The Warrior Prophet by R. Scott Bakker

Author:R. Scott Bakker
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, azw3
Tags: Epic, Fantasy, Courts and courtiers, Monks, Fiction, Science Fiction, Logicians, General
ISBN: 9781590201190
Publisher: Overlook Press
Published: 2008-09-15T10:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Anwurat

Where the holy take men for fools, the mad take the world.

—PROTATHIS, THE GOAT’S HEART

Late Summer, 4111 Year-of-the-Tusk, Shigek

A dried riverbed creased the heart of the plain, and for a time Cnaiür raced through it, climbing out only when the course began winding like an old man’s veins. He jerked his black to a stamping halt on the bank. The coastal hills piled above him, their heights and seaward reaches still skirted in chalklike dust. To the west, the remaining Ainoni phalanxes were withdrawing down the slopes. To the east, innumerable thousands sprinted across the broken pasture. Not far, on a small knoll, he saw a clot of infantrymen dressed in long black leather kilts stitched with iron rings, but without helms or weapons. Some sat, others stood, stripping off their armour. Save those who wept, all watched the shrouded hills with a look of stunned horror.

Where were the Ainoni knights?

To the extreme east, where the turquoise and aquamarine band of the Meneanor disappeared behind the dun foundations of the hills, he saw a great cataract of Kianene horsemen spill across the strand. He need not see their devices to know: Cinganjehoi and the Grandees of Eumarna, pounding across uncontested ground . . .

Where were the reserves? Gotian and his Shrial Knights, Gaidekki, Werijen Greatheart, Athjeäri, and the others?

Cnaiür felt a sharp pang in his throat. He clenched his teeth.

It’s happening again . . .

Kiyuth.

Only this time he was Xunnurit. He was the arrogant mule!

He pinched sweat from his eyes, watched the Fanim gallop behind a screen of distant scrub and stunted trees—an endless tide . . .

The encampment. They ride for the encampment . . .

With a yell he spurred his horse to the east.

Serwë.

———«»——————«»——————«»———

Masses of warring men animated the horizon, crashing into stubborn ranks, churning in melee. The air didn’t so much thunder as hiss with the sound of distant battle, like a sea heard through a conch shell, Martemus thought—an angry sea. Winded, he watched the first of Conphas’s assassins stride up behind Prince Kellhus, raise his shortsword . . . There was an impossible moment—a sharp intake of breath. The Prophet simply turned and caught the descending blade between his thumb and forefinger. “No,” he said, then swept around, knocking the man to the turf with an unbelievable kick. Somehow the assassin’s sword found its way into his left hand. Still crouched, the Prophet drove it down through the assassin’s throat, nailing him to the turf. A mere heartbeat had passed.

The second Nansur assassin rushed forward, striking. Another kick from a crouch, and the man’s head snapped backward, his blade flew from senseless fingers. He slumped to the earth like a cast-off robe—obviously dead.

The Zeümi sword-dancer lowered his great tulwar and laughed.

“A civilized man,” he said, his voice deep.

Without warning, he sent the tulwar whooshing through the air around him. Sunlight flashed as though from the silvered spokes of a chariot wheel.

Now standing, the Prophet drew his strange, long-pommeled sword from his shoulder sheath. Holding it in his right hand, he lowered its tip to the ground before his booted feet.

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