene horsemen … The heathen had been mortally wounded at Anwurat—undone! The Holy War had taken mighty Caraskand, the great gate of Xerash and Amoteu, and now stood poised to march into the Sacred Lands! They were so close …
So close that Shimeh, he was certain, could see Caraskand’s smoke on the horizon.
But the horsemen had been Kianene. Riding beneath the White Padirajic Lion, they streamed about the great circuit of the city’s walls, burning the impoverished Inrithi camps, slaughtering the sick, and riding down those foolish enough to resist their advance. Kascamandri had come; both the God—and hope—had forsaken them.
“How many do you estimate?” Proyas asked the Scylvendi, who stood, his scarred arms folded across his scale harness.
“Does it matter?” the barbarian replied.
Unnerved by the man’s turquoise gaze, Proyas turned back to the smoke-grey vista. Yesterday, while the dimensions of the disaster slowly unfolded, he’d found himself asking why over and over again. Like a wronged child, his thoughts had stamped about the fact of his piety. Who among the Great Names had toiled as he’d toiled? Who’d burned more sacrifices, intoned more prayers? But now he no longer dared ask these questions.
Thoughts of Achamian and Xinemus had seen to that.
“It is you,” the Marshal of Attrempus had said, “who surrender everything …”
But in the God’s name! For the God’s glory!
“Of course it matters,” Proyas hissed. He knew the Scylvendi would bristle at his tone, but he neither worried nor cared. “We must find some way out!”
“Exactly,” Cnaiür said, apparently unperturbed. “We must find some way out … No matter how large the Padirajah’s host.”
Scowling, Proyas turned back to the embrasure. He was in no mood to be corrected.
“What of Conphas?” he asked. “Is there any chance he lies about the food?”
The barbarian shrugged his massive shoulders. “The Nansur are good counters.”
“And they’re good liars as well!” Proyas exclaimed. Why couldn’t the man just answer his questions? “Do you think Conphas tells the truth?”
Cnaiür spat across the ancient stonework. “We’ll have to wait … See if he stays fat while we grow thin.”
Curse the man! How could he bait him at such a time, in such straits?
“You are besieged,” the Scylvendi warrior continued, “within the very city you have spent weeks starving. Even if Conphas does hoard food, it would not be of consequence. You have only one alternative, and one alternative only. The Scarlet Spires must be roused, now, before the Padirajah can assemble his Cishaurim. The Holy War must take to the field.”
“You think I disagree?” Proyas cried. “I’ve already petitioned Eleäzaras—and do you know what he says? He says, ‘The Scarlet Spires have already suffered too many needless losses …’ Needless losses! What? Some dozen or so dead at Anwurat—if that! A handful more in the desert—not bad compared to a hundred thousand faithful souls lost! And what? Five or so struck by Chorae yesterday—
heaven forfend! Killed while destroying the only remaining stores of food in Caraskand … All wars should be so bloodless!”
Proyas paused, realized he was panting. He felt crazed and confused, as though he suffered some residue of the fevers. The great, age-worn stones of the barbican seemed to wheel about him. If only, he thought madly, Triamis had built these walls with bread!
The Scylvendi watched him without passion. “Then you are doomed,” he said.
Proyas raised his hands to his face, scratched his cheeks. It can’t be! Something … I’m missing something!
“We’re cursed,” he murmured. “They’re right … The God does punish us!”
“What are you saying?”
“That maybe Conphas and the others are right about him!”
The brutal face hardened into a scowl. “Him?”
“Kellhus,” Proyas exclaimed. He clutched trembling hands, ground one palm against the other.
I falter … I fail!
Proyas had read many accounts of other men floundering in times of crisis, and absurdly, he realized that this—this!—was his moment of weakness. But contrary to his expectation, there was no strength to be drawn from this knowledge. If anything, knowing he faltered threatened to hasten his collapse. He was too sick … Too tired.
“They rail against him,” he explained, his voice raw. “First Conphas, but now even Gothyelk and Gotian.” Proyas released a shuddering breath. “They claim he’s a False Prophet.”
“This is no rumour? They’ve told you this themselves?”
Proyas nodded. “With my support, they think they can openly move against him.”
“You would risk a war within these walls? Inrithi against Inrithi?”
Proyas swallowed, struggled to shore up his gaze. “If that’s what the God demands of me.”
“And how does one know what your God demands?”
Proyas stared at the Scylvendi in horror.
“I just …” A pang welled against the back of his throat. Hot tears flooded across his cheek. He inwardly cursed, opened his mouth again, sobbed instead of spoke …
Please God!
It had been too long. The burden had been too great. Everything! Every day, every word a battle! And the sacrifices—they had cut too deep. The desert, even the hemoplexy, had been nothing. But Achamian—ah, that was something! And Xinemus, whom he’d abandoned. The two men he respected most in the world, given up in the name of Holy War … And still it wasn’t enough!
Nothing … Never good enough!
“Tell me, Cnaiür,” he croaked. A strange tooth-baring smile seized his face, and he sobbed again. He covered his eyes and cheeks with his hands, crumpled against the parapet. “Please!” he cried to the stone. “Cnaiür … You must tell me what to do!”
Now it was the Scylvendi who looked horrified.
“Go to Kellhus,” the barbarian said. “But I warn you”—he raised a mighty, battle-scarred fist—“secure your heart. Seal it tight!” He lowered his chin and glared, the way a wolf might …
“Go, Proyas. Go ask the man yourself.”
Like something carved out of living rock, the bed rose from a black dais set in the chamber’s heart. The veils, which usually trailed between the bed’s five stone posts, had been pinned to the emerald and gold canopy. Lying with one leg kicked free of the sheets, Kellhus stroked Esmenet’s cheek, saw past her flushed skin, beyond her beating heart, following the telltale markers all the way to her womb.
Our blood, Father … In a world of maladroit and bovine souls, nothing could be more precious.
The House of Anasûrimbor.
The Dûnyain not only saw deep, they saw far. Even if the Holy War survived Caraskand, even if Shimeh was reconquered, the wars were only beginning … Achamian had taught him that much.
And in the end, only sons could conquer death.
Was this why you summoned me? Do you die?
“What is it?” Esmenet asked, drawing sheets up to her breast.
Kellhus had jerked forward, sitting cross-legged upon the bed. He peered across the candle-lit gloom, tracking the muffled sounds of some commotion beyond the doors. What does he—
Without warning, the double doors burst open, and Kellhus saw Proyas, still weak from his convalescence, struggling with two of the Hundred Pillars.
“Kellhus!” the Conriyan Prince barked. “Tell your dogs to kennel, or by the God there’ll be blood!”
At a word, the bodyguards released him, assumed positions at either side of the door. The man stood, his chest heaving, his eyes searching through the shadows of the lavish bedchamber. Kellhus encircled him with his senses … The man shouted desperation from every pore, but the wildness of his passion made the specifics difficult to ascertain. He feared the Holy War was lost, as did all men, and that Kellhus was somehow to blame—as did many.
He needs to know what I am.
“What happens, Proyas? What ails you, that you’d commit such an outrage?”
But the Prince’s eyes had found Esmenet, rigid with shock. Kellhus instantly saw the peril.
He searches for excuses.
An interior porch had been raised about the doors; Proyas took an unsteady step toward the railing. “What’s she doing?” He blinked in confusion. “Why’s she in your bed?”
He doesn’t want to understand.
“She’s my wife … What business—”
“Wife?” Proyas exclaimed. He raised a half-opened hand to his brow. “She’s your wife?”
He’s heard the stories … But all this time he’s afforded me his doubt.
“The desert, Proyas. The desert marked us all.”
He shook his head. “Fie on the desert,” he murmured, then looked up in sudden fury. “Fie on the desert! She’s … She’s … Akka loved her! Akka! Don’t you recall? Your friend …”
Kellhus lowered his eyes in penitent sadness. “We thought he would want this.”
“Want? Want his best friend fucking the wo—”
“Who,” Esmenet spat, “are you to speak of Akka to me!”
“What do you say?” Proyas said, blanching. “What do you mean?” His lips pursed; his eyes slackened. His right hand fell to his chest. Horror had opened a still point in the throng of his passions—an opportunity …
“But you already know,” Kellhus said. “Of all people, you’ve no right to judge.”
The Conriyan Prince flinched. “What do you mean?”
Now … Offer him truce. Show him understanding. Make stark his trespasses …
“Please,” Kellhus said, reaching out with word, tone, and every nuance of expression. “You let your despair rule you … And me, I succumb to ill manners. Proyas! You’re among my dearest friends …” He cast aside the sheets, swung his feet to the floor. “Come, let us drink and talk.”
But Proyas had fastened on his earlier comment—as Kellhus had intended. “I would know why I’ve no right to judge. What’s that supposed to mean, ‘dear friend’?”
Kellhus drew his lips into a pained line. “It means that you, Proyas, not we, have betrayed Achamian.”
The handsome face slackened in horror. His pulse drummed.
I must move carefully.
“No,” Proyas said.
Kellhus closed his eyes as though in disappointment. “Yes. You accuse us because you hold yourself accountable.”
“Accountable? Accountable for what?” He snorted like a frightened adolescent. “I did nothing.”
“But you did everything, Proyas. You needed the Scarlet Spires, and the Scarlet Spires needed Achamian.”
“No one knows what happened to Achamian!”
“But you know … I can see this knowledge within you.”
The Conriyan Prince stumbled backward. “You see nothing!”
So close …
“Of course I do, Proyas. How, after all this time, could you still doubt?”
But as he watched, something happened: an unforeseen flare of recognition, a cascade of inferences
, too quick to silence. That word …
“Doubt?” Proyas fairly cried. “How could I not doubt? The Holy War stands upon the precipice, Kellhus!”
Kellhus smiled the way Xinemus had once smiled at things both touching and foolish.
“The God tries us, Proyas. He’s yet to pass sentence! Tell me, how can there be trial without doubt?”
“He tries us …” Proyas repeated, his face blank.
“Of course,” Kellhus said plaintively. “Simply open your heart and you’ll see!”
“Open my …” Proyas trailed, his eyes brimming with incredulous dread. “He told me!” he abruptly whispered. “This is what he meant!” The yearning in his look, the ache that had warred against his misgivings, suddenly collapsed into suspicion and disbelief.
Someone has warned him … The Scylvendi? Has he wandered so far?
“Proyas …”
I should have killed him.
“And how about you, Kellhus?” Proyas spat. “Do you doubt? Does the great Warrior-Prophet fear for the future?”
Kellhus looked to Esmenet, saw that she wept. He reached out and clasped her cold hands.
“No,” he said.
I do not fear.
Proyas was already backing out the double doors, into the brighter light of the antechamber.
“You will.”
For over a thousand years Caraskand’s great limestone walls had stared across the broken countryside of Enathpaneah. When Triamis I, perhaps the greatest of the Aspect-Emperors, had raised them, his detractors in Imperial Cenei had scoffed at the expenditure, claiming that he who conquers all foes has no need of walls. Triamis, the chroniclers write, had dismissed them by saying, “No man can conquer the future.” And indeed, over the ensuing centuries Caraskand’s “Triamic Walls,” as they were called, would blunt the rush of history many times, if not redirect it altogether. And sometimes, they would cage it.
Day after day, it seemed, Inrithi horns blared from the high towers, calling the Men of the Tusk to the ramparts, for the Padirajah threw his people at Triamis’s mighty fortifications with reckless fury, each time convinced the strength of the starving idolaters would fail. Haggard and hungry, Galeoth, Conriyans, and Tydonni manned the war engines abandoned by Caraskand’s erstwhile defenders, casting pots of flaming pitch from mangonels, great iron bolts from ballistae. Thunyeri, Nansur, and Ainoni gathered on the walls, crowding beneath the battlements and huddling beneath shields to avoid volleys of arrows that at times darkened the sun. And day after day, it seemed, they beat the heathen back.
The Warrior Prophet Page 56