The White-Luck Warrior by R. Scott Bakker

Author:R. Scott Bakker [Bakker, R. Scott]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fantasy, General, Historical, Fiction
ISBN: 9781590204641
Publisher: Overlook Press, The
Published: 2011-03-31T05:00:00+00:00

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They see the plume of dust shortly after breaking camp. It rises chalk-white and vertical before being drawn into a mountainous, spectral wing by the wind. The plains pile to the north in desiccated sheets, some crumpled, others bent into stumps and low horns. The plumb line of the horizon has been raised and buckled, meaning some time will pass before the authors of the plume become visible. So they continue travelling with a wary eye to the north. Mimara hears Galian and Pokwas muttering about Sranc. The company has yet to encounter any since crossing into the Istyuli, so it stands to reason.

The plume waxes and wanes according to unseen terrain but grows ever nearer. The Captain barks no instructions, even when the first of the specks appear crawling across the back of a distant knoll.

Hands held against the spiking sun, they peer into the distance.

Riders. Some forty or fifty of them—just enough to defend themselves against a single clan of skinnies. A motley assemblage of caste-menials, wearing crude hauberks of splint over stained tunics of blue and gold. Their beards hang to their waists, sway to the canter of their ponies. They ride beneath a standard she has never seen before, though she recognizes the checkered black shields of Nangaelsa.

"Nangaels," she says aloud. "They're Tydonni."

The Wizard hushes her with an angry glance.

The Great Ordeal, she realizes. At long last they have crawled into its mighty shadow...

A kind of trembling anticipation suffuses her, as if she has stumbled into the gaze of something monstrous with power. And she wonders when she became terrified of her stepfather, when for so long he seemed the only sane voice, the only understanding soul.

"A lost patrol?" Galian asks.

"Supply cohort," Xonghis says with authority. "They must have abandoned their wains."

Even though they can see the approaching riders discussing and debating them, the Skin Eaters remain silent. They have outrun civilization, these men, so far and for so long they no longer need fatuous words to bind them.

The Nangael commander is a greybeard with a long, craggy face and a low, prominent brow. His left arm hangs in a sling. The Captain gestures for Galian to accompany him. The two men walk out several paces to greet the nearing man.

The aging officer does them the courtesy of dismounting, as do the two riders nearest him. But his eyes linger on Cleric for several heartbeats. He does not like the looks of him.

"Tur'il halsa brininausch virfel?" the officer calls.

"Tell him we don't speak gibberish," the Captain instructs the former Columnary.

Mimara looks to the old Wizard, suddenly afraid. He wags his head almost imperceptibly, as if warning her against anything rash.

"Manua'tir Sheyarni?" Galian calls back.

The Nangaels are sunburned and travel-worn, their kilts frayed, the lines of their faces inked in sweat-blackened dust. But the contrast between them and her companions horrifies Mimara. The scalpers' clothing has been reduced to black rags, waxy with filth. Conger's tunic has all but disintegrated into shags of foul string. They look like things that should shamble.

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