Read The Warrior Prophet Online
Authors: R. Scott Bakker
The Warrior Prophet (16 page)
She pressed him against the mat, straddled him.
“I recognize it,” she replied, tears now streaming down her cheeks. “So it must be …”
One lamb,
Achamian thought,
for ten bulls
. Recognition.
Achamian thought,
for ten bulls
. Recognition.
He hardened against her, ached to know her again. As always, the images flickered, each as sharp as glass. Bloodied faces. The clash of bronze arms. Men consumed in billowing sorceries. Dragons with teeth of iron … But she raised her hips, and with a single encompassing thrust, sheared away both past and future, sparing only the glorious pang of the present. He cried out.
She began grinding against him, not with the expertise of a harlot hoping to abbreviate her labour, but with the clumsy selfishness of a lover seeking surcease—a lover or a wife. Tonight she would take, and that, Achamian knew, was as much as any whore could give.
Wearing a harlot’s face, it sat in the blackness, its ears pricked to the sounds of their lovemaking—glistening sounds—a mere arm’s length away. And it thought of the weaknesses of the flesh, of all the
needs
that it was immune to, that made it powerful, deadly.
needs
that it was immune to, that made it powerful, deadly.
The air was suffused with their groaning scent, the heady perfume of unwashed bodies slapping in the night. It was not an unpleasant smell. Too devoid of fear perhaps.
The sound and smell of animals, aching animals.
But it knew something of their ache. Perhaps it knew far more. Appetite was direction, and its architects had given
it
direction—such exquisite hungers! Ah yes, the architects weren’t fools.
it
direction—such exquisite hungers! Ah yes, the architects weren’t fools.
There was ecstasy in a face. Rapture in deceit. Climax in the kill …
And certainty in the dark.
CHAPTER FOUR
ASGILIOCH
No decision is so fine as to not bind us to its consequences.
No consequence is so unexpected as to absolve us of our decisions.
Not even death.
—XIUS,
THE TRUCIAN DRAMAS
THE TRUCIAN DRAMAS
It seems a strange thing to recall these events, like waking to find I had narrowly missed a fatal fall in the darkness. Whenever I think back, I’m filled with wonder that I still live, and with horror that I still travel by night.
—DRUSAS ACHAMIAN,
THE COMPENDIUM OF THE FIRST HOLY WAR
THE COMPENDIUM OF THE FIRST HOLY WAR
Achamian and Esmenet awoke in each other’s arms, sheepish with memories of the previous night. They held each other tight to quell their fears, then as the surrounding encampment slowly rumbled to life, they made love with quiet urgency. Afterward, Esmenet fell silent, looked away each time Achamian searched for her eyes. At first, he found himself baffled and angered by this sudden change of demeanour, but then he realized she was afraid. Last night she’d shared his tent. Today, she would share his friends, his daily discourse—his
life
.
life
.
“Don’t worry,” he said, catching her eyes as she fussed with her hasas. “I’m far more particular when it comes to my friends.”
A frown crowded out the terror in her eyes. “More particular than what?”
He winked. “Than when it comes to my women.”
She looked down, smiling and shaking her head. He heard her mutter some kind of curse. As he clambered from the tent she pinched his buttocks hard enough to make him howl.
Wrapping an arm around her waist, Achamian led Esmenet to Xinemus, who stood chatting with Bloody Dinch. When he introduced her, Xinemus merely offered her a perfunctory greeting, then pointed to a faint swath of smoke across the eastern horizon. The Fanim, he explained, had infiltrated the mountains and had struck across the highlands. Apparently a large village, a place called Tusam, had been taken unawares during the night and burned to the ground. Proyas wanted to survey the devastation first-hand—with his ranking officers.
The Marshal then left them, bawling orders to his men. Achamian and Esmenet retreated to the fire, where they sat wordlessly, watching long files of Attrempan horsemen pass into the deeper byways of the encampment. He could sense her apprehension, the certainty that she would shame him, but he could find no more words to amuse or comfort her. He could only watch as she watched, feeling excluded in the manner of slaves and cripples.
Then Kellhus joined them, peering as Xinemus had at the eastern horizon.
“So it starts,” he said.
“What starts?” Achamian asked.
“The bloodshed.”
With something of a bashful air, Achamian introduced Esmenet. He inwardly winced at the coldness of her tone and expression—at the bruising still visible on her cheek. But Kellhus, if he noticed, seemed unconcerned.
“Someone new,” he said, smiling warmly. “Neither bearded nor haggard.”
“Yet …” Achamian added.
“I don’t get haggard,” Esmenet said in mock protest.
They laughed, and afterward Esmenet’s hostility seemed to wane.
Serwë arrived shortly afterward, still wrapped in her blanket. From the first, she seemed to regard Esmenet with something between wonder and terror—more so the latter after seeing Esmenet talk rather than simply listen to the men. Achamian found this troubling, but remained certain they would become friends, if only to find respite from the masculine clamour that characterized their nights by the fire.
For some reason, he found the camp oppressive and sitting still impossible, so he suggested a trek into the mountains. Kellhus immediately agreed, saying that he’d yet to see the Holy War from afar. “Nothing is understood,” he said, “until glimpsed from the heights.” Serwë, who’d so often been abandoned throughout the day, was almost embarrassingly delighted to join them. Esmenet seemed happy simply to hold Achamian’s hand.
The stout mountains of the Unaras Spur loomed large against azure skies, curving like a row of ancient molars toward the horizon. They searched all morning for a vantage that would let them see the Holy War entire, but the jumbled slopes confounded them, and the farther they walked, the more it seemed they could see only the outskirts of the vast encampment, hazed by the smoke of innumerable fires. They encountered several mounted patrols, who warned them of Fanim scouting parties. A band of Conriyan horsemen commanded by one of Xinemus’s kinsmen insisted on providing an armed escort, but Kellhus ordered them away, invoking his status as an Inrithi Prince.
When Esmenet asked whether this was wise given the danger, Kellhus said only, “We walk with a Mandate Schoolman.”
True enough, she supposed, but all this renewed talk of the heathen had unnerved her, reminded her the Holy War didn’t march against abstractions. She found herself glancing to the east more and more often, as though expecting the heights they climbed to reveal the smouldering remains of Tusam.
How long had it been since she’d last sat in her window in Sumna? How long had she’d been walking?
Walking. The city whores called those who followed the Columns
peneditari,
the “long-walkers,” a word that often became
pembeditari,
the “scratchers,” because many believed camp-whores carried various infestations. Depending on who was asked, peneditari were either as worldly and thus as admirable as caste-noble courtesans, or as polluted and thus as despicable as the beggar-whores who laid with lepers. The truth, Esmenet would discover, lay somewhere in between.
peneditari,
the “long-walkers,” a word that often became
pembeditari,
the “scratchers,” because many believed camp-whores carried various infestations. Depending on who was asked, peneditari were either as worldly and thus as admirable as caste-noble courtesans, or as polluted and thus as despicable as the beggar-whores who laid with lepers. The truth, Esmenet would discover, lay somewhere in between.
She certainly felt like a peneditari. Never had she walked so much or so far. Even the nights, which she’d spent on her back or her knees, it seemed she’d walked, following a great army of capricious cocks and accusing eyes. Never had she pleasured so many men. Their ghosts still toiled upon her when she awoke in the morning. She would gather her things, join the march, and it would feel as though she fled rather than followed.
Even still, she’d found time to wonder, to learn. She studied the changing character of the lands they passed through. She watched her skin darken, her stomach flatten, her legs harden with muscle. She learned a smattering of Galeoth, enough to shock and delight her patrons. She taught herself how to swim by watching children thrashing in a canal. To be encompassed by cool water. To float!
To be cleansed all at once.
But every night was the same. The slap of pale loins, the crush of sunburned arms, the threats, the arguments, even the jokes she and the other whores shared about the fire—these things, it seemed, were
flattening
her, pounding her into a shape she could never fit into her previous life. As never before, she dreamed of faces, leering and whiskered.
flattening
her, pounding her into a shape she could never fit into her previous life. As never before, she dreamed of faces, leering and whiskered.
Then, just the previous night, she had heard someone shouting her name. She whirled, surprised perhaps, but incredulous as well, thinking she’d misheard. Then she saw Achamian, obviously drunk, scuffling with a hulking Thunyeri.
She tried to flee, but she couldn’t move. She could only watch, breathless, as the warrior threw him to the ground. She screamed when the boot came down, but she still couldn’t move. Only when he pulled himself sobbing to his knees, cried out her name.
She ran to him—What choice did she have? In all the world, he had only her—
only her!
The outrage she’d thought she would feel was nowhere to be found. Instead, his touch, his smell, had exacted an almost perilous vulnerability, a sense of submission unlike any she’d ever known—and it was
good
. Sweet Sejenus, was it good! Like the small circle of a child’s embrace, or the taste of peppered meat after a long hunger. It was like floating in cool, cleansing water.
only her!
The outrage she’d thought she would feel was nowhere to be found. Instead, his touch, his smell, had exacted an almost perilous vulnerability, a sense of submission unlike any she’d ever known—and it was
good
. Sweet Sejenus, was it good! Like the small circle of a child’s embrace, or the taste of peppered meat after a long hunger. It was like floating in cool, cleansing water.
No burdens, only flashing sunlight and slow-waving limbs, the smell of green …
Now she was no longer peneditari; she was what the Galeoth called
“im hustwarra,”
a camp-wife. Now, at long last, she belonged to Drusas Achamian. At long last she was clean.
“im hustwarra,”
a camp-wife. Now, at long last, she belonged to Drusas Achamian. At long last she was clean.
I could go to temple,
she thought.
she thought.
Esmenet had told him nothing of Sarcellus, nothing of that mad night in Sumna, nothing of what she suspected regarding Inrau. To speak of one, it seemed, would compel her to speak of the others. Instead, she said she’d left Sumna out of love for him, and that she’d joined the camp-followers after he’d repudiated her outside Momemn.
What could she do?
Risk everything
now that they’d found each other? Besides, she
had
left Sumna for him; she
had
joined the camp-followers because of him. Silence did not contradict truth.
Risk everything
now that they’d found each other? Besides, she
had
left Sumna for him; she
had
joined the camp-followers because of him. Silence did not contradict truth.
Perhaps, if he’d been the same Achamian who had left her in Sumna …
Achamian had always been … weak, but it was a weakness born of honesty. Where other men became silent and remote, he spoke, and this gave him a curious kind of strength, one which set him apart from nearly every man Esmenet had known, and many women. But he was different now. More desperate.
In Sumna, she’d often accused him of resembling the madmen in the Ecosium Market who continually howled about iniquity and doom. Whenever they passed one, she’d say, “Look, another of your friends,” just as he’d say, “Look, another one of your customers” when they glimpsed some dreadfully obese man. Now, she wouldn’t dare. Achamian was still Achamian, but he’d acquired the same hollow, spent look of those madmen, the same stooped eyes, as though he perpetually watched some horror that walked between what everyone else could see.
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