She wept and she whispered, "Akka." "Akka." For she was his world, and all lay in ruin. For she was his world, and all lay in ruin.

Akka. Akka, please ...

According to Nonman legend, the falling of the Incu-Holoinas, the Ark-of-the-Skies, had cracked the world's mantle, striking wedges into the endless dark. Seswatha now knew this legend to be true.

With Nau-Cayuti at his side, Achamian crouched in the darkness, peering across the yawning fall before them. For days they had groped through the black, too terrified to dare any light. At times it seemed they climbed through blackened lungs, so choked and mult.i.tudinous were the tunnels. Their elbows bled from crawling on their bellies.

During the years of the Great Invest.i.ture, the Sranc had burrowed out from Golgotterath far beneath the armies camped across the surrounding plains. When the siege was broken, the Consult had forgotten the mines, thinking themselves invincible. And why would they not? The Ordeal, the holy war called by Anasurimbor Celmomas against Golgotterath, had dissolved in acrimony and cannibal pride. And the unholy advent was near. So very near ...

Who would dare what Seswatha and the High King's youngest son now dared?

Please wake up.

"What is it?" Nau-Cayuti murmured. "A postern of some kind?"

Lying p.r.o.ne, they stared over the lip of an upturned ledge, across what could only be a mighty chasm. Entire mountains seemed to hang about them, cliff from towering cliff, plummet from plummet, dropping down into blackness, reaching up to pinch a great curved plane of gold. It loomed above them, impossibly immense, wrought with never-ending strings of text and panels, each as broad as a war galley's sail, engraved with alien figures warring in relief. The lights from below cast a gleaming filigree across its expanse.

They looked upon the dread Ark itself, Seswatha knew, rammed deep into the sockets of the earth. They had reached the deepest pits of Golgotterath.

Below their vantage, across some hundred lengths of cavernous s.p.a.ce, there was a door set perpendicular to the fall. Stonework had been raised beneath it, a platform with two immense braziers whose fires had blackened the Ark's surface where it bowed above them. A network of landings and stairs twined into the black obscurity below. Partially screened by curtains of fire, several Sranc reclined and rutted on the gate's threshold. Yammering squeals rang through the emptiness.

Akka ...

"What should we do?" Seswatha whispered. The exercise of sorcery couldn't be risked, not here, where the slightest bruise would be sure to draw the Mangaecca. His mere presence was fatal.

With characteristic decisiveness, Nau-Cayuti had already started stripping his bronze armour. Achamian watched the profile of his face, struck by the contrast between his pitch-blackened skin and the blond of his thickening beard. There was determination in his eyes, but it was born of desperation, not the zest and confidence that had made him such a miraculous leader of men.

Achamian turned away, unable to bear the falsehoods he had told him. "This is madness," he murmured.

"But she's here here!" the warrior hissed. "You said yourself!"

Wearing only his hide kilt, Nau-Cayuti stood and ran his hands across the immediate stone faces. Then, clutching thin lips of rock, he hauled himself over the abyss. His heart in his throat, Seswatha watched him edge out across the gaping s.p.a.ces, his back and calves shining with exertion and sweat.

Something-a shadow-above him.

Akka, you're dreaming ... dreaming ...

A spark of light, frail and glaring.

"Please ..."

At first she seemed an apparition before him, a glowing mist suspended in void, but as he blinked, he saw her lines drawn off into darkness, the lantern illuminating her oval face.

"Esmi," he croaked.

She knelt beside his bed, leaning over him. His thoughts reeled. What was the time? Why hadn't his Wards awakened him? The horror of Golgotterath still tingled through his sweaty limbs. She had been crying, he could see that. He raised his hands, sheepish with slumber, but she pulled away from his instinctive embrace.

He remembered Kellhus.

"Esmi?" Then, softer, "What is it?"

"I...I just need you to know ...

Suddenly his throat ached. He glimpsed her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, like smoke beneath the sheer fabric of her shift. "What?"

Her face crumpled, then recomposed. "That you are strong."

She fled, and once again all was dark and absolute.

It flew at night, wary of the ground below. It beat its way higher, and higher, until the air became needles, and tears fractured the million-starred void. Then it coasted, wings wide and scooping.

Urgency did not come easily to such an ancient intellect.

It pondered in the manner of its race, though its thought balked at the limits of its Synthese frame. Millennia had pa.s.sed since last it had warred across such a benjuka plate. The Mandate vindicated. Their children discovered, dragged into the light. The Holy War reborn as an instrument of unknown machinations ...

That vermin could be so cunning! Mad the Scylvendi might be, but the testimony of events could not be denied. These Dunyain ...

The rushing air had grown warm, and the ground rose as though upon a swell. Trees and bracken sunned their backs beneath the cold moon. Slopes pitched and dropped. Streams roped along dark and stony courses. The Synthese wound over and through the shadowy landscape, unto the ends of Enathpaneah.

Golgotterath would not be pleased with this new disposition of pieces. But the rules had had changed ... changed ...

There were those who preferred clarity.

CHAPTER NINE.

JOKTHA.

In the skins of elk I pa.s.s I pa.s.s over gra.s.ses. Rain falls, and over gra.s.ses. Rain falls, and I cleanse I cleanse my face in the sky. my face in the sky. I hear I hear the Horse Prayers spoken, but my lips are far away. the Horse Prayers spoken, but my lips are far away. I slip I slip down weed and still twig-into their palms down weed and still twig-into their palms I pool. I pool. Then I am called out and am among them. In sorrow, Then I am called out and am among them. In sorrow, I rejoice. I rejoice.Pale endless life. This, I call I call my own. my own.

-ANONYMOUS, THE NONMAN CANTICLES

Early Spring, 4112 Year-of-the-Tusk, Joktha

Somehow, he awoke more ancient.

Once, while raiding the South Bank in Shigek, Cnaiur and his men had rested their horses in the ruins of an ancient palace. Since kindling a fire was out of the question, they had unrolled their mats in the darkness beneath a ponderous section of wall. When Cnaiur awoke, the morning sun had bathed the limestone planes above him, and he found himself staring at figures in relief, their faces worn to serenity by the seasons, their poses at once stiff and indolent in the manner of age-old representations. And there, impossibly, at the head of a long file of captives, was a scarred-arm figure kissing the heel of an outland king.

A Scylvendi from another age.

"Do you know," a voice was saying, "that I actually felt pity as the last of your people perished at Kiyuth?" It was a voice that liked its own sound-very much. "No ... pity isn't the right word. Regret. Regret Regret. All the old myths collapsed at that moment. The world became weaker. I studied your people, deeply. Learned your secrets, your vulnerabilities. You see, even as a child I knew I would humble you one day. And there you were! Tiny figures in the distance, loping and howling like panicked monkeys. The People of War! And I thought, 'There's nothing strong in this world. Nothing I cannot conquer.'"

Cnaiur gasped, tried to blink away the tears of pain that clotted his eyes. He lay on the ground, his arms bound so tight he could scarce feel them. A shadow leaned over him, wiped his face with a cool, wet cloth. Who?

"But you," the shadow continued. It shook its head as though at an endearing yet infuriating child. "You ..."

His eyes clearing, Cnaiur absorbed his surroundings. He lay in some kind of field tent. Canvas panels bellied into an apex above him. A heap of blood-caked refuse lay in the far corner-his hauberk and accoutrements. A table with four camp chairs framed the man ministering to him, who had to be an officer of some kind given the splendour of his armour and weapons. The blue mantle meant he was a general, but the bruising about his face ...

The man wrung rose-coloured water into a copper basin set near Cnaiur's head. "The irony," he was saying, "is that you mean nothing in this matter. It's this Anasurimbor, this False Prophet, False Prophet, who is the sole object of the Empire's concern. Whatever significance you possess, you derive from him." A snort. "I knew this, and still I let you provoke me." The face momentarily darkened. "That was a mistake. I can see that now. What are the abuses of flesh compared with glory?" who is the sole object of the Empire's concern. Whatever significance you possess, you derive from him." A snort. "I knew this, and still I let you provoke me." The face momentarily darkened. "That was a mistake. I can see that now. What are the abuses of flesh compared with glory?"

Cnaiur glared at the stranger. Glory? There was no glory.

"So many dead," the man said with rueful humour. "Was it you who devised that strategy? Knocking holes through walls. Forcing us to chase you and your rats into your burrows. Quite remarkable. I almost wish it had been you at Kiyuth. Then I would know, know, wouldn't I?" He shrugged. "That's how the G.o.ds prove themselves, isn't it? The overthrow of demons?" wouldn't I?" He shrugged. "That's how the G.o.ds prove themselves, isn't it? The overthrow of demons?"

Cnaiur stiffened. Something involuntary thrashed through him.

The man smiled. "I know you aren't human. I know that we're kin."

Cnaiur tried to speak, but croaked instead. He ran his tongue across scabbed lips. Copper and salt. With a concerned frown the man raised a decanter, poured blessed water into his mouth.

"Are you," Cnaiur rasped, "a G.o.d?"

The man stood, looked at him strangely. Points of lantern light rolled like liquid across the figures worked into his cuira.s.s. His voice possessed a shrill edge. "I know you love me ... Men often beat those they love. Words fail them, and they throw their fists into the breach ... I've seen it happen many times."

Cnaiur rolled his head back, closed his eyes for pain. How had he come to be here? Why was he bound?

"I know also," the man continued, "that you hate him."

Him. There could be no mistaking the word's intensity. The Dunyain. He spoke of the Dunyain-and as though he were his enemy, no less. "You do not want," Cnaiur said, "to raise arms against him ..."

"And why would that be?"

Cnaiur turned to him, blinking. "He knows the hearts of men. He seizes their beginnings and so wields their ends."

"So even you," the nameless General spat, "even you have succ.u.mbed to the general madness. Religion ..." ..." He turned to the table, poured himself something Cnaiur couldn't see from the ground. "You know, Scylvendi, I thought I'd found a He turned to the table, poured himself something Cnaiur couldn't see from the ground. "You know, Scylvendi, I thought I'd found a peer peer in you." His laugh was vicious. "I even toyed with the idea of making you my Exalt-General." in you." His laugh was vicious. "I even toyed with the idea of making you my Exalt-General."

Cnaiur scowled. Who was this man?

"Absurd, I know. Utterly impossible. The Army would mutiny. The mob would storm the Andiamine Heights! But I cannot help but think that, with someone such as you, I could eclipse even Triamis."

Dawning horror.

"Did you know that? Did you know you stood in the Emperor's Emperor's presence?" He raised his wine bowl in salute, took a deep drink. "Ikurei Conphas I," he gasped after swallowing. "With me the Empire is presence?" He raised his wine bowl in salute, took a deep drink. "Ikurei Conphas I," he gasped after swallowing. "With me the Empire is reborn, reborn, Scylvendi. I am Kyraneas. I am Cenei. Soon all the Three Seas will kiss my knee!" Scylvendi. I am Kyraneas. I am Cenei. Soon all the Three Seas will kiss my knee!"

Blood and grimaces. Roaring shouts. Fire. It all came back to him, the horror and rapture of Joktha. And then there he was ... Conphas Conphas. A G.o.d with a beaten face.

Cnaiur laughed, deep and full-throated.

For a moment the man stood dumbstruck, as though suddenly forced to reckon the dimensions of an unguessed incapacity. "You play me," he said with what seemed genuine bafflement. "Mock me."

And Cnaiur understood that he'd been sincere, sincere, that Conphas had meant every word he said. Of course he was baffled. He had recognized his brother; how could his brother not recognize him in turn? that Conphas had meant every word he said. Of course he was baffled. He had recognized his brother; how could his brother not recognize him in turn?

The Chieftain of the Utemot laughed harder. "Brother? Your heart is shrill and your soul is plain. Your claims are preposterous, uttered without any real understanding, like recitations of a mother's daft pride." Cnaiur spat pink. "Peer? Brother? You have not the iron to be my brother. You are a thing of sand. Soon you will be kicked to the wind."

Without a word Conphas strode forward, brought a sandalled heel down on his head. The world flashed dark.

Cnaiur cackled even as the blood spilled hot across his teeth. With what seemed impossible clarity, he heard the Exalt-General retreat, the creak of leather about his stamped cuira.s.s, the rasp of his scabbard across his leather skirts. The man swept aside the flap then strode into the greater camp, already shouting names. And Cnaiur could feel himself slipping between immensities-the earth that pressed so cruelly against his battered frame and the commotion of men and their fatal purposes.

At last, something deep laughed within him. something deep laughed within him. At last it ends At last it ends.

General Sompas entered moments after, his face grim, his knife drawn. Without hesitation he knelt at Cnaiur's side and began sawing through his leather bonds.

"The others await," he said in hushed tones. "Your Chorae is on the table."

Cnaiur could only reply in a cracked whisper. "Where are you taking me?"

"To Serwe."

The General had no problem leading the Scylvendi captive to the dark edge of the Nansur camp. They pa.s.sed through a gallery of sentries and boisterous, celebratory camps. No one questioned the fact that the General wore a Captain's uniform. They were the army of a brilliant and eccentric leader. Not once had his strange ways failed to deliver victory and vengeance. And Biaxi Sompas was his his man. man.

"Is it always this easy?" Cnaiur asked the creature.

"Always," it said.