The Darkness That Comes Before

by R. Scott Bakker

  Kellhus was the first to see that something was amiss.

  “This camp,” he said tonelessly, “is dead.”

  The Dûnyain was right, Cnaiür realized. He could see several dozen yaksh, but no people and, more significantly, no livestock. The pasture they rode over was uncropped. And the encampment itself had the empty, dried-out look of abandoned things.

  His elation faded into disgust. No plain men. No plain talk. No escape.

  “What happened?” Kellhus asked.

  Cnaiür spat across the grasses. He knew what had happened. After the disaster at Kiyuth, the Nansur had ranged all across this land. Some detachment had come across this camp and butchered or enslaved everyone. Akkunihor. Xunnurit had been Akkunihor. Perhaps his whole tribe had been obliterated.

  “Ikurei Conphas,” Cnaiür said, faintly shocked by how unimportant that name had become to him. “The Emperor’s nephew did this.”

  “How can you be sure?” Kellhus asked. “Perhaps the inhabitants no longer needed this place.”

  Cnaiür shrugged, knowing this was not the case. Though places on the Steppe could be discarded, things could not be—not by the People, at least. Everything was needed.

  Then, with unaccountable certainty, he realized that Kellhus would kill him.

  The mountains were looming, and the Steppe swept out behind them. Behind them. The son of Moënghus no longer needed him.

  He’ll kill me while I sleep.

  No. Such a thing could not happen. Not after travelling so far, after enduring so much! He must use the son to find the father. It was the only way!

  “We must cross the Hethantas,” he declared, pretending to survey the desolate yaksh.

  “They look formidable,” Kellhus replied.

  “They are . . . But I know the shortest way.”

  That night they camped among the abandoned yaksh. Cnaiür rebuffed Kellhus’s every attempt to draw him into conversation, listening instead to the howl of mountain wolves on the wind and jerking his head to the click and creak of the empty yaksh about them.

  He had struck a bargain with the Dûnyain: freedom and safe passage across the Steppe in return for his father’s life. Now, with the Steppe almost behind them, it seemed he had always known the bargain was a sham. How could he not? Was not Kellhus the son of Moënghus?

  And why had he decided to cross the mountains? Was it truly to discover whether the Empire was embroiled in a holy war, or was it to draw out the lie he had been chasing?

  Use the son. Use a Dûnyain . . .

  Such a fool!

  He did not sleep that night. Neither did the wolves. Before dawn he crept into the pitch black of a yaksh and huddled among weeds. He found an infant’s skull and wept, screamed at the bindings, at the wood, at the hide surfaces; he beat his fists against the treacherous earth beneath.

  The wolves laughed and wailed despicable names. Hateful names.

  Afterward, he put his lips to the earth and breathed. He could feel him listening from somewhere out there. He could feel him knowing.

  What did he see?

  It did not matter. The fire burned and it had to be fed.

  On lies if need be.

  Because the fire burned true. The fire alone.

  So cold against swollen eyes. The Steppe. The trackless Steppe.

  They left the deserted camp at dawn, their horses trotting through grasses pocked here and there by patches of rotten leather and bone. Neither man spoke.

  The Hethantas climbed into the eastern sky. The slopes grew steeper, and they followed winding ridge lines in order to conserve their horses. By midday they found themselves deep in the foothills. As always, Cnaiür found the change in terrain unsettling, as though the years had tattooed linear horizons and vast bowl skies onto his heart. In the hills, anything or anyone might be concealed. In the hills, one must find summits to see.

  Dûnyain country, he thought.

  As though to confirm these ruminations, the heights of the next crest revealed some twenty or so riders in the distance, filing down the same trail they followed into the mountains.

  “More Scylvendi,” Kellhus remarked.

  “Yes. Returning from a pilgrimage.” Would they know about the Holy War?

  “What tribe?” Kellhus asked.

  The question provoked Cnaiür’s suspicion. It was too . . . Scylvendi for an outlander.

  “We shall see.”

  Whoever the riders were, they were as concerned as he was at the sudden appearance of strangers. A handful broke into a gallop toward them, while the rest herded together what appeared to be a group of captives. He studied them as they neared, looking for the telltale signs that would identify their tribe. He realized quite quickly that they were men rather than boys, but none of them wore Kianene battlecaps, which meant they were too young to have fought the Fanim at Zirkirta. Then he saw the white paint streaking their hair. They were Munuäti.

  Images from Kiyuth assailed him: thousands of Munuäti racing across smoking plains into the sorcerous fires of the Imperial Saik. Somehow these men had survived.

  Cnaiür needed only a glimpse of their leader to know he would not like the man. Even from a distance, he projected a restless arrogance.

  Of course the Dûnyain saw as much and more. “The one in the lead,” he warned, “sees us as an opportunity to prove himself.”

  “I know. Say nothing.”

  The strangers reined to a raucous halt before them. Cnaiür noticed the several fresh-cut swazond on their arms.

  “I am Panteruth urs Mutkius of the Munuäti,” the leader declared. “Who are you?” His six kinsmen jostled behind him, watching with an air of scarcely bridled banditry.

  “Cnaiür urs Skiötha—”

  “Of the Utemot?” Panteruth studied them, dubiously eyeing the swazond bridling Cnaiür’s arms, then glaring at Kellhus. He spat in Scylvendi fashion. “Who’s this? Your slave?”

  “He’s my slave, yes.”

  “You allow him weapons?”

  “He was born to my tribe. I thought it prudent. The Steppe has grown desperate.”

  “That it has,” Panteruth snapped. “What say you, slave? Were you born to the Utemot?”

  The presumption stunned Cnaiür. “You doubt my word?”

  “The Steppe has grown desperate, as you say, Utemot. And there’s been talk of spies . . .”

  Cnaiür snorted. “Spies?”

  “How else could the Nansur overcome us?”

  “By wits. By strength of arms. By guile. I was at Kiyuth, stripling. What happened had nothing to do wi—”

  “I too was at Kiyuth! What I saw could be explained only by treachery!”

  There was no mistaking the tone: the wilful affront-taking of someone who wanted to spill blood. Cnaiür’s limbs began to tingle. He glanced at Kellhus, knowing the Dûnyain would take everything he needed from his expression. Then he turned back to the Munuäti.

  “Do you know who I am?” he said, not just to Panteruth but to his men as well.

  This seemed to shock the young warrior. But he recovered quickly. “We’ve heard the stories. There’s not a man on the Steppe who hasn’t laughed at the name of Cnaiür urs Skiötha.”

  Cnaiür cuffed him hard about the side of his head.

  A mad instant, then scrambling violence.

  Cnaiür spurred into Panteruth, struck him a second time with his fist, knocking him from his saddle. Then he yanked his horse to the right, away from the man’s stunned compatriots, drawing his broadsword. When the others spurred after him, reaching for their own weapons, he jerked his horse back into their midst and cut two down before they’d cleared their blades. He ducked a sweeping cut from the third, then thrust, punched through his brigandine, his breastbone, and halved his heart.

  He whirled, looking for the Dûnyain. Kellhus stood a short distance from him, a horse stamping behind, three inert forms at his feet. For an instant their eyes locked.

  “The others come,” Kellhus said. Cnaiür turned
, saw the rest of Panteruth’s band fanning across the slope, riding hard toward them. Munuäti war cries rifled the air.

  Sheathing his sword and retrieving his bow, Cnaiür dismounted. Sheltering behind the bulk of his mount, he nocked a shaft, drew the gut back, and sent one of the riders toppling with an arrow in the eye. Another shaft, and a second horseman crumpled in his saddle, clutching a bloody arm. Arrows, sounding like knives shearing linen, hissed through the air around him. Abruptly his horse screamed, cantered, and kicked; Cnaiür stumbled back, tripping over the fallen. Then, through the legs of his dancing horse, he glimpsed the Dûnyain.

  Beyond Kellhus, the approaching riders had opened like a hand, eight of them in the palm, close abreast, intent on riding the Dûnyain down, while five others played the fingers, galloping around his flank and firing arrows at short range. The shafts flickered across the grasses. Those off target thudded into the turf, while the others were simply swatted from their trajectories—by the Dûnyain.

  Kellhus crouched, hefted a small hatchet from the saddle of a dead horse, threw it in a perfect arc across the incline. As though drawn by a string, it chopped into the face of the nearest galloping archer. The man fell, his corpse rolling like a bundle of heavy rope between the legs of the following bowman’s mount. The second horse stumbled, gouged the turf, and went down thrashing.

  The fingers scattered, but the palm thundered up the slope. For an instant, the Dûnyain stood motionless, his curved sword extended, the rush of pounding horses looming ever closer before him . . .

  He’s dead, Cnaiür thought, rolling to his feet. The horsemen were almost upon him as well.

  The Dûnyain vanished, swallowed by the shadowy gaps between riders. Cnaiür glimpsed flashes of steel.

  The three horses directly before Cnaiür faltered mid-gallop, kicked air, and then careered into the turf. Cnaiür leapt, glimpsed roiling torsos and crushed men. A flailing hoof bucked his thigh, and he fell headlong onto the grasses on the far side. He grimaced, clutched his bruised leg while kicking himself to his side with the other. Thwack. An arrow pocked the turf next to him. Thwack. Another.

  The other Munuäti chargers had thundered past, veering away from their fallen kinsmen. Now they hooked across the slope for another assault.

  Cursing, Cnaiür stumbled to his feet—thwack—seized a round shield from the ground, and broke into a run toward the Munuäti archer. Sprinting, he drew his broadsword. Snapping concussion. An iron arrowhead punched through the laminated leather of the shield. A second caught his hip, ringing off the iron plates of his girdle. Cnaiür dashed right, using the first archer as cover from the second. Where was the third? He heard the fierce cries of the Munuäti chargers behind him.

  Spit thick and sour in his mouth. Legs pounding. The bowman growing closer, jerking his mount around to face him, nocking another shaft, realizing the futility, frantically reaching over his shoulder for his broadsword . . . Cnaiür leapt, crying savagely, driving his sword into the hairy smear of the man’s armpit. The Munuäti grunted and fell forward, hugging himself. Seizing his matted hair, Cnaiür yanked him from the saddle. The other mounted bowman pounded toward him, his sword now drawn.

  Cnaiür hooked a foot in the stirrup, kicked himself up, then vaulted off the saddle into the air. He hurtled into the astonished Munuäti and bore him to the ground. Though winded, the man grappled with him, fumbled for his knife. Cnaiür butted him in the face, felt his scalp open on the rim of the man’s helm. Somehow he’d lost his battlecap. He butted him again, felt the nose crack beneath his forehead. The Munuäti pulled his knife clear, and Cnaiür caught his wrist. Hissing breath. Hard eyes and clenched teeth. The creak of leather and armour.

  “I’m stronger,” Cnaiür grated, butting the man’s face again.

  No fear in the man’s eyes—only stubborn hate.

  “Stronger!”

  He pressed the shaking arm to the turf, squeezed the wrist until the knife slipped from senseless fingers. Butted him yet again. Jerked a leg up.

  Thwack! The third bowman.

  The Munuäti beneath him gurgled then went limp. A shaft had nailed his throat to the turf. Cnaiür heard galloping hoofs, glimpsed a towering shadow.

  He dove, heard the swoop of a broadsword.

  He rolled to a crouch, saw the Munuäti rein to a turf-chopping stop then spur his mount for another pass. Blinking blood from his eyes, Cnaiür searched the ground. Where was his sword? Horse and rider leapt toward him.

  Without thinking, Cnaiür caught the bobbing reins. With sheer might he wrenched the horse off-stride then shrieking to the ground. The astounded Munuäti rolled clear. Cnaiür kicked through the grasses methodically, at last finding his sword in a pocket of weeds. He scooped it up, arrested the Munuäti’s initial strike with a ringing clang.

  The man’s sword flashed shining arcs across the sky. The assault was furious, but within heartbeats, Cnaiür was hammering him back, throwing him off balance with pure ferocity. The man stumbled.

  And it was over. The Munuäti stared at Cnaiür stupidly, bent over to pick up his arm.

  And lost his head as well.

  I am stronger.

  His chest heaving, Cnaiür scanned the small battlefield, afflicted by a sudden worry that Kellhus was dead. But he found the Dûnyain almost immediately: he stood alone amidst a knot of dead, sword poised as earlier, awaiting the galloping rush of a single Munuäti lancer.

  Leaning into his lance, the horseman howled, giving voice to the Steppe’s fury through the thud of galloping hoofs. He knows, Cnaiür thought. Knows he’s about to die.

  As he watched, the Dûnyain caught the iron tip of the man’s lance with his sword, guiding it to turf. The lance snapped, jerking the Munuäti back against his high cantle, and the Dûnyain leapt, impossibly throwing a sandalled foot over the horse’s head and kicking the rider square in the face. The man plummeted to the grasses, where his leathery tumble was stilled by the Dûnyain’s sword.

  What manner of man . . . ?

  Anasûrimbor Kellhus paused over the corpse, as though committing it to memory. Then he turned to Cnaiür. Beneath wind-tossed hair, streaks of blood scored his face, so that for a moment he possessed the semblance of expression. Beyond him, the dark escarpments of the Hethantas piled into the sky.

  Striding through the carnage, Cnaiür silenced the wounded.

  Eventually he came to Panteruth, who crawled toward the crest. He sent the man’s desperate sword singing across the grasses, then buried his own in the turf. He kicked the man savagely, then yanked him to his feet as though he were a doll. He spit into the broken face, stared into the bleary, bloodied eyes.

  “See, Munuäti?” he cried. “See how easily the People of War are undone? Spies!” he spat. “A woman’s excuse!” With an open palm he swatted him to ground. Kicked him again, beat him from the dark fury that deafened his heart. Beat him until the man shrieked, wept.

  “What? Weep?” Cnaiür screamed. “You who’d call me a traitor to the land!” He clamped a powerful hand about the man’s throat. “Choke!” he cried. “Choke!” The man gagged and flailed. The ground itself thundered with Cnaiür’s fury. The very sky flinched.

  He dropped the broken man to the ground.

  A shameful death. A fitting death. Panteruth urs Mutkius would not return to the land.

  From a distance, Kellhus watched Cnaiür retrieve his sword. The plainsman walked toward him, picking his way with strange care among the bodies. His eyes were wild, bright beneath an overcast sky.

  He’s mad.

  “There are others,” Kellhus said. “Chained together on the path below. Women.”

  “Our prize,” Cnaiür said, avoiding the monk’s scrutiny. He walked past Kellhus toward the sound of wailing.

  Standing with her chained wrists before her, Serwë cried out as the figure neared them. “Pleease!”

  The others shrieked when they realized it was a Scylvendi who walked toward them, a different Scylvendi—more brutal, dark through tea
r-lashed eyes. They huddled behind Serwë, as far away as the chains would allow them.

  “Pleeaase!” Serwë cried again as the great towering figure approached, drenched in the blood of his kinsmen. “You must save us!”

  But then she glimpsed the man’s merciless eyes.

  The Scylvendi slapped her to the ground.

  “What will you do with her?” Kellhus asked, staring at the woman who huddled across the fire.

  “Keep her,” Cnaiür said, tearing off another mouthful of horse flesh from the rib he held in his hands. “We’ve done bloody work,” he continued, chewing. “Now she’s my prize.”

  There’s more. He fears . . . Fears to travel alone with me.

  Abruptly, the plainsman stood, tossed the shining rib into the fire, then came to a crouch next to the woman. “Such a beauty,” he said almost absently. The woman shrank from his outstretched hand. Her chains rattled. He caught her, smearing grease on her cheek.

  She reminds him of someone. One of his wives . . .

  Anissi, the only one he dares love.

  Kellhus watched while the Scylvendi took her again. With her whimpers, her suffocated cries, it seemed the ground beneath slowly spun, as though stars had stopped their cycle and the earth had begun to wheel instead. There was something . . . something here, he could sense. Something outraged.

  From what darkness had this come?

  Something is happening to me, Father.

  Afterward, the Scylvendi pulled her to her knees before him. He cupped her lovely face in his palm, turned it in the firelight. He ran thick fingers through her golden hair. He muttered to her in an incomprehensible language. Kellhus watched the swollen eyes lift to the Scylvendi, terrified that she had comprehended. He growled something else, and she winced beneath the hand that held her. “Kufa . . . Kufa,” she gasped. She began to cry again.

  More harsh questions, to which she replied with the shyness of the beaten, glancing up to the cruel face and down again. Kellhus looked through her expression and into her soul.