Where was Crown Prince Fanayal and the feared Coyauri? Where was dread Cinganjehoi and the famed Ten Thousand Grandees of Eumarna?

"It's fact," Kellhus said. "Only a fraction of Kian stands before us."

Cnaiur jerked his gaze yet again to the southern hills and knew, from heart to marrow, that the Dunyain spoke true. Suddenly he saw the field through Kianene eyes. The fleet Grandees of Shigek and Gedea drawing the Tydonni and Galeoth ever farther west. The Shigeki multitude dying as they should, and fleeing as everyone knew they would. Anwurat, an immovable point threatening the Inrithi rear. Then the southern hills . . .

"He shows us," Cnaiur murmured. "Skauras shows us . . ."

"Two armies," Kellhus said without hesitation. "One defending, one concealed, the same as on the Battleplain."

Just then, Cnaiur saw the first long threads of Kianene horsemen descend the faraway southern slopes. Skirts of dust billowed behind them, obscuring the threads that followed. Even from here he could see the Ainoni infantrymen bracing . . . Miles of them.

The Nansur and Thunyeri, meanwhile, had charged and hacked their way past the final embankments. The Shigeki ranks dissolved before their onslaught. Innumerable thousands already fled westward, pursued by battle-crazed Thunyeri. The Inrithi officers and caste-nobles behind Cnaiur and Kellhus broke into full-throated cheers. The fools.

Skauras need not fight a battle of penetration along a single line. He had speed and cohesion, fira fira and and utmurzu utmurzu. The Shigeki were simply a ruse, a brilliantly monstrous sacrifice-a way to scatter the Inrithi across the broken plains. Too much conviction, the wily old Sapatishah knew, could be as deadly as too little.

A great ache filled Cnaiur's chest. Only Kellhus's strong grip saved him the humiliation of falling to his knees.

Always the same . . .

Never had he been so conflicted. Never had he been so confused.

Throughout the battle, while the others had gawked, exclaimed, and pointed, General Martemus had watched the Scylvendi and Prince Kellhus, straining to hear their banter. The barbarian wore a harness of polished scale, the sleeves hacked short to reveal his many-scarred forearms. A leather girdle set with iron plates strapped his stomach and waist. A pointed Kianene battlecap, its silvering chipped in innumerable places, protected his head. Long black hair whipped about his shoulders.

Martemus could've recognized him from miles distant. He was Scylvendi filth. As impressive as he'd found the man both in Council and in the field, the outrage of a Scylvendi-a Scylvendi! Scylvendi!-overseeing the Holy War in battle was almost too much to bear. How could the others not see the disgusting truth of his heritage? The man's every scar argued his assassination! Martemus would've gladly-gladly!-sacrificed his life to avenge those the savage had butchered.

Why, then, had Conphas ordered him to murder the other other man standing next to the Scylvendi? man standing next to the Scylvendi?

Because, General, he's a Cishaurim spy . . .

But no spy could speak such words.

That's his sorcery! Always remember- No! Not sorcery, truth!

As I said, General. That is his sorcery . . .

Martemus watched, unmoved by the prattle around him. But no matter how mortal his mission, he couldn't ignore glory in the field. No soldier could. Drawn by shouts of genuine triumph, Martemus turned to see the heathen's entire centre collapse. Across miles, from Anwurat to the southern hills, Shigeki formations crumbled and scattered westward, pursued by charging ranks of Nansur and Thunyeri footmen. Martemus cheered with the others. For a moment, he felt only pride for his countrymen, relief that victory had come at so slight a cost. Conphas had conquered again!

Then he glanced back at the Scylvendi.

He'd been a soldier too long not to recognize the stink of disaster-even beneath the perfume of apparent victory. Something had gone catastrophically wrong . . .

The barbarian screamed at the Hornsman to signal the retreat. For a moment, those about Martemus could only stare in astonishment. Then everything erupted in tumult and confusion. The Tydonni thane, Ganrikka, accused the Scylvendi of treachery. Weapons were drawn, brandished. The deranged barbarian kept roaring at them to peer south, but nothing could be seen for the dust. Even still, the violence of the Scylvendi's protestations had unsettled many. Several began shouting for the Hornsman, including Prince Kellhus. But the Scylvendi had had enough. He barrelled through the astonished onlookers and leapt onto his horse. Within heartbeats, it seemed, he was racing southeast, trailing a long banderole of dust.

Then the horns sounded, cracking the air.

Others started running to their horses as well. Martemus turned back, looked to the three men Conphas had given him. One, the towering black-skinned Zeumi, met his eyes, nodded, then glanced past him to the Prince of Atrithau. They would run nowhere.

Unfortunate, Martemus thought. Running had been his first truly practical thought in a long time.

For a heartbeat, Prince Kellhus caught his look. His smile held such sorrow that Martemus nearly gasped. Then the Prophet turned to the distances seething beneath his feet.

Vast waves of Kianene horsemen, their corselets flashing from their many-coloured coats, charged down the slopes and slammed into the astonished Ainoni. The forward ranks hunched behind their shields, struggled to brace their long spears on the incline, while above them scimitars flashed in the morning sun. Dust swept across the arid slopes. Horns brayed in panic. The air thundered with shouts, rumbling hooves, and the pulse of Fanim drums. More heathen lancers crashed into and through the Ainoni ranks.

The tributary Sansori under Prince Garsahadutha were the first to break, scattering before none other than fierce Cinganjehoi himself, the famed Tiger of Eumarna. Within moments, it seemed, the Grandees of Eumarna were pounding into the rear of the forward phalanxes. Soon every phalanx on the Ainoni left, with the exception of the elite Kishyati under Palatine Soter, was either stranded or routed. Withdrawing in order, the Kishyati fought off charge after charge, purchasing precious time for the Ainoni knights below.

The whole world, it seemed, was obscured by wind-drawn curtains of dust. Stiff in their elaborate armour, the knights of Karyoti, Hinnant, and Moserothu, Antanamera, Eshkalas, and Eshganax, thundered up the slopes, charging through the thousands who fled. They met the Fanim in an ochre haze. Lances cracked and horses shrieked. Men cried out to the hidden heavens.

Swinging his great two-handed mace, Uranyanka, Palatine of humid Moserothu, upended heathen after heathen. Sepherathindor, Count-Palatine of Hinnant, led his painted knights on a rampage, hewing men like wood. Prince Garsahadutha and his Sansori stalwarts continued charging forward, searching for the holy standards of their kinsmen. The Kianene horsemen broke and fled before them, and the Ainoni bellowed in exultation.

The wind began to clear the haze.

Then Garsahadutha, several hundred paces ahead of his peers, stumbled into Crown Prince Fanayal and his Coyauri. Skewered through the eye socket, the Sansori Prince crashed from his saddle, and death came swirling down. Within moments, all six hundred and forty-three knights of Sansor had been either unhorsed or killed. Unable to see more than several paces, many of the Ainoni knights below simply charged the sound of battle-vanished into the saffron fog. Others milled about their barons and palatines, waiting for the wind.

Horse archers appeared on their flanks and to their rear.

Serwe huddled, wracked by sobs, struggling to cover herself with her blanket.

"What have I done?" she bawled. "What have I done to displease you?"

A haloed hand struck her, and she slammed against the carpets.

"I love you!" she shrieked. "Kellhuuuus!"

The Warrior-Prophet laughed.

"Tell me, sweet, sweet Serwe, what have I planned for the Holy War?"

The Swazond Standard leaned in a gust, the bolts of white billowing and snapping like sails. Martemus had already resolved to kick the abomination to the ground-afterward . . . Everyone had abandoned the hillock, save himself, Prince Kellhus, and Conphas's three assassins.

Though more dust than ever plumed along the southern hills, Martemus could see what had to be Ainoni infantry fleeing the pale clouds. He'd long since lost sight of the Scylvendi across the broken pasture. To the west of the looming disaster, he could see the Columns of his countrymen reforming. Soon, Martemus knew, Conphas would have them marching double-time toward the marshes. The Nansur were old hands when it came to surviving Fanim catastrophes.

Prince Kellhus sat with his back to the four of them, his feet sole to sole and his palms flat upon his knees. Beyond him, men climbed and toppled from fortress walls, lines of knights galloped across dusty pastures, Northmen axed hapless Shigeki to the ground . . .

The Prophet seemed to be . . . listening. No. Bearing witness.

Not him, Martemus thought. I cannot do this. I cannot do this.

The first of the assassins approached.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

Anwurat

Where the holy take men for fools, the mad take the world.

-PROTATHIS, THE GOAT'S HEART THE GOAT'S HEART

Late Summer, 4111 Year-of-the-Tusk, Shigek Year-of-the-Tusk, Shigek A dried riverbed creased the heart of the plain, and for a time Cnaiur raced through it, climbing out only when the course began winding like an old man's veins. He jerked his black to a stamping halt on the bank. The coastal hills piled above him, their heights and seaward reaches still skirted in chalklike dust. To the west, the remaining Ainoni phalanxes were withdrawing down the slopes. To the east, innumerable thousands sprinted across the broken pasture. Not far, on a small knoll, he saw a clot of infantrymen dressed in long black leather kilts stitched with iron rings, but without helms or weapons. Some sat, others stood, stripping off their armour. Save those who wept, all watched the shrouded hills with a look of stunned horror. dried riverbed creased the heart of the plain, and for a time Cnaiur raced through it, climbing out only when the course began winding like an old man's veins. He jerked his black to a stamping halt on the bank. The coastal hills piled above him, their heights and seaward reaches still skirted in chalklike dust. To the west, the remaining Ainoni phalanxes were withdrawing down the slopes. To the east, innumerable thousands sprinted across the broken pasture. Not far, on a small knoll, he saw a clot of infantrymen dressed in long black leather kilts stitched with iron rings, but without helms or weapons. Some sat, others stood, stripping off their armour. Save those who wept, all watched the shrouded hills with a look of stunned horror.

Where were the Ainoni knights?

To the extreme east, where the turquoise and aquamarine band of the Meneanor disappeared behind the dun foundations of the hills, he saw a great cataract of Kianene horsemen spill across the strand. He need not see their devices to know: Cinganjehoi and the Grandees of Eumarna, pounding across uncontested ground . . .

Where were the reserves? Gotian and his Shrial Knights, Gaidekki, Werijen Greatheart, Athjeari, and the others?

Cnaiur felt a sharp pang in his throat. He clenched his teeth.

It's happening again . . .

Kiyuth.

Only this time he he was Xunnurit. He was the arrogant mule! was Xunnurit. He was the arrogant mule!

He pinched sweat from his eyes, watched the Fanim gallop behind a screen of distant scrub and stunted trees-an endless tide . . .

The encampment. They ride for the encampment . . .

With a yell he spurred his horse to the east.

Serwe.

Masses of warring men animated the horizon, crashing into stubborn ranks, churning in melee. The air didn't so much thunder as hiss hiss with the sound of distant battle, like a sea heard through a conch shell, Martemus thought-an angry sea. Winded, he watched the first of Conphas's assassins stride up behind Prince Kellhus, raise his shortsword . . . There was an impossible moment-a sharp intake of breath. The Prophet simply turned and caught the descending blade between his thumb and forefinger. "No," he said, then swept around, knocking the man to the turf with an unbelievable kick. Somehow the assassin's sword found its way into his left hand. Still crouched, the Prophet drove it down through the assassin's throat, nailing him to the turf. A mere heartbeat had passed. with the sound of distant battle, like a sea heard through a conch shell, Martemus thought-an angry sea. Winded, he watched the first of Conphas's assassins stride up behind Prince Kellhus, raise his shortsword . . . There was an impossible moment-a sharp intake of breath. The Prophet simply turned and caught the descending blade between his thumb and forefinger. "No," he said, then swept around, knocking the man to the turf with an unbelievable kick. Somehow the assassin's sword found its way into his left hand. Still crouched, the Prophet drove it down through the assassin's throat, nailing him to the turf. A mere heartbeat had passed.

The second Nansur assassin rushed forward, striking. Another kick from a crouch, and the man's head snapped backward, his blade flew from senseless fingers. He slumped to the earth like a cast-off robe-obviously dead.

The Zeumi sword-dancer lowered his great tulwar and laughed.

"A civilized man," he said, his voice deep.

Without warning, he sent the tulwar whooshing through the air around him. Sunlight flashed as though from the silvered spokes of a chariot wheel.

Now standing, the Prophet drew his strange, long-pommeled sword from his shoulder sheath. Holding it in his right hand, he lowered its tip to the ground before his booted feet. He flicked a clot of dirt into the sword-dancer's eyes. The sword-dancer stumbled back, cursing. The Prophet lunged, buried his sword point deep into the assassin's palate. He guided the towering corpse to the earth.

He stood alone against a vista of strife and woe, his beard and hair boiling in the wind. He turned to Martemus, stepped over the sword-dancer's body . . .

Illuminated by the morning sun. A striding vision. A walking aspect . . .

Something too terrible. Too bright.

The General stumbled backward, struggled to draw his sword. "Martemus," the vision said. It reached out and clasped the wrist of his frantic sword arm.

"Prophet," Martemus gasped.

The vision smiled, saying: "Skauras knows the Scylvendi leads us. He's seen the Swazond Standard . . ."

General Martemus stared, uncomprehending.

The Warrior-Prophet turned, nodded toward the sweeping landscape.

No recognizable lines remained. Martemus saw Proyas and his Conriyan knights first, stranded about the mud-brick warren of the distant village. Erupting from the shadow of the orchards, several thousand Kianene horsemen swept about their flank, led by the triangular standard of Cuaxaji, the Sapatishah of Khemema. The Conriyans were doomed, Martemus thought, but otherwise he didn't understand what the Warrior-Prophet meant . . . Then he glanced toward Anwurat.

"Khirgwi," the General murmured. Thousands of them, mounted on tall loping camels, ploughing into the hastily drawn ranks of Conriyan infantry, spilling around their flanks, racing toward the hillock, toward the Swazond Standard . . .

Toward them.

Their unnerving, ululating war-cries permeated the din.

"We must flee!" he cried.

"No," the Warrior-Prophet said. "The Swazond Standard cannot fall."

"But it will!" Martemus exclaimed. "It already has!"

The Warrior-Prophet smiled, and his eyes glittered with something fierce and unconquerable. "Conviction, General Martemus . . ." He gripped his shoulder with a haloed hand. "War is conviction."

Confusion and terror ruled the hearts of the Ainoni knights. Disoriented in the dust, they hailed one another, trying to determine some course of action. Cohorts of fleet archers swept about them, shooting their caparisoned horses out from beneath him. Knights cursed and hunched behind arrow-studded shields. Every time Uranyanka, Sepherathindor, and the others charged, the Kianene scattered, outdistanced them while sending more knights crashing into the sun-baked turf. Many of the Ainoni lost their way and were stranded, harassed from all sides. Kusjeter, the Count-Palatine of Gekas, blundered onto the summit of the slopes and found himself trapped between the spiked earthworks that had defeated the initial Ainoni charges and the ruthless lances of the Coyauri below. Time and again he fought off the elite Kianene cavalrymen, only to be unhorsed and taken for dead by his own men. His knights panicked, and he was trampled in their flight. Death came swirling down . . .

Meanwhile the Sapatishah of Eumarna, Cinganjehoi, charged across the pastures below. Most of his Grandees fanned northward, eager to visit ruin on the Inrithi encampment. The Tiger himself struck westward, riding hard with his household through fields of bolting Ainoni infantrymen. He stormed the command of General Setpanares, overrunning it. The General himself was killed, but Chepheramunni, the King-Regent of High Ainon, managed a miraculous escape.

Far to the northwest, the command of Cnaiur urs Skiotha, Battlemaster of the Holy War, dissolved in confusion and accusations of treachery. The masses of Shigeki conscripts composing Skauras's centre had utterly folded before the combined might of the Nansur, Thunyeri, and the flanking charge of Proyas and his Conriyan knights. Believing the Holy War victorious, the Inrithi had dashed forward in pursuit, abandoning their formations. The battle line broke into disordered masses separated by glaring expanses of open pasture. Many actually fell to their knees on the parched turf, crying out thanks to the God. Very few heard the horns signalling a general retreat, largely because very few horns carried the call. Most trumpeters had refused to believe the command was real.

Not once did the thundering drums of the heathen falter.

The Grandees of Khemema and tens of thousands of camel-mounted Khirgwi, ferocious tribesmen from the southern deserts, materialized out of the masses of fleeing Shigeki and charged headlong into the scattered Men of the Tusk. Cut off from his infantry, Proyas withdrew to the mud-brick alleys of a nearby village, crying out to both the God and his men. Falling into shield-wall circles across the pastures, the Thunyeri fought with stubborn astonishment, shocked to encounter an enemy whose fury matched their own. Prince Skaiyelt desperately called for his Earls and their knights, but they were frustrated by the embankments.