Read The Warrior Prophet Online

Authors: R. Scott Bakker

The Warrior Prophet (62 page)

 
The thing called Sarcellus followed a narrow track along the embankments between fields. Despite the uncharacteristic humidity, it was a clear night, and the moon etched the surrounding clots of eucalytpus and sycamore in blue. He slowed as he passed the first ruins, and guided his mount between a long gallery of columns that jutted from a collection of grassy mounds. Beyond the columns, the Sempis lay as still as any lake, bearing the white moon and the shadowy line of the northern escarpments upon its mirror back. Sarcellus dismounted.
This place had once belonged to the ancient city of Girgilioth, but that mattered little to the thing called Sarcellus. He was a creature of the moment. What mattered was that it was a landmark, and landmarks were good places for spies to confer with their handlers—human or otherwise.
Sarcellus sat with his back against one of the columns, lost in thoughts both predatory and impenetrable. Cylindrical friezes of leopards standing like men soared across the moon-pale column above. The flutter of wings stirred him from his reverie and he looked up with his large brown eyes, reminded of different pillars.
A bird the size of a raven alighted upon his knee—a bird like any raven save for its white head.
White, human head.
The face twitched with bird-nervousness, regarded Sarcellus with tiny turquoise eyes.
“I smell blood,” it said in a thin voice.
Sarcellus nodded. “The Scylvendi … He interrupted my interrogation of the girl.”
“Your effectiveness?”
“Is unimpaired. I heal.”
A tiny blink. “Good. Then what have you learned?”
“He’s not Cishaurim.” The thing had spoken this softly, as though to preserve tiny eardrums.
A cat-curious turn of the head. “Indeed,” the Synthese said after a moment. “Then what is he?”
“Dûnyain.”
Tiny grimace. Small, glistening teeth, like grains of rice, flashed between its lips. “All games end with me, Gaörtha. All games.”
Sarcellus became very still. “I play no game. This man is Dûnyain. That’s what the Scylvendi calls him. She said there’s no doubt.”
“But there’s no order called ‘Dûnyain’ in Atrithau.”
“No. But then we know that he’s not a Prince of Atrithau.”
The Old Name paused, as though to cycle large human thoughts through a small bird intellect.
“Perhaps,” it eventually said, “it’s no coincidence that this order takes its name from ancient Kûniüric. Perhaps this man’s name, Anasûrimbor, is not a clumsy Cishaurim lie after all. Perhaps he
is
of the Old Seed.”
“Could the Nonmen have trained him?”
“Perhaps … But we have spies—even in Ishterebinth. There is little that Nin-Ciljiras does that we don’t know. Very little.”
The small face cackled. It folded and unfolded its obsidian wings.
“No,” it continued, its small brow furrowed, “this Dûnyain is not a ward of the Nonmen … When the light of ancient Kûniüri was stamped out, many stubborn embers survived. The Mandate is just such an ember. Perhaps the Dûnyain is another, just as stubborn …”
The blue eyes flickered—another blink. “But far more secretive.”
Sarcellus said nothing. Speculation on such matters was beyond his warrant, beyond his making.
The tiny teeth clicked, once, twice, as though the Old Name tested their mettle.
“Yes … An
ember
… in the very shadow of Holy Golgotterath no less …”
“He’s told the woman the Holy War will be his.”
“And he’s not Cishaurim! Such a mystery, Gaörtha! Who are the Dûnyain? What do they want with the Holy War? And how, my pretty pretty child, can this man see through your face?”
“But we don’t—”
“He sees
enough
… Yes, more than enough …”
It bent its head to the right, blinked, then straightened.
“Indulge this Prince Kellhus for a while yet, Gaörtha. With the Mandate sorcerer removed from the game he’s become less of a threat. Indulge him … We must learn more about this ‘Dûnyain.’”
“But even now he grows in power. More and more these Men call him ‘Warrior-Prophet’ or ‘Prince of God.’ If he continues, he will become very difficult to remove.”
“Warrior-Prophet …” The Synthese cackled. “Very cunning, this Dûnyain. He leashes these fanatics with leather of their own making … What is his sermon, Gaörtha? Does it in any way threaten the Holy War?”
“No. Not yet, Consult Father.”
“Measure him, then do as you see fit. If it seems he might call the Holy War to kennel, you must silence him—no matter what the cost. He is but a curiosity. The Cishaurim are our foe!”
“Yes, Old Father.”
Gleaming like wet marble, the white head bobbed twice, as though in answer to some overriding instinct. A wing dropped to Sarcellus’s knee, dipped between his shadowy thighs … Gaörtha went rigid.
“Are you badly hurt, my sweet child?”
“Yessss,” the thing called Sarcellus gasped.
The small head tilted backward. Heavy-lidded eyes watched the wingtip circle and stroke, stroke and circle. “Ah, but imagine … Imagine a world where no womb quickens, where no soul hopes!”
Sarcellus sucked drool in delight.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
 
SHIGEK
 
Men never resemble one another so much as when asleep or dead.
—OPPARITHA,
ON THE CARNAL
 
 
The arrogance of the Inrithi waxed bright in the days following
Anwurat. Though the sober-minded demanded they press the attack,
the great majority clamoured for respite. They thought the Fanim
doomed, just as they thought them doomed after Mengedda. But
while the Men of the Tusk tarried, the Padirajah plotted. He would
make the world his shield.
—DRUSAS ACHAMIAN,
THE COMPENDIUM OF THE FIRST HOLY WAR
 
Early Autumn, 4111 Year-of-the-Tusk, Iothiah
 
Achamian suffered dreams …
Dreams drawn from the sheath.
Drizzle hazed the distances, obscuring the Ring Mountains behind drapes of woollen grey, granting the madness before him the span of all visible creation. Masses of Sranc, bristling with black-bronze weapons. Ranks of Bashrag, beating the mud with their massive hammers. And beyond them, the high ramparts of Golgotterath. Misty barbicans above precipitous cliffs, the two great horns of the Ark rearing into murky obscurity, curved and golden against the endless grey, trailing skirts of unguttered water.
Hoary Golgotterath, raised about the greatest terror ever to fall from the heavens.
Soon to yield …
A great yawing rumbled from the parapets out and across the dreary plains.
Like a tide of spiders, the Sranc surged forward, howling through pools, sprinting through mud. They crashed into the phalanxes of the warlike Aörsi, the long-haired bulwark of the North; they seethed against the shining ranks of the Kûniüri, the high tide of Norsirai glory. The Chieftain-Princes of the High Norsirai whipped their chariots forward and all perished before them. The standards of Ishterebinth, last of the Nonmen Mansions, charged deep into a sea of abominations, leaving black-blooded ruin in their wake. Great Nil’gikas stood like a point of brilliant sunlight amid smoke and violent shadow. And Nymeric sounded the Worldhorn, over and over, until the Sranc could hear nothing but the peal of their doom.
Seswatha, Grandmaster of the Sohonc, raised his face to the rain and tasted sweet joy, for it was happening, truly happening! Unholy Golgotterath, ancient Min-Uroikas, was about to fall. He had warned them in time!
Achamian would relive all eighteen years of that delusion.
Dreams drawn from the knife’s sheath.
And when he awakened, to the sound of harsh shouts or to the patter of cold water across his face, it would seem that one horror had merely replaced another. He would blink against torchlight, would dully note the bite of chains, a mouth stuffed with rank cloth, and the dark, scarlet-robed figures that surrounded him. And he would think, before succumbing to the Dreams once again,
It comes … the Apocalypse comes …
 
“Strange, isn’t it, Iyokus?”
“And what is that?”
“That men can be rendered so helpless so easily.”
“Men
and
Schools …”
“What are you implying?”
“Nothing, Grandmaster.”
“Look! He watches!”
“Yes … He does that from time to time. But he must recover more of his strength before we can begin.”
 
Esmenet cried out when she saw them walking their mounts across the field toward her. Kellhus and Serwë, haggard from long and sleepless travel. Suddenly she was running across the uneven pasture, as though drawn by a long irresistible line. Toward them. No, not them—
toward him
.
She flew to him, clutched him harder than she thought her limbs capable. He smelt of dust and scented oils. His beard and hair kissed her bare skin with soft curls. She could feel her tears roll from her cheek to his neck in continuous lines.
“Kellhus,” she sobbed. “Oh, Kellhus … I think I’m going
mad!
”
“No, Esmi … It is grief.”
He seemed a pillar of comfort. His square chest flattening her breasts. His long warding arms about her back and narrow waist.
He pressed her back, and she turned to Serwë, who was also crying. They hugged, then together walked back to the lonely tent on the slope. Kellhus led their horses.
“We
missed
you, Esmi,” Serwë said, strangely flustered.
Esmenet regarded the girl with sorrow. Her left eye was bruised black and cherry and an angry red cut poked from beneath her hairline. Even if Esmenet had the heart—and she had none—she would wait for Serwë to explain rather than ask what had happened. With such marks, asking demanded lies, and silence afforded truth. That was the lot of women—especially when they were wanton …
Aside from her face, the girl appeared healthy, almost aglow. Beneath her hasas, her belly had swelled in the narrow-hipped manner Esmenet could only envy. A hundred questions assailed Esmenet. How was her back? How often did she pee? Had there been any bleeding? Suddenly she realized how terrified the girl must be—even with Kellhus. Esmenet could remember her own joyous terror. But then, she’d been alone. Absolutely alone.
“You must be famished!” she exclaimed.
Serwë shook her head in feeble denial, and both Esmenet and Kellhus laughed. Serwë was always hungry—as a pregnant woman should be.
For a moment, Esmenet felt the old sunshine flash from her eyes.
“It’s so good to see you,” she said. “I’ve mourned more than the loss of Achamian.”

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