The Warrior Prophet

by R. Scott Bakker

  “I appreciate your concern, Sarcellus, but it has been agreed that—”

  “But that’s just my point, Grandmaster! This sorcerer offers the Great Names reasons to spare the Deceiver. He gives them incentives. Contrived stories of evil spies that only the Deceiver can see!”

  “What do you mean,” Cnaiür snapped, “that only he can see them?” Sarcellus turned to him in a manner that smelled wary, though nothing about him appeared troubled.

  “This is what the sorcerer argues,” he said in a sneering tone.

  “Perhaps he does,” Cnaiür replied, “but I followed you from the council chamber. The sorcerer had said only that there were spies in our midst, nothing more.”

  “Are you suggesting,” Gotian asked sharply, “that my Knight-Commander is lying?”

  “No,” Cnaiür replied with a shrug. He felt the deadly calm settle about him. “I merely ask how he knows what he did not hear.”

  “You’re a heathen dog, Scylvendi,” Sarcellus declared. “A heathen! By what’s right and holy, you should be rotting with the Kianene of Caraskand, not calling the word of a Shrial Knight into question.”

  With a feral grin, Cnaiür spat between Sarcellus’s booted feet. Over the man’s shoulder, he saw the great tree, glimpsed Serwë’s willowy corpse bound upside down to the Dûnyain—like dead nailed to dead.

  Let it be now.

  A series of cries erupted from the nearby crowds. Distracted, Gotian commanded both Cnaiür and Sarcellus to lower their hands from their pommels. Neither man complied.

  Sarcellus glanced to Gotian, who peered across the crowd, then back to Cnaiür. “You know not what you do, Scylvendi …” His face flexed, twitched like a dying insect. “You know not what you do.”

  Cnaiür stared in horror, hearing the madness of Anwurat in the surrounding roar.

  Lie made flesh …

  Shouts added to shouts, until the air fairly hissed with cries and howls. Following Gotian’s gaze, Cnaiür turned and glimpsed a cohort of scale-armoured men in blue and scarlet coats through the screen of Shrial Knights: a few at first, clearing away throngs of Inrithi, then hundreds more, forming almost cheek to jowl opposite Gotian’s men. So far no blades had been drawn.

  Gotian hurried along his ranks, shouting orders, bellowing to the barracks for reinforcements.

  Swords were drawn, flourished so they flashed in the sun. More of the strange warriors approached, a deep phalanx of them shoving their way through the crowds of gaunt Inrithi. They were Javreh, Cnaiür realized, the slave-soldiers of the Scarlet Spires. What was happening here?

  The masses surged about several brawls. Swords rang and clattered—off to the left. Gotian’s cries pierced the din. Bewildered, the ranks of Shrial Knights immediately before Cnaiür suddenly broke, rolled back by Javreh with brandished broadswords.

  United by shock, both Cnaiür and Sarcellus drew their swords.

  But the slave-soldiers halted before them, making way for the sudden appearance of a dozen emaciated slaves bearing a silk- and gauze-draped palanquin with an intricately carved, black-lacquered frame. In one rehearsed motion, the cadaverous men lowered the litter to the ground.

  A sudden hush fell over the crowds, so absolute Cnaiür thought he could hear the wind rattle and click through Umiaki behind him. Somewhere in the distance, some wretch shrieked, either wounded or dying.

  Dressed in voluminous crimson gowns, an old man stepped from the shrouded litter, looking about with imperious contempt. The breeze wafted through his silky white beard. His eyes glittered dark from beneath painted brows.

  “I am Eleäzaras,” he declared in a resonant patrician’s voice, “Grandmaster of the Scarlet Spires.” He glanced over the dumbstruck crowds, then levelled his hawkish eyes on Gotian.

  “The one who calls himself the Warrior-Prophet. You will cut him down and deliver him to me.”

  “Well, it seems the matter is settled,” Ikurei Conphas said, his solemn tone belied by the hyena laughing in his gaze.

  “Akka?” Proyas whispered. Achamian looked to him, bewildered. For a moment, the Prince had sounded twelve …

  It was strange the way memory cared nothing for the form of the past. Perhaps this was why those dying of old age were so often incredulous. Through memory, the past assailed the present, not in queues arranged by calender and chronicle, but as a hungry mob of yesterdays.

  Yesterday Esmenet had loved him. Just yesterday she’d begged him not to leave her, not to go to the Sareotic Library. For the rest of his life, he realized, it would always be yesterday.

  He looked to the entryway, his attention caught by movement in his periphery. It was Xinemus … One of Proyas’s men—Iryssas, he realized—led him across the threshold, then up into the packed tiers. He was dressed in full panoply, wearing the shin-length skirt of a Conriyan knight and a harness of silvered ring-mail beneath a Kianene vest. His beard was oiled and braided, and fell in a fan of ringlets across his upper chest. Compared with the half-wasted Men of the Tusk, he looked robust, majestic, at once exotic and familiar, like an Inrithi prince from faraway Nilnamesh.

  The Marshal stumbled twice passing through his fellow caste-nobles, and Achamian could see torment on his blinded face—torment and a curious, almost heartbreaking stubbornness. A determination to resume his place among the mighty.

  Achamian swallowed at the knife in his throat.

  Zin …

  Breathless, he watched the Marshal settle between Gaidekki and Ingiaban, then turn his face to open air, staring out as though the Great Names sat before him rather than below. Achamian remembered the indolent nights he’d spent at Xinemus’s coastal villa in Conriya. He remembered drinking anpoi, eating wild hen stuffed with oysters, and their endless talk of things ancient and dead. And suddenly Achamian understood what he had to do …

  He had to tell a story.

  Esmenet had loved him just yesterday. But then so too had the world ended!

  “I’ve suffered,” he called abruptly, and it seemed he heard his voice through Xinemus’s ears.

  It sounded strong.

  “I have suffered,” he repeated, pushing himself to his feet. “All of us have suffered. The time for politics and posturing has passed. ‘Those who speak truth,’ the Latter Prophet tells us, ‘have naught to fear, though they should perish for it …’”

  He could feel their eyes: sceptical, curious, and indignant.

  “It surprises you, doesn’t it, hearing a sorcerer, one of the Unclean, quoting Scripture. I imagine it even offends some of you. Nevertheless, I shall speak the truth.”

  “So you lied to us before?” Conphas said with the semblance of sombre tact. Always a true son of House Ikurei.

  “No more than you,” Achamian said, “nor any other man in these chambers. For all of us parse and ration our words, pitch them to the ears of the listener. All of us play jnan—that cursed game! Even though men die, we play it … And few, Exalt-General, know it better than you!”

  Somehow, he’d found that tone or note that stilled tongues and stirred hearts to listen—that voice, he realized, that Kellhus so effortlessly mastered.

  “Men think us Mandate Schoolmen drunk on legend, deranged by history. All the Three Seas laugh at us. And why not, when we weep and tug on our beards at the tales you tell your children at night? But this—this!—isn’t the Three Seas. This is Caraskand, where the Holy War lies trapped and starving, besieged by the fury of the Padirajah. In all likelihood, these are the last days of your life! Think on it! The hunger, the desperation, the terror flailing at your bowel, the horror bolting through your heart!”

  “That’s enough!” an ashen-faced Gothyelk cried.

  “No!” Achamian boomed. “It isn’t enough! For what you suffer now, I’ve suffered my entire life—day and night! Doom! Doom lies upon you, darkening your thoughts, weighing your steps. Even now, your heart quickens. Your breath grows tight …

  “But you’ve still much, much to learn!

  “Thousands of
years ago, before Men had crossed the Great Kayarsus, before even The Chronicle of the Tusk was written, the Nonmen ruled these lands. And like us, they warred amongst themselves, for honour, for riches, and yes, even for faith. But the greatest of their wars they fought, not against themselves, or even against our ancestors—though we would prove to be their ruin. The greatest of their wars they fought against the Inchoroi, a race of monstrosities. A race who exulted in the subtleties of the flesh, forging perversities from life the way we forge swords from iron. Sranc, Bashrag, even Wracu, dragons, are relics of their ancient wars against the Nonmen.

  “Led by the great Cû’jara-Cinmoi, the Nonmen Kings battled them across the plains and through the high and deep places of the earth. After ordeal and grievous sacrifice, they beat the Inchoroi back to their first and final stronghold, a place the Nonmen called Min-Uroikas, the ‘Pit of Obscenities.’ I’ll not recount the horrors of that place. Suffice to say the Inchoroi were overthrown, extinguished—or so it was thought. And the Nonmen cast a glamour about Min-Uroikas so that it would remain forever hidden. Then, exhausted and mortally weakened, they retired to the remnants of their ruined world, a triumphant, yet broken, race.

  “Centuries later the Men of Eänna descended the Kayarsus, howling multitudes of them, led by their Chieftain-Kings—our fathers of yore. You know their names, for they’re enumerated in The Chronicle of the Tusk: Shelgal, Mamayma, Nomur, Inshull … They swept the dwindling Nonmen before them, sealing up their great mansions and driving them into the sea. For an age, knowledge of the Inchoroi and Min-Uroikas passed from all souls. Only the Nonmen of Injor-Niyas remembered, and they dared not leave their mountain fastnesses.

  “But as the years passed, the enmity between our races waned. Treaties were forged between the remaining Nonmen and the Norsirai of Trysë and Sauglish. Knowledge and goods were exchanged, and Men learned for the first time of the Inchoroi and their wars against the Nonmen. Then under the heirs of Nincaerû-Telesser, a Nonman sorcerer named Cet’ingira—whom you know as Mekeritrig from The Sagas—revealed the location of Min-Uroikas to Shaeönanra, the Grandvizier of the ancient Gnostic School of Mangaecca. The glamour about the wicked stronghold was broken, and the Schoolmen of the Mangaecca reclaimed Min-Uroikas—to the woe of us all.

  “They called it Anochirwa, ‘Hornsreaching,’ though to the Men who warred against them, it came to be called Golgotterath … A name we use to frighten our children still, though it is we who should be frightened.”

  He paused, searching from face to face.

  “I say this because the Nonmen, even though they destroyed the Inchoroi, could not undo Min-Uroikas, for it wasn’t—isn’t—of this world. The Mangaecca ransacked the place, discovering much that the Nonmen had overlooked, including terrible armaments never brought to fruition. And much as a man who dwells in a palace comes to think himself a prince, so the Mangaecca came to think themselves the successors of the Inchoroi. They became enamoured of their inhuman ways, and they fell upon their obscene and degenerate craft, the Tekne, with the curiosity of monkeys. And most importantly—most tragically!—they discovered Mog-Pharau …”

  “The No-God,” Proyas said quietly.

  Achamian nodded. “Tsurumah, Mursiris, World-Breaker, and a thousand other hated names … It took them centuries, but just over two thousand years ago, when the High Kings of Kyraneas exacted tribute from these lands, and perhaps raised this very council hall, they finally succeeded in awakening Him … The No-God … Near all the world crashed into screams and blood ere his fall.”

  He smiled and looked at them, blinked tears across his cheeks. “What I’ve seen in my Dreams,” he said softly. “The horrors I have seen …”

  He shook his head, stepped forward as though stumbling clear of some trance.

  “Who among you forgets the Plains of Mengedda? Many of you, I know, suffered nightmares, dreams of dying in ancient battles. And all of you saw the bones and bronze arms vomited from that cursed ground. Those things happened, I assure you, for a reason. They are the echoes of terrible deeds, the spoor of dread and catastrophe. If any of you doubt the existence or the power of the No-God, then I bid you only recall that ground, which broke for the mere witness of His passing!

  “Now everything I’ve told you is fact, recorded in annals of both Men and Nonmen. But this isn’t, as you might think, a story of doom averted—not in the least! For though Mog-Pharau was struck down on the Plains of Mengedda, his accursed attendants recovered his remains. And this, great lords, is why we Mandate Schoolmen haunt your courts and wander your halls. This is why we bear your taunts and bite our tongues! For two thousand years the Consult has continued its wicked study, for two thousand years they’ve laboured to resurrect the No-God. Think us mad, call us fools, but it’s your wives, your children, we seek to protect. The Three Seas is our charge!

  “This is why I come to you now. Heed me, for I know of what I speak!

  “These creatures, these skin-spies, that infiltrate your ranks have no relation to the Cishaurim. By calling them such, you simply do what all men do when assailed by the Unknown: you drag it into the circle of what you know. You clothe new enemies in the trappings of old. But these things hail from far outside your circle, from time out of memory! Think of what we saw moments ago! These skin-spies are beyond your craft or ken, beyond that even of the Cishaurim, whom you fear and hate.

  “They are agents of the Consult, and their mere existence omens disaster! Only deep mastery of the Tekne could bring such obscenities to life, a mastery that promises the Resurrection of Mog-Pharau is nigh …

  “Need I tell you what that means?

  “We Mandate Schoolmen, as you know, dream of the ancient world’s end. And of all those dreams, there’s one we suffer more than any other: the death of Celmomas, High-King of Kûniüri, on the Fields of Eleneöt.” He paused, realized that he panted for breath. “Anasûrimbor Celmomas,” he said.

  There was an anxious rustle through the chamber. He heard someone muttering in Ainoni.

  “And in this dream,” he continued, pressing his tone nearer to its crescendo, “Celmomas speaks, as the dying sometimes do, a great prophecy. Do not to grieve, he says, for an Anasûrimbor shall return at the end of the world …

  “An Anasûrimbor!” he cried, as though that name held the secret of all reason. His voice resounded through the chamber, echoed across the ancient stonework.

  “An Anasûrimbor shall return at the end of the world. And he has … He hangs dying even as we speak! Anasûrimbor Kellhus, the man you’ve condemned, is what we in the Mandate call the Harbinger, the living sign of the end of days. He is our only hope!”

  Achamian swept his gaze from the table to the tiers, lowered his opened palms.

  “So you, the Lords of the Holy War, must ask yourself, what’s the wager you would make? You who think yourselves doomed, and your wives and children safe … Are you so certain this man is merely what you think? And whence comes this certainty? From wisdom? Or from desperation?

  “Are you willing to risk the very world to see your bigotries through?”

  The silence that closed about his voice was leaden. It was as though a wall of stone faces and glass eyes regarded him. For a long moment no one dared speak, and with startled wonder, Achamian realized he had actually reached them. For once they’d listened with their hearts!

  They believe!

  Then Ikurei Conphas began stamping his foot and slapping his thigh, calling, “Hussaa! Hu-hu-hussaaa!” Another on the tiers, General Sompas, joined him … “Hussaa! Hu-hu-hussaaa!”

  A mockery of the traditional Nansur cheer. The laughter was hesitant at first, but within moments, it boomed through the chamber.

  The Lords of the Holy War had made their wager.

  His crimson gown shimmering in the sunlight, the Grandmaster of the Scarlet Spires took two steps toward them. “You will deliver him,” he repeated darkly.

  “Sarcellus!” Incheiri Gotian roared, brandishing a Chorae in his
left hand. “Kill him! Kill the False Prophet!”

  But Cnaiür was already sprinting toward the tree. He whirled, falling into stance several paces before the Knight of the Tusk.

  Anything … Any indignity. Any price!

  Sarcellus lowered his sword, opened his arms as though in fellowship. Beyond him, the masses surged and howled across the reaches of the Kalaul. The air hummed with their growing thunder. Smiling, the Knight-Commander stepped closer, pausing at the extreme limit of any sudden lunge.

  “We worship the same God, you and I.”

  The breeze had calmed, and the sun’s heat leapt into its wake. It seemed to Cnaiür that he could smell rotting flesh—rotting flesh mingled with the bitter spit of eucalyptus leaves.

  Serwë …

  “This,” Cnaiür said calmly, “is the sum of my worship.”

  Rest my sweet, for I shall bear you …

  He clutched his tunic about its blood-clotted collar, tore it to his waist. He raised his broadsword straight before him.

  I shall avenge.

  Beyond the Knight-Commander, Gotian exchanged shouts with the crimson-gowned Grandmaster. The Javreh, the slave-soldiers of the Scarlet Spires, threw themselves against the ranks of Shrial Knights, who’d linked arms in an effort to hold them—and the surrounding fields of shrieking and bellowing Inrithi—at bay. The surrounding temples and cloisters of Csokis reared in the distance, impassive in the haze. The Five Heights loomed against the surrounding sky.

  And Cnaiür grinned as only a Chieftain of the Utemot could grin. The neck of the world, it seemed, lay pressed against the point of his sword.

  I shall butcher.

  All hungered here. All starved.

  Everything, Cnaiür realized, had transpired according to the Dûnyain’s mad gambit. What difference did it make whether he perished now, hanging from this tree, or several days hence, when the Padirajah at last overcame the walls? So he’d given himself to his captors, knowing that no man was so innocent as the accused who exposed his accusers.