Such was the madness of things-the perversity!-that one thought, one slight twitch of the soul, could overturn so much. Where before he need only collect the future like a tax-farmer, now he threw number-sticks against the great black-for the lives of thousands, no less! Perhaps, for the entire Holy War.

One thought . . . So frail was the balance between soul and world. Dread overcame him, threatened him with despair. At night, he wept in the secrecy of his tent. Was this not always the way? Hadn't the Gods always taunted, frustrated, and humiliated him? First the fact of his birth-to be the first first soul in the body of the soul in the body of the seventh seventh son! Then his father, who'd punished him beyond all reason, beat him for possessing his fire, his cunning! Then the wars against the Nansurium a few years previous . . . Mere miles! So close he could see the smear of Momemn's smoke on the horizon! Only to be afflicted by Ikurei Conphas-to be bested by a stripling! son! Then his father, who'd punished him beyond all reason, beat him for possessing his fire, his cunning! Then the wars against the Nansurium a few years previous . . . Mere miles! So close he could see the smear of Momemn's smoke on the horizon! Only to be afflicted by Ikurei Conphas-to be bested by a stripling!

And now this . . .

Why? Why cheat him? him? Hadn't he given? Hadn't he observed their petty statutes, slaked their obscene thirst for blood? Hadn't he given? Hadn't he observed their petty statutes, slaked their obscene thirst for blood?

Then yesterday, both Athjeari and Wanhail, whom Saubon had charged with scouting and securing the country in advance of the main body, had sighted large parties of heathen horsemen.

"Many-coloured, with thin, flowing coats," Wanhail, the Earl of Kurigald, had said at evening council. Despite their similar age and stature, Wanhail always struck Saubon as one of those men flung far from their natural station by the happenstance of birth: a tavern clown in the trappings of a caste-noble. "Worse than the Ainoni, even . . . Like a troop of fucking dancers!"

There was a chorus of laughter.

"But fast," Athjeari had added, his gaze fixed upon the fire. "Very fast." When he looked to the others, his expression was stern, his long-lashed eyes sober. "When we gave chase, they outstripped us with ease . . ." He paused so the assembled earls and thanes could digest the significance of this. "And their archery! I've never seen the like. Somehow they can draw and release while they ride-fire backward at their pursuers!" fast." When he looked to the others, his expression was stern, his long-lashed eyes sober. "When we gave chase, they outstripped us with ease . . ." He paused so the assembled earls and thanes could digest the significance of this. "And their archery! I've never seen the like. Somehow they can draw and release while they ride-fire backward at their pursuers!"

The assembled warlords were unimpressed: Inrithi caste-nobles, Norsirai or Ketyai, thought archery base and unmanly. Regarding the sightings themselves, the preponderance of opinion was that they meant little. "Of course they shadow us!" Wanhail argued. "The only surprise is that we haven't seen the bung-bangers before now."

Even Gotian agreed, though with somewhat more decorum. "If Skauras wished to contest Gedea," he said, "then he would have defended the passes, no?"

Only Athjeari dissented. Afterward, he pulled Saubon aside and fairly hissed, "Something's amiss, Uncle."

Something was was amiss, though Saubon had said nothing at the time. He'd learned long ago the virtue of suspending judgment in the company of his commanders-especially in situations where his authority was uncertain. Even though he could count on many men, mostly relatives or veterans of his previous campaigns, he was really only the titular head of the Galeoth contingent-a fact brought home by the number of caste-nobles who continually gambolled through the hills, hunting or hawking. The deference owed by earls to a lackland prince was largely ceremonial; his every command, it seemed, had to run a gauntlet of pride and whimsy. amiss, though Saubon had said nothing at the time. He'd learned long ago the virtue of suspending judgment in the company of his commanders-especially in situations where his authority was uncertain. Even though he could count on many men, mostly relatives or veterans of his previous campaigns, he was really only the titular head of the Galeoth contingent-a fact brought home by the number of caste-nobles who continually gambolled through the hills, hunting or hawking. The deference owed by earls to a lackland prince was largely ceremonial; his every command, it seemed, had to run a gauntlet of pride and whimsy.

So he pretended to deliberate, concealed the certainty that weighed so heavy against him. Concealed the truth.

They were alone, some forty or fifty thousand Galeoth and under nine thousand Shrial Knights, not to mention the uncounted thousands who followed, stranded in hostile country, wandering into the clutches of a ruthless, cunning, and determined foe. Gothyelk and his Tydonni were lost. Proyas and Conphas remained camped about Asgilioch. They were vastly outnumbered, if the estimates of Skauras's strength provided by Conphas could be trusted-and Gotian insisted they could. They had no real discipline, no real leader. And they had no sorcerers. No Scarlet Spires.

But he said the Whore would be kind . . . He said!

Saubon puzzled at the chorus of voices that continued to reverberate from below. "Akirea im Val." Usually a patchwork of shouts, chants, and hymns characterized the march. Something had incited them. Once again, Saubon peered through the dust and massed men, searching for some sign of his groom. It had to be Kussalt . . .

Please . . .

There! Riding with a small party of horsemen. Saubon released a deep, shuddering breath, watched them pass through a screen of cheering men-at-arms-Agmundrmen by the look of their teardrop shields-before climbing the gravel incline to join him. His relief quickly evaporated. They bore lances, he realized. Lances capped with severed heads.

"Akirea im Val pa Valsa!"

Saubon clenched a fist, beat it against a mail-covered thigh. With thumb and forefinger, he pinched a glimpse of Prince Kellhus from his eyes.

No one knows you . . .

Lances! They bore lances . . . A traditional token, used by Galeoth knights to warn their commanders of imminent battle.

"From Athjeari?" he called out as Kussalt's horse gained the crest.

The old groom scowled, as though to say, Who else! Who else! Everything about the man was dull: his mail, his ancient, dented battlecap, even the Red Lion on Blue of his surcoat, which marked him as a member of the House Coithus. Dull and dangerous. Kussalt cared nothing for his appearance, and this made him appear all the more formidable. There was much violence in that grizzled face. The only man Saubon had ever met with eyes as implacable as Kussalt's had been Prince Kellhus. Everything about the man was dull: his mail, his ancient, dented battlecap, even the Red Lion on Blue of his surcoat, which marked him as a member of the House Coithus. Dull and dangerous. Kussalt cared nothing for his appearance, and this made him appear all the more formidable. There was much violence in that grizzled face. The only man Saubon had ever met with eyes as implacable as Kussalt's had been Prince Kellhus.

"What does he say?" Saubon cried.

The old groom tossed the lance before reining to a halt. Saubon snatched it-almost too late. He found himself face to face with a severed head planted on its tip. Dark skin blanched and bloodless. The braids of its goatee swaying. A Kianene noble, possessing the leathery look of dead things left overlong in the sun. Even still, it seemed to gaze at him, slack and heavy-lidded, like a man about to spill his seed.

His foe.

"War and apples," Kussalt said. "He said, 'War and apples.'"

"Apples" was common slang for decapitated heads among the Galeoth. In days of yore, a tutor had once told Saubon, the Galeoth had stewed and stuffed them, like the Thunyeri.

The others rumbled to the summit, hailing him. Gotian with his second, Sarcellus. Anfirig, the Earl of Gesindal, with his groom. Several thanes-representatives of different households. And four or five beardless adolescents ready to courier messages. With the exception of Kussalt and Gotian, everyone carried a look somewhere between desperation and exasperation.

The ensuing argument was as bitter as any Saubon had endured since parting ways with Gothyelk. Apparently Athjeari and Wanhail had been fighting running battles since early morning. Athjeari in particular, Kussalt said, was convinced that Skauras assembled nearby, most likely on the Plains of Mengedda. "He thinks the Sapatishah is trying to slow us with his pickets, keep us from reaching the Battleplain until he's prepared."

But Gotian disagreed, insisting that Skauras had prepared long ago, that he was actually trying to bait bait them. "He knows your people are rash, that the promise of battle will bring them running." When Anfirig and the others began protesting, the Grandmaster screeched, "Don't you see? Don't you see?" over and over until everyone, including Saubon, fell silent. them. "He knows your people are rash, that the promise of battle will bring them running." When Anfirig and the others began protesting, the Grandmaster screeched, "Don't you see? Don't you see?" over and over until everyone, including Saubon, fell silent.

"He wants to engage you as soon as possible on favourable ground! As soon as possible! As soon as possible!"

"So?" Anfirig asked contemptuously. Whether directly or indirectly, Gotian was always lecturing them on the cunning and ferocity of the Fanim. As a result, many of the Galeoth thought he feared the heathen-thought he was craven-when what he truly feared, Saubon knew, was the reckless humour of his Norsirai allies.

"So, perhaps he knows something we don't! Something that necessitates closing with us quickly!"

The words struck Saubon breathless. "If Gedea is a broken country," he said numbly, "then the Battleplain would be the quickest means of crossing it . . ." He glanced at Gotian, who nodded cautiously.

"What does-" Anfirig started.

"Think!" Saubon exclaimed. "Think, Anfi, think! Gothyelk! If Gothyelk wishes to cross Gedea as quickly as possible, what path would he take? what path would he take?"

The Earl of Gesindal was no fool, but then neither was he a prodigy. He lowered his greying, leonine head in concentration, then said, "You're saying he's close, that the Tydonni and Thunyeri have been marching parallel to us this entire time, making for the Battleplain, as we do . . ." When he looked up, his eyes were bright with grudging admiration. As a close mead-friend of his oldest brother, Anfirig, Saubon knew, had always looked on him as the boy he'd so roundly teased in his youth.

"You're saying the Sapatishah is trying to prevent us from joining Gothyelk!"

"Exactly," Saubon replied. He glanced at Gotian once again, realized the Grandmaster had given given him this insight. him this insight. He wants me to lead. Trusts me. He wants me to lead. Trusts me.

But then the man didn't know him. No one did. No one- What are these thoughts!

Save the Ainoni, the Tydonni comprised the largest contingent of the Holy War-some seventy thousand hard-bitten men. Add to that Skaiyelt's murderous twenty thousand, and they possessed nearly all the might of the Middle-North. The greatest Norsirai host since the fall of the Ancient North!

Ah, Skauras, my heathen friend . . .

Suddenly the severed head upon the lance no longer seemed a rebuke, a totem of their doom; it seemed a sign, the smoke that promised cleansing fire. With unaccountable certainty, Saubon realized that Skauras was afraid was afraid . . . . . .

As well he should be.

His misapprehensions fell away, and the old exhilaration coursed like liquor through his veins, a sensation he had always attributed to Gilgaol, One-Eyed War.

The Whore will be kind to you.

Saubon tossed the lance and its grisly trophy back to Kussalt, then began barking orders, dispatching multiple messengers to inform Athjeari and Wanhail of the situation, charging Anfirig with the attempt to locate Gothyelk, bidding Gotian to send his knights throughout the column, urging restraint and discipline.

"Until we rejoin Gothyelk, we remain in the hills," he declared. "If Skauras wishes to close with us, either let him fight on foot or break a thousand necks!"

Then suddenly, he found himself alone with Kussalt, his ears buzzing, his face flushed.

It was happening, he realized. It was beginning beginning. After years and months, the womanish war of words was finally over, and the real war was beginning. The others, like Proyas, had yearned to untangle the "holy" in "Holy War" from the Emperor's knots. Not Saubon. It was the "war" he was most interested in. This was what he told himself, anyway.

And not only was it happening, it was happening the way Prince Kellhus had said it would.

No one knows you. No one.

He glanced at the retreating forms of Gotian and Sarcellus as they thudded down the slope. The thought of sacrificing them-as Prince Kellhus, or the Gods, had demanded-suddenly deadened his heart.

Punish them. You must make sure the Shrial Knights are punished.

Something cold caught his throat, and as quickly as Gilgaol had possessed him, the God fled.

"Is something wrong, m'Lord?" Kussalt asked. It was uncanny, the way the man could guess his moods. But then, he'd always been there. Saubon's earliest childhood memory was of Kussalt scooping him up into his arms and racing into the galleries of Moraor after a bee sting had nearly choked him.

Without realizing, Saubon resumed chewing on his knuckles.

"Kussalt?"

"Yes?"

Saubon hesitated, found himself looking away to the south, to the Battleplain. "I need a copy of The Tractate The Tractate . . . I need to search for . . . something." . . . I need to search for . . . something."

"What do you need to know?" the old groom said, his voice both shocked and curiously tender . . .

Saubon glared at him. "What business-"

"I ask only because I carry The Tractate The Tractate with me always . . ." His chapped hand had wandered to his chest as he spoke; he laid his palm flat across his heart. "Here." with me always . . ." His chapped hand had wandered to his chest as he spoke; he laid his palm flat across his heart. "Here."

He'd memorized it, Saubon realized. For some reason this shocked him to the point of becoming faint. He'd always known Kussalt to be pious, and yet . . .

"Kussalt . . ." he began, but could think of nothing to say.

Those old, implacable eyes blinked, nothing more.

"I need . . ." Saubon finally ventured, "I need to know what the Latter Prophet has to say regarding . . . sacrifice."

The groom's bushy white brows knitted together. "Many things. Very many things . . . I don't understand."

"What the Gods demand . . . Is it proper because they they demand it?" demand it?"

"No," Kussalt said, still frowning.

For some reason, the thoughtless certainty of this answer angered him. What did the old fool know?

"You disbelieve me," Kussalt said, his voice thick with weariness. "But it's the glory of Inri Sej-"

"Enough of this prattle," Coithus Saubon snapped. He glanced at the severed head-at the apple-noticed the glint of a golden incisor between slack and battered lips. So this was their enemy . . . Drawing his sword, he struck it from the lance, and the lance from Kussalt's fist.

"I believe what I need to," he grated.

CHAPTER SIX.

The Plains of Mengedda

One sorcerer, the ancients say, is worth a thousand warriors in battle and ten thousand sinners in Hell.

-DRUSAS ACHAMIAN, COMPENDIUM OF THE FIRST HOLY WAR COMPENDIUM OF THE FIRST HOLY WAR

When shields become crutches, and swords become canes, some hearts are put to rout.

When wives become plunder, and foes become thanes, all hope has guttered out.

-ANONYMOUS, "LAMENT FOR THE CONQUERED"

Early Summer, 4111 Year-of-the-Tusk, near the Plains of Mengedda Morning broke, and rough Galeoth and Tydonni horns pealed through the clear air, sounding, at the moment of their highest pitch, like a woman's shriek.

The call to battle.

Despite thousands of Fanim horsemen and dozens of small pitched battles, the day previous had witnessed the reunion of the Galeoth, Tydonni, and Thunyeri hosts in the hill country to the immediate north of the Battleplain. Reconciled, Coithus Saubon and Hoga Gothyelk agreed to march out onto the northern terminus of the plains that very evening, with the hope of pressing their advantage-if it could be called such. Here, they decided, their position would be as strong as anything they might hope to find. To the northeast, they could shelter their flank behind a series of salt marshes, whereas to the west, they could depend on the hills. A shallow ravine, guttered by a stream that fed the marshes, wound the entire length, from flank to flank. Here they had planned to draw up the common line. Its slopes were too shallow to break any charge, but it would force the heathen to scramble through the muck.

Now the wind came from the east, and men swore they could smell the sea. Some-a few-wondered at the ground beneath their feet. They asked others whether their sleep had been troubled, or whether they could hear a faint sound, like the hiss of foam in tidal pools.

The Great Earls of the Middle-North gathered their households and their client thanes, who in turn gathered their households. Major-domos hollered commands over the din. There were cheers and raucous laughter, the rolling thunder of hooves as bands of younger knights, already drunk, rushed southward, eager to be among the first to catch sight of the heathen. Milling on carpets of bruised and trampled grass, thousands made haste to ready themselves. Wives and concubines embraced their men. Shrial Priests led crowds of warriors and camp-followers alike in prayer. Thousands knelt upon the turf, muttering aloud from their ancestor scrolls, touching morning-cool earth to their lips. Cultic priests intoned ancient rites, anointed idols with blood and precious oils. Goshawks were sacrificed in the name of Gilgaol. The shanks of butchered antelope were thrown across the godfires of the Dark Hunter, Husyelt.

Augurs cast their bones. Surgeons set knives upon the fire, readied their kits.