R. Scott Bakker - The Prince of Nothing 2 - Warrior-Prophet

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Book Information:

Genre: Epic Fantasy

Author: R. Scott Bakker

Name: Warrior-Prophet

Series: Book Two of The Prince of Nothing

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Warrior-Prophet

Book Two of The Prince of Nothing

By R. Scott Bakker

What Has Come Before

The First Apocalypse destroyed the great Norsirai nations of the North. Only the South, the Ketyai

nations of the Three Seas, survived the onslaught of the No-God, Mog-Pharau, and his Consult of

generals and magi- The years passed, and the Men of the Three Seas forgot, as Men inevitably do, the

horrors endured by their fathers.

Empires rose and empires fell: Kyraneas, Shir, Cenei. The Latter Prophet, Inri Sejenus, reinterpreted the

Tusk, the holiest of artifacts, and within a few centuries the faith of Inrithism, organized and administered

by the Thousand Temples and its spiritual leader, the Shriah, came to dominate the entire Three Seas.

The great sorcerous Schools, such as the Scarlet Spires, the Imperial Saik, and the Mysunsai, arose in

response to the Inrithi persecution of the Few, those possessing the ability to see and work sorcery.

Using Chorae, ancient artifacts that render their bearers immune to sorcery, the Inrithi warred against the

Schools, attempting, unsuccessfully, to purify the Three Seas. Then Fane, the Prophet of the Solitary

God, united the Kianene, the desert peoples of the southwestern Three Seas, and declared war against

the Tusk and the Thousand Temples. After centuries and several jihads, the Fanim and their eyeless

sorcerer-priests, the Cishaurim, conquered nearly all the western Three Seas, including the holy city of

Shimeh, the birthplace of Inri Sejenus. Only the moribund remnants of the Nansur Empire continued to

resist them.

Now war and strife rule the South. The two great faiths of Inrithism and Fanimry continually skirmish,

though trade and pilgrimage are tolerated when commercially convenient. The great families and nations

vie for military and mercantile dominance. The minor and major Schools squabble and plot, particularly

against the upstart Cishaurim, whose sorcery, the Psukhe, the Schoolmen cannot distinguish from the

God’s own world. And the Thousand Temples pursue earthly ambitions under the leadership of corrupt

and ineffectual Shriahs.

The First Apocalypse has become little more than legend. Th Consult, which had survived the death of

Mog-Pharau, has dwindled into myth, something old wives tell small children. After two thousand years,

only the Schoolmen of the Mandate, who relive the Apocalyps each night through the eyes of their

ancient founder, Seswatha, recall the horror and the prophecies of the No-God’s return. Though the

mighty and the learned consider them fools, their possession of the Gnosis, the sorcery of the Ancient

North, commands respect and mortal envy. Driven by nightmares, they wander the labyrinths of power,

scouring the Three Seas for signs of their ancient and implacable foe—the Consult.

And as always, they find nothing.

The Holy War is the name of the great host called by Maithanet, the leader of the Thousand Temples, to

liberate Shimeh from the heathen Fanim of Kian. Word of Maithanet’s call spreads across the Three

Seas, and faithful from all the great Inrithi nations—Galeoth, Thunyerus, Ce Tydonn, Conriya, High

Ainon and their tributaries—travel to the city of Momemn, the capital of the Nansur Empire, to become

Men of the Tusk.

Almost from the outset, the gathering host is mired in politics and controversy. First, Maithanet somehow

convinces the Scarlet Spires, the most powerful of the sorcerous Schools, to join his Holy War. Despite

the outrage this provokes—sorcery is anathema to the Inrithi—the Men of the Tusk realize they need the

Scarlet Spires to counter the heathen Cishaurim, the sorcerer-priests of the Fanim. The Holy War would

be doomed without one of the Major Schools. The question is why the Scarlet Schoolmen would agree

to such a perilous arrangement. Unknown to most, Eleazaras, the Grandmaster of the Scarlet Spires, has

waged a long and secret war against the Cishaurim, who for no apparent reason assassinated his

predecessor, Sasheoka, ten years previous.

Second, Ikurei Xerius III, the Emperor of Nansur, hatches an intricate plot to usurp the Holy War for his

own ends. Much of what is now heathen Kian once belonged to the Nansur, and recovering the Empire’s

lost provinces is Xerius’s most fervent desire. Since the Holy War gathers in the Nansur Empire, it can

march only if provisioned by the Emperor,

hing he refuses to do until every leader of the Holy War signs his 10 re> a written oath to cede all lands

conquered to him.

Of course, the first caste-nobles to arrive repudiate the Indenture, and letnate ensues. As the Holy War’s

numbers swell into the hundreds of sands, however, the titular leaders of the host begin to grow restless,

e they war in the God’s name, they think themselves invincible, and result see little reason to share the

glory with those yet to arrive. A Tonriyan noble named Nersei Calmemunis comes to an accommodation

ith the Emperor, and convinces his fellows to sign the Imperial Indenture. Once provisioned, most of

those gathered march, even though their lords and a greater part of the Holy War have yet to arrive.

Because the host consists primarily of lordless rabble, it comes to be called the

Vulgar Holy War.

Despite Maithanet’s attempts to bring the makeshift host to heel, it continues marching southward, and

passes into heathen lands, where— precisely as the Emperor had planned—the Fanim destroy it utterly.

Xerius knows that in military terms the loss of the Vulgar Holy War is insignificant, since the rabble that

largely constituted it would have proven more a liability than an advantage in battle. In political terms,

however, the Vulgar Holy War’s destruction is invaluable, because it has shown Maithanet and the Men

of the Tusk the true mettle of their adversary. The Fanim, as the Nansur well know, are not to be trifled

with, even with the God’s favour. Only an outstanding general, Xerius claims, can assure the Holy War’s

victory—a man like his nephew, Ikurei Conphas, who after his recent victory over the dread Scylvendi at

the Battle of Kiyuth has been hailed as the greatest tactician of his age. The leaders of the Holy War need

only sign the Imperial Indenture and Conphas’s preternatural skill and insight will be theirs.

Maithanet, it seems, now finds himself in a dilemma. As Shriah, he can compel the Emperor to provision

the Holy War, but he cannot compel him to send Ikurei Conphas, his only living heir. In the midst of this

controversy arrive the first truly great Inrithi potentates of the Holy War: Prince Nersei Proyas of

Conriya, Prince Coithus Saubon of Galeoth, Earl Hoga Gothyelk of Ce Tydonn, and King-Regent

Chepheramunni of High Ainon. The Holy War amasses new strength, though it remains in effect a

hostage, bound by the scarcity of food to the walls of Momemn

and the Emperor’s granaries. To a man, the caste-nobles repudiate Xerius’s Indenture and demand that

he provision them. The Men of the Tusk begin raiding the surrounding countryside. In retaliation, the

Emperor calls in elements of the Imperial Army. Pitched battles are fought.

In an effort to forestall disaster Maithanet calls a Council of Great and Lesser Names, and all the leaders

of the Holy War gather in the Emperor’s palace, the Andiamine Heights, to make their arguments. Here

Nersei Proyas shocks the assembly by offering a many-scarred Scylvendi Chieftain, a veteran of past

wars against the Fanim, as a surrogate for the famed Ikurei Conphas. The Scylvendi, Cnaüir urs Skiotha,

shares hard words with both the Emperor and his nephew, and the leaders of the Holy War are

impressed. The Shriah’s Envoy, however, remains undecided: the Scylvendi are as apostate as the

Fanim, after all. Only the wise words of Prince Anasurimbor Kellhus of Atrithau settle the matter. The

Envoy reads the decree demanding that the Emperor, under pain of Shrial Censure, provision the Men of

the Tusk.

The Holy War will march.

Drusas Achamian is a sorcerer sent by the School of Mandate to investigate Maithanet and his Holy

War. Though he no longer believes in his School’s ancient mission, he travels to Sumna, where the

Thousand Temples is based, in the hopes of learning more about the mysterious Shriah, whom the

Mandate fears could be an agent of the Consult. In the course of his probe, he resumes an old love affair

with a harlot named Esmenet, and despite his misgivings, he recruits a former student of his, a Shrial

Priest named Inrau, to report on Maithanet’s activities. During this time, his nightmares of the Apocalypse

intensify, particularly those involving the so-called “Celmomian Prophecy,” which foretells the return of a

descendant of Anasurimbor Celmomas before the Second Apocalypse.

Then Inrau dies under mysterious circumstances. Overcome by guilt and heartbroken by Esmenet’s

refusal to cease taking custom, Achamian flees Sumna and travels to Momemn, where the Holy War

gathers under the Emperor’s covetous and uneasy eyes. A powerful rival of the Mandate, a School

called the Scarlet Spires, has joined the Holy War to prosecute their long contest with the

sorcerer-priests of the Cishaurim, who reside in Shimeh. Nautzera, Achamian’s Mandate handler, has

ordered him to observe them and the Holy War. When he reaches the encampment, Achamian joins the

fire of Xinemus, an old friend of his from Conriya.

Pursuing his investigation of Inrau’s death, Achamian convinces Xinemus to take him to see another old

student of his, Prince Nersei Proyas of Conriya, who’s become a confidant of the enigmatic Shriah.

When Proyas scoffs at his suspicions and repudiates him as a blasphemer, Achamian implores him to

write Maithanet regarding the circumstances of Inrau’s death. Embittered, Achamian leaves his old

student’s pavilion certain his meagre request will go unfulfilled.

Then a man hailing from the distant north arrives—a man calling himself Anasurimbor Kellhus. Battered

by his recurrent dreams of the Apocalypse, Achamian finds himself fearing the worst: the Second

Apocalypse. Is Kellhus’s arrival a mere coincidence, or is he the Harbinger foretold in the Celmomian

Prophecy? Achamian questions the man, only to find himself utterly disarmed by his humour, honesty,

and intellect. They talk history and philosophy long into the night, and before retiring, Kellhus asks

Achamian to be his teacher. Inexplicably awed and affected by the stranger, Achamian agrees.

But he finds himself in a dilemma. The reappearance of an Anasurimbor is something the School of

Mandate simply has to know: few discoveries could be more significant. But he fears what his brother

Schoolmen will do: a lifetime of dreaming horrors, he knows, has made them cruel and pitiless. And he

blames them, moreover, for the death of Inrau.

Before he can resolve this dilemma, Achamian is summoned by the Emperor’s nephew, Ikurei Conphas,

to the Imperial Palace in Momemn, where the Emperor wants him to assess a highly placed adviser of

his—an old man called Skeaos—for the Mark of sorcery. The Emperor himself, Ikurei Xerius III, brings

Achamian to Skeaos, demanding to know whether the old man bears the blasphemous taint of sorcery.

Achamian sees nothing amiss.

Skeaos, however, sees something in Achamian. He begins writhing against his chains, speaking a tongue

from Achamian’s ancient dreams. Impossibly, the old man breaks free, killing several before being

burned by the Emperor’s sorcerers. Dumbfounded, Achamian confronts the howling

Skeaos, only to watch horrified as his face peels apart and opens into scorched limbs ...

The abomination before him, he realizes, is a Consult spy, one that can mimic and replace others without

bearing sorcery’s telltale Mark. A skin-spy. Achamian flees the palace without warning the Emperor and

his court, knowing they would think his conviction nonsense. For them, Skeaos can only be an artifact of

the heathen Cishaurim, whose art also bears no Mark. Senseless to his surroundings, Achamian wanders

back to Xinemus’s camp, so absorbed by his horror that he fails to see or hear Esmenet, who has come

to rejoin him at long last.

The mysteries surrounding Maithanet. The coming of Anasurimbor Kellhus. The discovery of the first

Consult spy in generations… How can he doubt it any longer? The Second Apocalypse is about to

begin.

Alone in his humble tent, he weeps, overcome by loneliness, dread, and remorse.

Esmenet is a Sumni prostitute who mourns both her life and her daughter. When Achamian arrives on his

mission to learn more about Maithanet, she readily takes him in. During this time, she continues to take

and service her customers, knowing full well the pain this causes Achamian. But she really has no choice:

sooner or later, she realizes, Achamian will be called away. And yet she falls ever deeper in love with the

hapless sorcerer, in part because of the respect he accords her and in part because of the worldly nature

of his work. Though her sex has condemned her to sit half’naked in her window, the world beyond has

always been her passion. The intrigues of the Great Factions, the machinations of the Consult: these are

the things that quicken her soul!

Then disaster strikes: Achamian’s informant, Inrau, is murdered, and the bereaved Schoolman is forced

to travel to Momemn. Esmenet begs him to take her with him, but he refuses, and she finds herself once

again marooned in her old life. Not long after, a threatening stranger comes to her room, demanding to

know everything about Achamian. Twisting her desire against her, the man ravishes her, and Esmenet

finds herself answering all his questions. Come morning he vanishes as suddenly as he appears, leaving

only pools of black seed to mark his passing.

Horrified, Esmenet flees Sumna, determined to find Achamian and tell him what happened. In her bones

she knows the stranger is somehow connected to the Consult. On her way to Momemn she pauses in a

village, hoping to find someone to repair her broken sandal. When the villagers recognize the whore’s

tattoo on her hand they begin stoning her—the punishment the Tusk demands of prostitutes. Only the

sudden appearance of a Shrial Knight named Sarcellus saves her, and she has the satisfaction of watching

her tormentors humbled. Sarcellus takes her the rest of the way to Momemn, and Esmenet finds herself

growing more and more infatuated with his wealth and aristocratic manner. He seems so free of the

melancholy and indecision that plague Achamian.

Once they reach the Holy War, Esmenet stays with Sarcellus, even though she knows Achamian is only

miles away. As the Shrial Knight continually reminds her, Schoolmen such as Achamian are forbidden to

take wives. If she were to run to him, he says, it would be only a matter of time before he abandoned her

again.

Weeks pass, and she finds herself esteeming Sarcellus less and pining for Achamian more and more.

Finally, on the night before the Holy War is to march, she sets off in search of the portly sorcerer,

determined to tell him everything that has happened. After a harrowing search she finally locates

Xinemus’s camp, only to find herself too ashamed to make her presence known. She hides in the

darkness instead, waiting for Achamian to appear, and wondering at the strange collection of men and

women about the fire. When dawn arrives without any sign of Achamian, Esmenet wanders across the

abandoned site, only to see him trudging toward her. She holds out her arms to him, weeping with joy

and sorrow…

And he simply walks past her as though she were a stranger.

Heartbroken, she flees, determined to make her own way in the Holy War.

Cnaiur urs Skiotha is a Chieftain of the Utemot, a tribe of Scylvendi, who are feared across the Three

Seas for their skill and ferocity in war. Because of the events surrounding the death of his father, Skiotha,

thirty years previous, Cnaiur is despised by his own people, though none dare challenge him because of

his savage strength and his cunning in war. Word arrives that the Emperor’s nephew, Ikurei Conphas,

has invaded the

Holy Steppe, and Cnaüir rides with the Utemot to join the Scylvendi horde on the distant Imperial

frontier. Knowing Conphas’s reputation, Cnaüir senses a trap, but his warnings go unheeded by

Xunnurit, the chieftain elected King-of-Tribes for the coming battle. Cnaüir can only watch as the disaster

unfolds.

Escaping the horde’s destruction, Cnaüir returns to the pastures of the Utemot more anguished than ever.

He flees the whispers and the looks of his fellow tribesmen and rides to the graves of his ancestors,

where he finds a grievously wounded man sitting upon his dead father’s barrow, surrounded by circles of

dead Sranc. Warily approaching, Cnaüir night-marishly realizes that he recognizes the man—or almost

recognizes him. He resembles Anasurimbor Moenghus in almost every respect, save that he is too

young…

Moenghus had been captured thirty years previous, when Cnaüir was little more than a stripling, and

given to Cnaüir’s father as a slave. He claimed to be Dunyain, a people possessed of an extraordinary

wisdom, and Cnaüir spent many hours with him, speaking of things forbidden to Scylvendi warriors.

What happened afterward—the seduction, the murder of Skiotha, and Moenghus’s subsequent

escape—has tormented Cnaüir ever since. Though he once loved the man, he now hates him with a

deranged intensity. If only he could kill Moenghus, he believes, his heart could be made whole.

Now, impossibly, this double has come to him, travelling the same path as the original.

Realizing the stranger could make possible his vengeance, Cnaüir takes him captive. The man, who calls

himself Anasurimbor Kellhus, claims to be Moenghus’s son. The Dunyain, he says, have sent him to

assassinate his father in a faraway city called Shimeh. But as much as Cnaüir wants to believe this story,

he’s wary and troubled. After years of obsessively pondering Moenghus, he’s come to understand that

the Dunyain are gifted with preternatural skills and intelligence. Their sole purpose, he now knows, is

domination, though where others use force and fear, the Dunyan use deceit and love.

The story Kellhus has told him, Cnaüir realizes, is precisely the story a Dunyain seeking escape and safe

passage across Scylvendi lands would provide. Nevertheless, he makes a bargain with the man, agreeing

to accompany him on his quest. The two strike out across the Steppe, locked in a shadowy war of word

and passion. Time and again Cnaüir finds himself drawn into Kellhus’s insidious nets, only to recall

himself at the last moment. Only his hatred of Moenghus and knowledge of the Dunyain preserve him.

Near the Imperial frontier they encounter a party of hostile Scylvendi raiders. Kellhus’s unearthly skill in

battle both astounds and terrifies Cnaüir. In the battle’s aftermath they find a captive concubine, a woman

named Serwe‘, cowering among the raiders’ chattel. Struck by her beauty, Cnaüir takes her as his prize,

and through her he learns of Maithanet’s Holy War for Shimeh, the city where Moenghus supposedly

dwells… Can this be a coincidence?

Coincidence or not, the Holy War forces Cnaüir to reconsider his original plan to travel around the

Empire, where his Scylvendi heritage will mean almost certain death. With the Fanim rulers of Shimeh

girding for war, the only possible way they can reach the holy city is to become Men of the Tusk. They

have no choice, he realizes, but to join the Holy War, which according to Serwe, gathers about the city

of Momemn in the heart of the Empire—the one place he cannot go. Now that they have safely crossed

the Steppe, Cnaüir is convinced Kellhus will kill him: the Dunyain brook no liabilities.

Descending the mountains into the Empire, Cnaüir confronts Kellhus, who claims he has use of him still.

While Serwe watches in horror, the two men battle on the mountainous heights, and though Cnaüir is able

to surprise Kellhus, the man easily overpowers him, holding him by the throat over a precipice. To prove

his intent to keep their bargain, he spares Cnaüir’s life. After so many years among world-born men,

Kellhus claims, Moenghus will be far too powerful for him to face alone. They will need an army, he says,

and unlike Cnaüir he knows nothing of war.

Despite his misgivings, Cnaüir believes him, and they resume their journey. As the days pass, Cnaüir

watches Serwe become more and more infatuated with Kellhus. Though troubled by this, he refuses to

admit as much, reminding himself that warriors care nothing for women, particularly those taken as the

spoils of battle. What does it matter that she belongs to Kellhus during the day? She is Cnaüir’s at night.

After a desperate journey and pursuit through the heart of the Empire, they at last find their way to

Momemn and the Holy War, where they are taken before one of the Holy War’s leaders, a Conriyan

Prince named Nersei Proyas. In keeping with their plan, Cnaiur claims to be the last of the Utemot,

travelling with Anasurimbor Kellhus, a Prince of the northern city of Atrithau, who has dreamt of the Holy

War from afar. Proyas, however, is far more interested in Cnaüir’s knowledge of the Fanim and their

way of battle. Obviously impressed by what he has to say, the Conriyan Prince takes Cnaiur and his

companions under his protection. Soon afterward, Proyas takes Cnaiur and Kellhus to a meeting of the

Holy War’s leaders and the Emperor, where the fate of the Holy War is to be decided. Ikurei Xerius III

has refused to provision the Men of the Tusk unless they swear to return all the lands they wrest from the

Fanim to the Empire. The Shriah, Maithanet, can force the Emperor to provision them, but he fears the

Holy War lacks the leadership to overcome the Fanim. The Emperor offers his brilliant nephew, Ikurei

Conphas, flush from his spectacular victory over the Scylvendi at Kiyuth, but only—once again—if the

leaders of the Holy War pledge to surrender their future conquests. In a daring gambit, Proyas offers

Cnaiur in Conphas’s stead. A vicious war of words ensues, and Cnaiur manages to best the precocious

Imperial Nephew. The Shriah’s representative orders the Emperor to provision the Men of the Tusk. The

Holy War will march.

In a mere matter of days, Cnaiur has gone from a fugitive to a leader of the greatest host ever assembled

in the Three Seas. What does it mean for a Scylvendi to treat with outland princes, with peoples he is

sworn to destroy? What must he surrender to see his vengeance through?

That night, he watches Serwe surrender to Kellhus body and soul, and he wonders at the horror he has

delivered to the Holy War. What will Anasurimbor Kellhus—a Dunyain—make of these Men of the

Tusk? No matter, he tells himself, the Holy War marches to distant Shimeh—to Moenghus and the

promise of blood.

Anasurimbor Kellhus is a monk sent by his order, the Dunyain, to search for his father, Anasurimbor

Moenghus.

Since discovering the secret redoubt of the Kunüiric High Kings during the Apocalypse some two

thousand years previous, the Dunyain have concealed themselves, breeding for reflex and intellect, and

continually training in the ways of limb, thought, and face—all for the sake of reason, the sacred Logos.

In the effort to transform themselves into the perfect expression of the Logos, the Dunyain have bent their

entire existence to mastering the irrationalities that determine human thought: history, custom, and passion.

In this way, they believe, they will eventually grasp what they call the Absolute, and so become true

self-moving souls.

But their glorious isolation is at an end. After thirty years of exile, one of their number, Anasurimbor

Moenghus, has reappeared in their dreams, demanding they send to him his son. Knowing only that his

father dwells in a distant city called Shimeh, Kellhus undertakes an arduous journey through lands long

abandoned by men. While wintering with a trapper named Leweth, he discovers he can read the man’s

thoughts through the nuances of his expression. World-born men, he realizes, are little more than children

in comparison with the Dunyain. Experimenting, he finds that he can exact anything from Leweth—any

love, any sacrifice—with mere words. So what of his father, who has spent thirty years among such men?

What is the extent of Anasurimbor Moenghus’s power?

When a band of inhuman Sranc discovers Leweth’s steading, the two men are forced to flee. Leweth is

wounded, and Kellhus leaves him for the Sranc, feeling no remorse. The Sranc overtake him, and after

driving them away, he battles their leader, a deranged Nonman, who nearly undoes him with sorcery.

Kellhus flees, wracked by questions without answers: sorcery, he’d been taught, was nothing more than

superstition. Could the Dunyain have been wrong? What other facts had they overlooked or suppressed?

Eventually he finds refuge in the ancient city of Atrithau, where, using his Dunyain abilities, he assembles

an expedition to traverse the Sranc-infested plains of Suskara. After a harrowing trek, he crosses the

frontier only to be captured by a mad Scylvendi Chieftain named Cnaiur urs Skiotha—a man who both

knows and hates his father, Moenghus.

Though his knowledge of the Dunyain renders Cnaiur immune to direct manipulation, Kellhus quickly

realizes he can turn the man’s thirst for vengeance to his advantage. Claiming to be an assassin sent to

murder Moenghus, he asks the Scylvendi to join him on his quest. Overpowered by his hatred, Cnaüir

reluctantly agrees, and the two men set out across the Jüinati Steppe. Time and again, Kellhus tries to

secure the trust he needs to possess the man, but the barbarian continually rebuffs him. His hatred and

penetration are too great.

Then, near the Imperial frontier, they find a concubine named Serwe, who informs them of a Holy War

gathering about Momemn—a Holy War for Shimeh. The fact that his father has summoned him to

Shimeh at the same time, Kellhus realizes, can be no coincidence. But what could Moenghus be

planning?

They cross the mountains into the Empire, and Kellhus watches Cnaüir struggle with the growing

conviction that he’s outlived his usefulness. Thinking that murdering Kellhus is as close as he’ll ever come

to murdering Moenghus, Cnaüir attacks him, only to be defeated. To prove that he still needs him,

Kellhus spares his life. He must, Kellhus knows, dominate the Holy War, but he as yet knows nothing of

warfare. The variables are too many.

Though his knowledge of Moenghus and the Dünyain renders him a liability, Cnaüir’s skill in war makes

him invaluable. To secure this knowledge, Kellhus starts seducing Serwe, using her and her beauty as

detours to the barbarian’s tormented heart.

Once in the Empire, they stumble across a patrol of Imperial cavalry-men; their journey to Momemn

quickly becomes a desperate race. When they finally reach the encamped Holy War they find themselves

before Nersei Proyas, the Crown Prince of Conriya. To secure a position of honour among the Men of

the Tusk, Kellhus lies, and claims to be a Prince of Atrithau. To lay the groundwork for his future

domination, he claims to have suffered dreams of the Holy War—implying, without saying as much, that

they were godsent. Since Proyas is more concerned with Cnaüir and how he can use the barbarian’s

knowledge of battle to thwart the Emperor, these declarations are accepted without any real scrutiny.

Only the Mandate Schoolman accompanying Proyas, Drusas Achamian, seems troubled by

him—especially by his name.

The following evening, Kellhus dines with the sorcerer, disarming him with humour, flattering him with

questions. He learns of the Apocalypse and the Consult and many other sundry things, and though he

knows Achamian harbours some terror regarding the name “Anasurimbor,” he asks the melancholy man

to become his teacher. The Dunyain, Kellhus has come to realize, have been mistaken about many things,

the existence of sorcery among them. There is so much he must know before he confronts his father…

A final gathering is called to settle the issue between the lords of the Holy War, who want to march, and

the Emperor, who refuses to provision them. With Cnaüir at his side, Kellhus charts the souls of all those

present, calculating the ways he might bring them under his thrall. Among the Emperor’s advisers,

however, he observes an expression he cannot read. The man, he realizes, possesses a false face. While

Ikurei Conphas and the Inrithi caste-nobles bicker, Kellhus studies the man, and determines that his name

is Skeaos by reading the lips of his interlocutors. Could this Skeaos be an agent of his father?

Before he can draw any conclusions, however, his scrutiny is noticed by the Emperor himself, who has

the adviser seized. Though the entire Holy War celebrates the Emperor’s defeat, Kellhus is more

perplexed than ever. Never has he undertaken a study so deep.

That night he consummates his relationship with Serwe, continuing the patient work of undoing

Cnaüir—as all Men of the Tusk must be undone. Somewhere, a shadowy faction lurks behind faces of

false skin. Far to the south in Shimeh, Anasurimbor Moenghus awaits the coming storm.

One

Anserca

Ignorance is trust.

—ANCIENT KUNIURIC PROVERB

hate Spring, 4111 Year-of-the-Tusk, south of Momemn

Drusas Achamian sat cross-legged in the darkness of his tent, a silhouette rocking slowly to and fro,

muttering dark words. Light spilled from his mouth. Though the moon-shining length of the Meneanor Sea

lay between him and Atyersus, he walked the ancient halls of his School— walked among sleepers.

The dimensionless geometry of dreams never ceased to startle Achamian. There was something

monstrous about a world where nothing was remote, where distances dissolved into a froth of words and

competing passions. Something no knowledge could overcome.

Pitched from nightmare to nightmare, Achamian at last found the sleeping man he sought: Nautzera in his

dream, seated on blood-muddied turf, cradling a dead king on his lap. “Our King is dead!” Nautzera

cried in Seswatha’s voice. “Anasurimbor Celmomas is dead!”

An unearthly roar hammered his ears. Achamian whirled, raising his hands against a titanic shadow.

Wracu… Dragon.

Billowing gusts staggered those standing, waved the arms of those

Anserca

fallen. Cries of dismay and horror rifled the air, then a cataract of boiling gold engulfed Nautzera and the

High King’s attendants. There was no time for screams. Teeth cracked. Bodies tumbled like coals from a

kicked fire.

Achamian turned and saw Nautzera amid a field of smoking husks. Shielded by his Wards, the sorcerer

laid the dead king on the ground, whispering words Achamian could not hear but had dreamed

innumerable times: “Turn your soul’s eye from this world, dear friend… Turn so that your heart might be

broken no more.”

With the force of a toppled tower, the dragon thundered to earth, his descent yanking smoke and ash

into towering veils. Portcullis jaws clacked shut. Wings like war-galley sails stretched out. The light of

burning corpses shimmered across iridescent scales of black.

“Our Lord,” the dragon grated, “hath tasted thy King’s passing, and he saith, ‘It is done.’”

Nautzera stood before the golden-horned abomination. “Not while I draw breath, Skafra!” he cried. “

Never!”

Laughter, like the wheezing of a thousand consumptive men. The Great Dragon reared his bull-chest

above the sorcerer, revealing a necklace of steaming human heads.

“Thou art overthrown, sorcerer. Thy tribe hath perished, dashed like a potter’s vessel by our fury.

The earth is sown with thy nation’s blood, and soon thine enemies will compass thee with bent

bow and whetted bronze. Wilt thou not repent thy folly? Wilt thou not abase thyself before our

Lord?”

“As do you, mighty Skafra? As the exalted Tyrant of Cloud and Mountain abases himself?”

Membranes flickered across the dragon’s quicksilver eyes. A blink. “I am not a God.”

Nautzera smiled grimly. Seswatha said, “Neither is your lord.”

Great stamping limbs and the gnashing of iron teeth. A cry from furnace lungs, as deep as an ocean’s

moan and as piercing as an infant’s shriek.

Uncowed by the dragon’s thrashing bulk, Nautzera suddenly turned to Achamian, his face bewildered.

“Who are you?”

“One who shares your dreams…”

For a moment they were like two men drowning, two souls kicking for sharp air… Then darkness. The

silent nowhere that housed men’s souls.

Nautzera… his 1. A place of pure voice.

Achamian! That dream…It plagues me so of late. Where are you? We feared you dead.

Concern? Nautzera betraying concern for him, the one Schoolman he despised above all others? But

then Seswatha’s Dreams had a way of sweeping aside petty enmities.

With the Holy War, Achamian replied. The contest with the Emperor has been resolved. The Holy

War marches on Kian. Images accompanied these words: Proyas addressing rapt mobs of armoured

Conriyans; the endless trains of armed lords and their households; the many-coloured banners of a

thousand thanes and barons; a distant glimpse of the Nansur Columns, marching through vineyard and

grove in perfect formation…

So it begins, Nautzera said decisively. And Maithanet? Were you able to learn anything more of him

?

thought Proyas might assist me, but I was wrong. He belongs to the Thousand Temples… To

Maithanet.

What is it with your students, Achamian? Why do they all turn to our rivals, hmm? The ease with

which Nautzera had recovered his sarcasm both stung and curiously relieved Achamian. The grand old

sorcerer would need his wits for what followed.

R. Scott Bakker - The Prince of Nothing 2 - Warrior-Prophet

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