Read The Warrior Prophet Online
Authors: R. Scott Bakker
The Warrior Prophet (105 page)
“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.
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.
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.
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 …”
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!
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.
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.
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!”
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?
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?”
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!”
“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.
Knowing that if he survived …
The secret of battle!
Sarcellus swept his longsword in a series of blinding exercises. His arms snapped out and down, like bolts thrown from siege engines. There was something inhuman to his movements.
Cnaiür neither flinched nor moved. He was a Son of the People, a prodigy born of desolate earth, sent to kill, to reave. He was a savage from dark northern plains, with thunder in his heart and murder in his eyes … He was Cnaiür urs Skiötha, most violent of all men.
He shrugged his bronzed limbs and planted his feet.
“You will fear,” Sarcellus said, “before this is over.”
“I cut you once,” Cnaiür grated.
He could clearly see the threads of inflamed red branching across his face now. They were creases, he realized. Creases he’d seen open before …
“I know why you loved her,” the Shrial Knight snarled. “Such a peach! I think I’ll chase the dogs from her corpse—after—and love her again …”
Cnaiür stared, unmoved. Howls rifled the air. Upraised fists hammered the distances—thousands of them.
Just the space of breaths between them now.
Breaths.
Their blades cut open space. Kissed. Circled. Kissed again. Whirling geometries, shocking the air with the staccato ring of steel. Leap. Crouch. Lunge … With bestial grace, the Scylvendi pounded the abomination, pressing him back. But the Shrial Knight’s sword was sorcery—it dazzled the air.
Cnaiür fell back, gathered his breath, shook sweat from his mane.
“My flesh,” Sarcellus whispered, “has been folded more times than the steel of your sword.” He laughed as though utterly unwinded. “Men are dogs and kine … But my kind, we’re wolves in the forest, lions on the plain. We’re sharks in the sea …”
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