The Warrior Prophet by R. Scott Bakker Read Free Book Online Page A

to warrant betraying his School? Enough to throw the number-sticks of Apocalypse? Could anything be enough?
    Other than the truth. The truth was always enough, wasn’t it?
    He looked at me and he knew . Throwing the stone, Achamian realized, had been another lesson. Another clue. But for what? That disaster would follow if he made the wrong decision? That disaster would follow no matter what his decision?
    There was no end, it seemed, to his torment.

CHAPTER TWO
     
    ANSERCA
     
    Duty measures the distance between the animal and the divine.
    —EKYANNUS I, 44 EPISTLES
     
     
The days and weeks before battle are a strange thing. All the
contingents, the Conriyans, the Galeoth, the Nansur, the Thunyeri,
the Tydonni, the Ainoni, and the Scarlet Spires, marched to the
fortress of Asgilioch, to the Southron Gates and the heathen frontier.
And though many bent their thoughts to Skauras, the heathen
Sapatishah who would contest us, he was still woven of the same
cloth as a thousand other abstract concerns. One could still confuse
war with everyday living …
    —DRUSAS ACHAMIAN, COMPENDIUM OF THE FIRST HOLY WAR
     

Late Spring, 4111 Year-of-the-Tusk, the province of Anserca
     
    For the first few days of the march, everything had been confusion, especially at sunset, when the Inrithi scattered across field and hillside to make camp. Unable to find Xinemus and too tired to care, Achamian had even pitched his tent among strangers a couple of nights. As the Conriyan host grew accustomed to itself as a host, however, collective habit, combined with the gravity of fealty and familiarity, ensured that the camp took more or less the same shape every evening. Soon Achamian found himself sharing food and banter, not only with Xinemus and his senior officers, Iryssas, Dinchases, and Zenkappa, but with Kellhus, Serwë, and Cnaiür as well. Proyas visited them twice—difficult evenings for Achamian—but usually the Crown Prince would summon Xinemus, Kellhus, and Cnaiür to the Royal Pavilion, either for temple or for evening councils with the other great lords of the Conriyan contingent.
    As a result, Achamian often found himself stranded with Iryssas, Dinchases, and Zenkappa. They made for awkward company, especially with a timid beauty such as Serwë in their midst. But Achamian soon began to appreciate these nights—particularly after spending his days marching with Kellhus. There would be the shyness of men meeting in the absence of their traditional brokers, then the rush of affable discourse, as though surprised and delighted they spoke the same language. It reminded him of the relief he and his childhood friends had felt whenever their older brothers had been called to the boats or the beaches. The fellowship of overshadowed souls was something Achamian could understand. Since leaving Momemn, it seemed the only moments of peace he found were with these men, even though they thought him damned.
    One night, Xinemus took Kellhus and Serwë to join Proyas in celebration of Venicata, an Inrithi holy day. Iryssas and the others departed soon after to join their men, and for the first time Achamian found himself alone with the Scylvendi, Cnaiür urs Skiötha, the Last of the Utemot.
    Even after several nights of sharing the same fire, the Scylvendi barbarian unnerved him. Sometimes, glimpsing him in his periphery, Achamian would involuntarily catch his breath. Like Kellhus, Cnaiür was a wraith from his dreams, a figure from a far more treacherous ground. Add to this his many-scarred arms and the Chorae he kept stuffed beneath his iron-plated girdle …
    But there were so many questions he needed to ask. Regarding Kellhus, mostly, but also regarding the Sranc clans to the north of his tribal lands. He even wanted to ask the man about Serwë—the way she doted on Kellhus yet followed Cnaiür to sleep had been noticed by all. On those nights the three retired early, Achamian could see the gossip in the looks exchanged by Iryssas and