Read The Warrior Prophet Online
Authors: R. Scott Bakker
The Warrior Prophet (25 page)
And they sang, the pious Knights of the Tusk, the blue-eyed warriors of Galeoth, Ce Tydonn, and Thunyerus. They sang, and the air shivered as though the skies were vaulted in stone.
And when the day is done,
In our eyes the Gods shall lurk!
Crying
“Glory to the God!”
Athjeäri and his thanes broke ranks, crouching forward on their mounts, slowly dipping their lances. More Houses abandoned the line and pounded toward the Kianene: Wanhail, Anfirig, Werijen Greatheart, and then old Gothyelk himself, bellowing,
“Heaven wills it!”
Like an avalanche, House after House followed, until almost all the mail-clad might of the Middle-North cantered out to greet their foe.
“There!”
footmen on the line would cry, glimpsing the Red Lion of Saubon or the Black Stag of Gothyelk and his sons.
“Glory to the God!”
Athjeäri and his thanes broke ranks, crouching forward on their mounts, slowly dipping their lances. More Houses abandoned the line and pounded toward the Kianene: Wanhail, Anfirig, Werijen Greatheart, and then old Gothyelk himself, bellowing,
“Heaven wills it!”
Like an avalanche, House after House followed, until almost all the mail-clad might of the Middle-North cantered out to greet their foe.
“There!”
footmen on the line would cry, glimpsing the Red Lion of Saubon or the Black Stag of Gothyelk and his sons.
From a trot the massive warhorses were urged to a slow gallop. Nesting thrushes took flight, burst slapping into the sky. Everything became breath and iron, the rumble of brothers before, behind, and to the side. Then, like a cloud of locusts, arrows swept among them. There was a hellish racket punctuated by screaming horses and astonished shouts. Warhorses toppled and thrashed, yanking knights to the ground, breaking backs, crushing legs.
Then the madness fell away. Once again it was the pure thunder of the charge. The strange camaraderie of men bent to a single, fatal purpose. Hummocks, scrub, and the bones of the Vulgar Holy War’s dead rushed beneath. The wind bled through chain links, tousled Thunyeri braids and Tydonni crests. Bright banners slapped against the sky. The heathen, wicked and foul, drew closer, ever closer. One last storm of arrows, these ones almost horizontal to the ground, punching against shield and armour. Some were struck from their saddles. Tongue tips were bitten off in the concussion of the fall. The unhorsed arched across the turf, screamed and swatted at the sky. Wounded mounts danced in frothing circles nearby. The rest thundered on, over grasses, through patches of blooming milkwort waving in the wind. They couched their lances, twenty thousand men draped in great mail hauberks over thick felt, with coifs across their faces and helms that swept down to their cheeks, riding chargers caparisoned in mail or iron plates. The fear dissolved into drunken speed, into the
momentum,
became so mingled with exhilaration as to be indistinguishable from it. They were addicted to the charge, the Men of the Tusk. Everything focused into the glittering tip of a lance. The target nearer, nearer …
momentum,
became so mingled with exhilaration as to be indistinguishable from it. They were addicted to the charge, the Men of the Tusk. Everything focused into the glittering tip of a lance. The target nearer, nearer …
The rumble of hooves and drums drowned their kinsmen’s song. They crashed through a thin screen of sumac … Saw eyes whiten in sudden terror.
Then impact. The jarring splinter of wood as lances speared through shield, through armour. Suddenly the ground became still and solid beneath them, and the air rang with wails and shouts. Hands drew sword and axe. Everywhere figures grappled and hacked. Horses reared. Blades pitched blood into the sky.
And the Kianene fell, undone by their ferocity, crumpling beneath northern hands, dying beneath pale faces and merciless blue eyes. The heathen recoiled from the slaughter—and fled.
The Galeoth, the Tydonni, and the Thunyeri raised a mighty shout and spurred after them. But the Shrial Knights reined to a stop, seemed to mill in confusion.
The Inrithi knights spurred their warhorses, but the Fanim outdistanced them, peppered them with arrows as they fled. Suddenly they dissolved into an
advancing
tide of heathen horsemen, more heavily armoured. The two great lines crashed. Several desperate moments ensued. The orange and black standard of Earl Hagarond of Üsgald disappeared in the tumult, and the Galeoth lord was speared lifeless on the ground. A lance through the throat heaved Magga, cousin of Skaiyelt, from his horse and threw him into his kinsmen. Death came swirling down. Gothyelk himself was felled, and the roars of his sons pierced the din. The ululating cries of the Fanim reached a crescendo …
advancing
tide of heathen horsemen, more heavily armoured. The two great lines crashed. Several desperate moments ensued. The orange and black standard of Earl Hagarond of Üsgald disappeared in the tumult, and the Galeoth lord was speared lifeless on the ground. A lance through the throat heaved Magga, cousin of Skaiyelt, from his horse and threw him into his kinsmen. Death came swirling down. Gothyelk himself was felled, and the roars of his sons pierced the din. The ululating cries of the Fanim reached a crescendo …
But war was bloody work, and the iron men hammered their foes, split skulls through battlecaps, cracked wooden shields, broke the arms bearing them. Yalgrota Sranchammer beheaded a heathen horse with a single blow, tossed Fanim Grandees from their saddles as though they were children. Werijen Greatheart, Earl of Plaideöl, rallied his Tydonni and scattered the heathen who assailed Gothyelk. On the ground, Goken the Red, the Thunyeri Earl of Cern Auglai, butchered man and horse alike, and cut his way back to his struggling standard. Never had the Kianene encountered such men, such furious determination. Desert-dark faces howled against the turf. Hawkish eyes slackened with fear.
A moment of respite.
Householders dragged their wounded lords to pockets of safety. Injured in the arm, Earl Cynnea of Agmundr ranted at his kinsmen not to pull him away. Earl Othrain of Numaineiri wept as he lifted his family’s ancient standard from the lifeless hands of his son and raised it once more. Prince Saubon bellowed for another horse. Across the stretch they had thundered across only moments before, men stumbled or crawled, fumbling to staunch their wounds. But many more roared in exultation, the madness of battle upon them, cruel Gilgaöl galloping through their hearts.
Their enemy was everywhere, before them, beside them, sweeping in on their flanks. Massive cohorts wheeled in the near distance, charged them from behind. Splendid in their silk khalats and golden corselets, the Grandees of Gedea and Shigek yet again assailed the iron men.
Beset on all sides, the Men of the Tusk died. Taken in the back by lances. Jerked by hooks from their saddles and ridden down. Pick-like axes punched through heavy hauberks. Arrows dropped proud warhorses. Dying men cried to their wives, their Gods. Familiar voices pierced the cacophony. A cousin. A mead-friend. A brother or father, shrieking. The crimson standard of Earl Kothwa of Gaethuni toppled, was raised once more, then disappeared forever, as did Kothwa and five hundred of his Tydonni. The Black Stag of Agansanor was also overcome, trampled into the turf. Gothyelk’s householders tried to drag their wounded Earl away, but were cut down amid a flurry of Kianene horsemen. Only a frantic charge by his sons saved the old earl, though his eldest, Gotheras, was gored in the thigh.
Through the din, the Earls and Thanes of the Middle-North could hear horns desperately signalling retreat, but there was nowhere to withdraw. Jeering masses of heathen horsemen swirled about them, peppering them with arrows, rolling back their flanks, shrugging away their disjointed counter-charges. Everywhere they looked, they saw the silken standards of the Fanim, stitched in gold, bearing strange animal devices. And the endless, unearthly drums pounded out the rhythm of their dying.
Then suddenly, impossibly, the Kianene divisions blocking their retreat scattered, and lines of white-clad Shrial Knights swept into their midst, crying,
“Flee, brothers! Flee!”
“Flee, brothers! Flee!”
Panicked knights galloped, ran, or stumbled toward their countrymen. Bloodied bands tumbled through the ravine, careened into their own men. The Shrial Knights fought on for several moments, then wheeled, racing back, pursued by masses of heathen horsemen—a howling rush of lances, shields, dark faces, and frothing horses, as wide as the horizon. Limping across the Battleplain, hundreds of wounded were cut down within throwing distance of the common line. The Men of the Tusk could only watch, aghast. Their song was dead. They could hear only drums, pounding, pounding, pounding …
Dread and the heathen were upon them.
“We had them … Had them!”
Saubon screamed, spitting blood.
Saubon screamed, spitting blood.
Gotian seized him by both shoulders. “You had nothing, fool. Nothing! You knew the rule! When you break them,
return to the line!
”
return to the line!
”
After he’d skidded through the muck of the stream and pressed his way through the ranks, Gotian had sought out the Galeoth Prince, but had found a raving lunatic in his stead.
“But we
had
them!” Saubon cried.
had
them!” Saubon cried.
There was a sudden shout, and Gotian reflexively raised his shield. Saubon simply continued to rave. “They
broke like children
before—” There was a clatter, like hail against a copper roof. Men screamed. “—like children! We hacked them
to the ground!
”
broke like children
before—” There was a clatter, like hail against a copper roof. Men screamed. “—like children! We hacked them
to the ground!
”
A heathen shaft stuck from the Galeoth’s chest. For a moment, the Grandmaster thought the man was dead, but Saubon merely reached up and snapped it. It had pierced his hauberk, but had been stilled by the felt beneath.
“We fucking well had them!”
Saubon continued to roar.
Saubon continued to roar.
Gotian grabbed him again, shook him.
“Listen!”
he cried. “That’s what they wanted you to think! The Kianene are too nimble, too pliable on the field and too fierce of heart to truly break. When you charge, you charge to bleed them, not to rout them!”
“Listen!”
he cried. “That’s what they wanted you to think! The Kianene are too nimble, too pliable on the field and too fierce of heart to truly break. When you charge, you charge to bleed them, not to rout them!”
Saubon looked at him dully. “I’ve doomed us …”
“Gather your wits, man!”
Gotian roared. “We’re not like the heathen. We’re hard, but we’re brittle. We
break!
Gothyelk is down. Wounded—perhaps mortally!
You must rally these men!
”
Gotian roared. “We’re not like the heathen. We’re hard, but we’re brittle. We
break!
Gothyelk is down. Wounded—perhaps mortally!
You must rally these men!
”
“Yes … Rally …” Abruptly, Saubon’s eyes
shone,
as though some brighter fire now moved him. “The Whore would be kind!” the Prince cried.
“That’s what he said!”
shone,
as though some brighter fire now moved him. “The Whore would be kind!” the Prince cried.
“That’s what he said!”
Gotian could only stare, bewildered.
Coithus Saubon, a Prince of Galeoth, the seventh son of old evil Eryeat, hollered for his horse.
Great tides of Fanim lancers, countless thousands of them, crashed into the Inrithi line—and were stopped dead. Galeoth and Tydonni pikemen gutted their horses. Tattooed Nangaels from Ce Tydonn’s northern marches cudgelled the fallen in the mud. Agmundrmen punched arrows through shield and corselet with their deadly yew bows. Auglishmen from the deep forests of Thunyerus broke ranks when the Fanim fled, hurling hatchets that buzzed like dragonflies.
At other points along the ravine, leather-armoured cohorts of Fanim swept parallel to the Inrithi ranks, loosing arrows and taunts, tossing the heads of those caste-nobles who’d fallen in the first charge. The Northmen would hunch beneath their kite shields, weather the barrage, and then, to the dismay of the heathen, throw those self-same heads back at them.
Soon the Fanim began flinching from sections of the Inrithi line—from the stouthearted Gesindalmen and Kurigalders of Galeoth, from the grim Numainerish and long-bearded Plaidolmen of Ce Tydonn—but they found none so fearsome as the flaxen-haired Thunyeri, whose great shields seemed walls of stone, and whose two-handed axes and broadswords could split iron-armoured men to the heart. Horseless, the giant Yalgrota Sranchammer stood before them, roaring curses and waving his axe wildly in the air. When the Kianene indulged him, he and his clansmen hacked them into bloody kindling.
Yet again and again, the Grandees of Gedea and Shigek spilled across the ravine and charged headlong into the iron men, besetting the Galeoth, then the Tydonni, searching for one ill-forged link. They need only break the Inrithi once, and this knowledge drove them to acts of fanatic desperation. Men with shattered scimitars, with spouting wounds, even men with their bowels hanging about their knees, surged forward, threw themselves at the Norsirai. But each time they became mired in melee, mud, and carnage before the howls of their lords sent them galloping for the safety of the open plain. In their wake the Men of the Tusk stumbled to their knees, crying out in bitter relief.
To the northeast, where the common line trailed into the salt marshes, the Padirajah’s son, Crown Prince Fanayal, led the Coyauri, his father’s elite heavy cavalry, against the Cuärwishmen of Ce Tydonn, who had crowded into the ranks of their neighbours to the west and were caught scrambling back to their positions. For several moments, all was chaos, and dozens of Cuärwishmen could be seen fleeing into the marshes. Broadswords and scimitars flashed in the sunlight. Suddenly bands of shimmering Coyauri began spilling behind the line, though the Fanayal’s White Horse standard remained stalled near the ravine. Gothyelk’s two younger sons charged the Coyauri with what horse that remained to them, and the Fanim, without the open ground their tactics favoured, were driven back with atrocious losses.
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