Read The Warrior Prophet Online
Authors: R. Scott Bakker
The Warrior Prophet (24 page)
“He wants to engage you as soon as possible on favourable ground!
As soon as possible!
”
As soon as possible!
”
“So?” Anfirig asked contemptously. Whether directly or indirectly, Gotian was always lecturing them on the cunning and ferocity of the Fanim. As a result, many of the Galeoth thought he feared the heathen—thought he was craven—when what he truly feared, Saubon knew, was the reckless humour of his Norsirai allies.
“So, perhaps he knows something we don’t! Something that necessitates closing with us quickly!”
The words struck Saubon breathless. “If Gedea is a broken country,” he said numbly, “then the Battleplain would be the quickest means of crossing it …” He glanced at Gotian, who nodded cautiously.
“What does—” Anfirig started.
“Think!” Saubon exclaimed. “Think, Anfi, think! Gothyelk! If Gothyelk wishes to cross Gedea as quickly as possible,
what path would he take?
”
what path would he take?
”
The Earl of Gesindal was no fool, but then neither was he a prodigy. He lowered his greying, leonine head in concentration, then said, “You’re saying he’s
close,
that the Tydonni and Thunyeri have been marching parallel to us this entire time, making for the Battleplain, as we do …” When he looked up, his eyes were bright with grudging admiration. As a close mead-friend of his oldest brother, Anfirig, Saubon knew, had always looked on him as the boy he’d so roundly teased in his youth.
close,
that the Tydonni and Thunyeri have been marching parallel to us this entire time, making for the Battleplain, as we do …” When he looked up, his eyes were bright with grudging admiration. As a close mead-friend of his oldest brother, Anfirig, Saubon knew, had always looked on him as the boy he’d so roundly teased in his youth.
“You’re saying the Sapatishah is trying to prevent us from joining Gothyelk!”
“Exactly,” Saubon replied. He glanced at Gotian once again, realized the Grandmaster had
given
him this insight.
He wants me to lead. Trusts me.
given
him this insight.
He wants me to lead. Trusts me.
But then the man didn’t know him. No one did. No one—
What are these thoughts!
Save the Ainoni, the Tydonni comprised the largest contingent of the Holy War—some seventy thousand hard-bitten men. Add to that Skaiyelt’s murderous twenty thousand, and they possessed nearly all the might of the Middle-North. The greatest Norsirai host since the fall of the Ancient North!
Ah, Skauras, my heathen friend …
Suddenly the severed head upon the lance no longer seemed a rebuke, a totem of their doom; it seemed a
sign,
the smoke that promised cleansing fire. With unaccountable certainty, Saubon realized that Skauras
was afraid
…
sign,
the smoke that promised cleansing fire. With unaccountable certainty, Saubon realized that Skauras
was afraid
…
As well he should be.
His misapprehensions fell away, and the old exhilaration coursed like liquor through his veins, a sensation he had always attributed to Gilgaöl, One-Eyed War.
The Whore will be kind to you.
Saubon tossed the lance and its grisly trophy back to Kussalt, then began barking orders, dispatching multiple messengers to inform Athjeäri and Wanhail of the situation, charging Anfirig with the attempt to locate Gothyelk, bidding Gotian to send his knights throughout the column, urging restraint and discipline.
“Until we rejoin Gothyelk, we remain in the hills,” he declared. “If Skauras wishes to close with us, either let him fight on foot or break a thousand necks!”
Then suddenly, he found himself alone with Kussalt, his ears buzzing, his face flushed.
It was happening, he realized. It was
beginning
. After years and months, the womanish war of words was finally over, and the real war was beginning. The others, like Proyas, had yearned to untangle the “holy” in “Holy War” from the Emperor’s knots. Not Saubon. It was the “war” he was most interested in. This was what he told himself, anyway.
beginning
. After years and months, the womanish war of words was finally over, and the real war was beginning. The others, like Proyas, had yearned to untangle the “holy” in “Holy War” from the Emperor’s knots. Not Saubon. It was the “war” he was most interested in. This was what he told himself, anyway.
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.
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.”
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.”
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?”
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
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”
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.
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.
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 places, 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.
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