The Warrior Prophet Read Online Free

Apocalypse and the Consult and many other sundry things, and though he knows Achamian harbours some terror regarding the name “Anasûrimbor,” he asks the melancholy man to become his teacher. The Dûnyain, 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 Cnaiür 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 Skeaös by reading the lips of his interlocutors. Could this Skeaös 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 Serwë, continuing the patient work of undoing Cnaiür—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, Anasûrimbor Moënghus awaits the coming storm.

     

PART I :
     
    The First March
     

     

CHAPTER ONE
     
    ANSERCA
     
    Ignorance is trust.
    —ANCIENT KÛNIÜRIC PROVERB
     

Late 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. “Anasûrimbor 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 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