He stood rigid, breathless. Everything in his body-deeper, even-clamoured for him to run.

But he was one of the Hundred Pillars. It was shame enough to be left behind, but to fail in this? He drew his longsword, cried out "Halt!" more from bewilderment than anything else.

And miraculously, the thing ceased moving.

Forward, anyway, because it somehow clawed outward, outward, as though soft inner surfaces were being peeled back, exposed to the needling sky. as though soft inner surfaces were being peeled back, exposed to the needling sky.

A face like summer sunlight. Limbs barked in fire.

Reaching out, the thing grasped his head, skinned it like a grape.

Where, bolted a voice through his smoking skull, bolted a voice through his smoking skull, is Drusas Achamian? is Drusas Achamian?

Fire and light, burnishing the underside of black-wheeling clouds, carving the outer pillars of the First Temple bright against a heart of inscrutable black.

Heeding the thunder of their Grandmaster's voice, the flanking cadres of the Scarlet Spires drew back before the flailing lights, falling into a great circle across the devastation they had brought to the foot of the Sacred Heights. The more numerous Cishaurim a.s.sailed them, the snakes about their throats craning forward. In trios, the weaker crouched and dashed through the ruins, white-blue energies spilling from their foreheads like water toppling toward unseen grounds. The stronger floated proud, dispensing great scourging torrents. All across the levelled streets, there were blinding points of contact where pure light broke against the ghosts of cracking stone.

Between singing Cants and renewing Wards, the sorcerers of rank cried instructions and encouragement to their Javreh shield-bearers. Now and again, when one of the slave-soldiers stumbled across the treacherous footing, a Chorae would whir out of the fire and darkness. Hem-Arkidu was struck, so perfectly balanced he remained standing as incandescent lashes snapped through his fading defences, a pillar of salt amid sizzling, screaming ruin.

The circle closed. The Schoolmen abandoned their Encircling Wards and began fencing the s.p.a.ces before them with far more robust Directional Wards: the quick-spoken Portcullis, the difficult yet mighty Ramparts of Ur.

Then they responded in kind.

To its bones, Shimeh shivered with unholy reverberations. The terrible majesty of the Dragonhead. The scalding horror of the Memkotic Furies. The air-sucking whoosh of the Meppa Cataract. Dozens of lesser Cishaurim vanished in gold-boiling torrents. Others were dragged smoking from the sky. Abandoning their positions to the rear of their cadres, many Rhumkari, the Scarlet Spires' famed Chorae crossbowmen, crept forward through the rubble, began shooting bolts at those mighty few who seemed immune to sorcerous fires. They blinked at glimpses of snakes and faces, black against sheeted white.

But the crossbowmen within the circle turned, their eyes drawn skyward by shouts, and saw Cishaurim dropping through smoke, landing in their midst. Within moments, before the flying walls of debris crashed over them, they had killed more than a dozen. But the Cishaurim neither relented nor faltered. For they were Indara's Water-bearers, the Firstborn of the Solitary G.o.d, and unlike their wicked foemen, they cared not for their lives.

In the midst of their enemy, they spilled their Water.

The slaughter was great.

The Fanim jeered and pelted them with arrows as they fled the banks of the River Jeshimal. The retreat quickly became a rout. Soon scattered bands of Tydonni were careering across the fields, racing toward the line of arched ruin that was the Ceneian aqueduct. Some riders halted to save their unhorsed thanes, only to be overrun by the pursuing tides of heathen hors.e.m.e.n. Save for the thunder of sorcery, Kianene drums and ululations owned the skies.

But the st.u.r.dy footmen of Ce Tydonn, under the command of Gothyelk's eldest son, Gotheras, were already a.s.sembling beneath the aqueduct. With every pa.s.sing moment, more spears and many-coloured shields spanned the gaps between the crumbling pylons. To the north, where the aqueduct trailed into a linear mound before the Tatokar Walls, the Ainoni were also drawing into defensive positions. Palatine Uranyanka howled at his Moserothi to close the gap with the Tydonni-Nangaels under Earl Iyengar. Lord Soter led his bloodthirsty Kishyati in a desperate charge from the north.

Trailing skirts of dust, the knights of Ce Tydonn thundered haphazardly into the ranks of their countrymen. Most pressed their way to the rear, seeking respite. But some, like Werijen Greatheart, wheeled with their households and, roaring out encouragement, braced for the heathen onslaught.

Missiles rained among them, like hail across tin.

"Here!" Earl Gothyelk of Agansanor roared. "Here we stand!" "Here we stand!"

But the Fanim parted before them, content to release storms of whirring arrows. The knights of Kishyat, their faces painted dread white above their square-plaited beards, had exacted a terrible toll on their flank. But even more, Cinganjehoi recalled well the obstinacy of the idolaters once their heels touched ground. As yet only a fraction of the Fanim army had crossed the Jeshimal.

Fanayal ab Kascamandri was coming. Lord of the Cleansed Lands. Padirajah of Holy Kian.

Past the Esharsa Market, through slums and tangled alleyways, the Conriyans battled and chased the Fanim, losing more and more of their number to rapine and plunder, drawing up only when they reached the broad reed marshes that had once been Shimeh's great harbour. Proyas had long since abandoned any attempt to impose order or restraint on his men. The madness of battle was on them, and though his heart grieved it, he understood what it meant to wager one's life, and the b.e.s.t.i.a.l licence that men took as their prize.

Shimeh, it seemed, was no exception.

It wasn't ...

Separated in the pursuit, he found himself wandering the murky streets. He came upon a small market square where the escarpment of facades and cornices fell away, allowing him to see the heights of the Juterum: the Heterine Walls painted in flickering lights, the tall columns of the First Temple a motionless blue. Smoke rose from the heights' footings to the west, great tattered curtains of it, climbing the way sand might fall through clear water. Boiling upward, it pa.s.sed into and merged with the unnatural clouds, so that the whole of heaven seemed a thing of smoke spilling outward across the plane of an immense ceiling.

It wasn't ...

He looked across the abandoned kiosks sunk into the buildings before him, only to glimpse what seemed to be a tusk tusk in the shadowy confines of one. Scowling against the press of his war-mask, he wandered past the threshold, past ropes hung with workaday pottery, shelves cluttered with wooden bowls and plates. in the shadowy confines of one. Scowling against the press of his war-mask, he wandered past the threshold, past ropes hung with workaday pottery, shelves cluttered with wooden bowls and plates.

There it was ... the size of his forearm perhaps, painted in pitch across a humble door. The crude simplicity of it struck a pang in the back of his throat. A giddiness, something like fear or expectation, made haze of his heart and limbs, the same as when his mother had brought him to temple as a child.

He raised a hand, felt the wood through the iron links about his fingertips. He caught his breath when the door swung open.

Aside from sleeping mats, the room was unfurnished-the abode of debt-slaves, perhaps. A man, a common Amoti by the look of him, sat slumped against the wall to his right, where he appeared to have bled to death. The haft of a knife lay just beyond the reach of his purple fingers. Another man, one of the Kianene they had fought across the Esharsa, lay sprawled across the floor, face downward. The floor listed toward the far wall, so that the blood spilled away, sheeting the planks, gumming about wood shavings, stretching thin claws along the grouted seams. Almost invisible in the murk, a woman and a juvenile girl cringed in the far corner, watching him with horror-round eyes.

He remembered his silver war-mask, raised it. He savoured the sudden cool across his face. The fear of the women did not diminish, though he had thought that it would. He looked down, and as though for the first time saw the blood daubed and smeared across his white and blue khalat. He raised his gauntleted hands. They too had been slicked in crimson.

Memories of savagery, of hacking death, of screams and horrified curses. Memories of Sumna, his forehead pressed against Maithanet's knee, weeping as one reborn. How had he come so far?

Despite the rumbling drums and the distant horns, his footsteps seemed to burst across the silence. Thud. Thud. The mother wailed and rocked as he approached, began babbling something ... something ...

"... merutta k'al alkareeta! Merutta! Merutta!"

She desperately pawed at the blood across her lower lip and chin, then smeared

[image]across the floor at his booted feet. A tusk?

"Merutta!" she bawled, though whether she meant "tusk" or "mercy" he could not tell. she bawled, though whether she meant "tusk" or "mercy" he could not tell.

They screamed and shrank as he reached for them. He pulled the girl to her feet, found her lightness at once terrifying and arousing. She flailed at him ineffectually, then went very still, as though his hands might be jaws. The mother bawled and beseeched, smeared tusk after tusk across the gritty floor.

No, Prosha ...

It wasn't supposed to be ... Not like this.

But then, it never was.

It seemed he could smell the girl over the reek of smoke and entrails-no perfumes, at once sour and musky and clean, the smell of young promise. He turned her to the sourceless light. Cropped black hair. Br.i.m.m.i.n.g eyes. Swollen cheeks. By the G.o.ds, she was lovely, this daughter of his enemy. Narrow hips. Long legs ...

If he were to strike her, would he feel death at the end of his arm? If he were to grow hot upon her ...

An enormous crack shivered the air, thrummed through the building's bones.

"Run," he murmured, though he knew she wouldn't understand. He pulled her back, held a soiled hand out to raise the mother. "You must find a better place to hide."

This was Shimeh.

"In this world," Moenghus said, "there's nothing more precious than our blood-as you have no doubt surmised. But the children we bear by worldborn women lack the breadth of our abilities. Maithanet is not Dunyain. He could do no more than prepare the way."

Her name arose like a pang from the darkness: Esmenet Esmenet.

"Only a true son of Ishual could succeed," his father continued. "For all the Thousandfold Thought's innumerable deductions, for all its elegance, there remained countless variables that could not be foreseen. Each of its folds possesses a haze of catastrophic possibilities, most of them remote, others nearly certain. I would have abandoned it long ago, were not the consequences of inaction so absolute.

"Only one of the Conditioned could follow its path. Only you, you, my son." my son."

Could it be? A tincture of sorrow in his father's voice? Kellhus turned from the hanging skin-spies, once again enclosed his father within the circle of his scrutiny.

"You speak as though the Thought were a living thing."

He could see nothing in the eyeless face.

"Because it is." Moenghus stepped between the two hanging skin-spies. Though blind, he unerringly reached out to run a finger down one of the many hanging chains. "Have you heard of a game played in southern Nilnamesh, a game called viramsata, viramsata, or 'many-breaths'?" or 'many-breaths'?"

"No."

"Across the plains surrounding the city of Invishi, the ruling caste-n.o.bles are very remote, very effete. The narcotics they cultivate a.s.sure them of the obedience of their populations. Over the centuries they have elaborated jnan to the point where it has eclipsed their old faiths. Entire lives are spent in what we would call gossip. But viramsata is far different from the rumours of the court or the clucking of harem-eunuchs-far more. The players of viramsata have made games of truth. They tell lies about who said what to whom, about who makes love to whomever, and so on. They do this continually, continually, and what is more, they are at pains to and what is more, they are at pains to act out act out the lies told by others, especially when they are elegant, so they might make them true. And so it goes from tongue to lip to tongue, until no distinction remains between what is a lie and what is true. the lies told by others, especially when they are elegant, so they might make them true. And so it goes from tongue to lip to tongue, until no distinction remains between what is a lie and what is true.

"In the end, at a great ceremony, it is the most compelling compelling tale that is declared tale that is declared Pirvirsut, Pirvirsut, a word that means 'this breath is ground' in ancient Vaparsi. The weak, the inelegant, have died, while others grow strong, yielding only to the Pirvirsut, the Breath-that-is-Ground. a word that means 'this breath is ground' in ancient Vaparsi. The weak, the inelegant, have died, while others grow strong, yielding only to the Pirvirsut, the Breath-that-is-Ground.

"Do you see? The viramsata, they become living things, and we are their battle plain we are their battle plain."

Kellhus nodded. "Like Inrithism and Fanimry."

"Precisely. Lies that have conquered and reproduced over the centuries. Delusional world views that have divided the world between them. They are twin viramsata that even now war through shouts and limbs of men. Two great thoughtless beasts that take the souls of Men as their ground."

"And the Thousandfold Thought?"

Moenghus turned to him, as precisely as if he could see. "An instigator that goads them, that bleeds them even as we speak. A formula of events that will rewrite the very course of history. A great transition rule that will see Inrithism and Fanimry transformed. The Thousandfold Thought is all these things.

"Beliefs beget action, beget action, Kellhus. If Men are to survive the dark years to come, they must all act Kellhus. If Men are to survive the dark years to come, they must all act of one accord of one accord. So long as there are Inrithi and Fanim, this will not be possible. They must yield before a new delusion, a new Breath-that-is-Ground. All souls must be rewritten ... There is no other way."

"And the Truth?" Kellhus asked. "What of that?"

"There is no Truth for the worldborn. They feed and they couple, cozening their hearts with false flatteries, easing their intellects with pathetic simplifications. The Logos, for them, is a tool of their l.u.s.t, nothing more ... They excuse themselves and heap blame upon others. They glorify their people over other peoples, their nation over other nations. They focus their fears on the innocent. And when they hear words such as these, they recognize them-but as defects belonging to others. They are children who have learned to disguise their tantrums from their wives and their fellows, and from themselves most of all ...

"No man says, 'They are chosen and are chosen and we we are d.a.m.ned.' No worldborn man. They have not the heart for Truth." are d.a.m.ned.' No worldborn man. They have not the heart for Truth."

Stepping from between his faceless captives, Moenghus approached, his expression a mask of blind stone. He reached out as though to clasp Kellhus's wrist or hand, but halted the instant Kellhus shrank back.

"But why, my son? Why ask me what you already know?"

She clutched the crumbling walls, ducked to see past the fronds of sumac.

Something, a high wind perhaps, worried the darkling clouds that shadowed the Holy City. A corona of gold had formed along their outer rim, and sunlight showered across the slopes above the Holy War's encampment, upon the ruined mausoleums of the ancient Amoti Kings. Even still, the sorcerer flared with impossible brilliance. His eyes bright-burning orbs. His mouth working about glaring white.

From where Esmenet watched, Achamian was no longer Achamian, but something altogether different, something G.o.dlike and all-conquering. Multiple spheres of light englobed him, each bisected with further, shielding discs. Brilliant lines webbed the slopes surrounding him, glittering geometries that sundered all but the thickest bodies and the hardest steel. The Abstractions of the Gnosis. The War-Cants of the Ancient North.

His voice-and no matter how unearthly, it remained his his voice-had become a singsong mutter that descended from all directions, that tingled against her fingertips when she pressed the stone. Despite her terror and confusion, she knew that at long last she saw voice-had become a singsong mutter that descended from all directions, that tingled against her fingertips when she pressed the stone. Despite her terror and confusion, she knew that at long last she saw him, him, the one whose long shadow had always chilled their hopes, darkened their love. the one whose long shadow had always chilled their hopes, darkened their love.

The Mandate Schoolman.

From what she could see, the Nansur were in utter confusion. The Kidruhil had broken, dispersed into the distances, where still the far-flung lines of the Gnosis found them. The air rang with frantic alarms.

She was no fool. She knew there would be Chorae, that it was only a matter of time before the units of crossbowmen or some such fought their way through the confusion. But how long would it take? How long could he survive?

She was about to watch him die, she realized. The only man who truly loved her.

From nowhere, it seemed, golden fires rolled over him, burning the earth about his Wards to gla.s.s. Then lightning struck, brilliant spasms of it, scrawling across the glowing planes. She stumbled along the interior of the ruined wall, struggled to find a footing, then pulled herself up to look westward.

Her heart caught at the sight of the Imperial Columns, their ranks piling across the distances. Then she saw them: them: along the crest, standing the height of a tree above the ground, four black-robed sorcerers, wrapped in spectral bastions of stone. They sang dragons. They sang lightning, lava, and sun. Twice the concussions knocked her from her perch. along the crest, standing the height of a tree above the ground, four black-robed sorcerers, wrapped in spectral bastions of stone. They sang dragons. They sang lightning, lava, and sun. Twice the concussions knocked her from her perch.

One by one the Mandate Schoolman pulled them down, each with blistering precision.

The Holy Water of the Indara-Kishauri fell sideways across the heaped earth, spiralling from souls that had become fissures. Dozens of Scarlet Schoolmen, too engrossed or startled to sing new Encircling Wards, screamed in the scalding light. Entire cadres were swept away in deluge after glittering deluge. Narstheba. Inrummi ...

Death came swirling down.

Cishaurim were struck down with Chorae-quick, soundless flashes, like tissue cast into flame-but then so too were Schoolmen, by the Thesji Bowmen who dashed through the smoke-hazed ruin. Within heartbeats the circle was broken, and organized battle became sorcerous melee. Each Schoolman found himself warring alone with his stunned cadre, both to live and to kill. Their shouts were lost in the thunder of their destruction. The Cishaurim were everywhere among them, standing in clutches, behind broken walls, upon mounded debris-blue-burning beacons. Geysers erupted along the sheer brick surfaces, leaving deep pocks that trailed dust and gravel. Bricks fell like powdered plaster. Many of the Cishaurim, the Secondaries and Tertiaries, they killed with single Dragonheads. The Primaries they hammered and hammered, either singly or in concert, only to find themselves falling to their knees, screaming out Ward after desperate Ward.

The Scarlet Spires knew of the Nine Incandati, those Primaries whose backs could bear the most Water, but they had no inkling as to their true strength. Now the greatest of the Psukari a.s.sailed them: Seokti, Inkorot, Hab'hara, Fanfarokar, Sartmandri ... And they could not cope.

Within moments of closing with Inkorot, Sarosthenes was singing Wards only. Dazzling light crashed all about him, striking with such force that it seemed the very joists of the world must crack. His Javreh shield-bearers wailed about him, struggling to find their feet. The ghost stone cracked, was torn away in sheets. His song ran out, and all was brilliant agony.