The Great Ordeal

What Has Come Before …

THE PRINCE OF NOTHING

Wars, as a rule, fall within the compass of history. They mark the pitch of competing powers, the end of some and the ascendancy of others, the ebb and flow of dominance across the ages. But there is a war that Men have waged for so long they have forgotten the languages they first used to describe it. A war that makes mere skirmishes out of the destruction of tribes and nations.

There is no name for this war; Men cannot reference what transcends the short interval of their comprehension. It began when they were little more than savages roaming the wilds, in an age before script or bronze. An Ark, vast and golden, toppled from the void, scorching the horizon, throwing up a ring of mountains with the violence of its descent. And from it crawled the dread and monstrous Inchoroi, a race who had come to seal the world against the Heavens, and so save the obscenities they called their souls.

The Nonmen held sway in those ancient days, a long-lived people that surpassed Men not only in beauty and intellect, but in wrath and jealousy as well. With their Ishroi heroes and Quya mages, they fought titanic battles and stood vigilant during epochal truces. They endured the Inchoroi weapons of light. They survived the treachery of the Aporetics, who provided the Inchoroi with thousands of sorcery-killing Chorae. They overcame the horrors their enemy crafted: the Sranc, the Bashrag, and most fearsome of all, the Wracu. But their avarice at last betrayed them. After centuries of intermittent war, they made peace with the invaders in return for the gift of ageless immortality—a gift that was in fact a fell weapon, the Plague of Wombs.

In the end, the Nonmen hunted the Inchoroi to the brink of annihilation. Exhausted, culled of their strength, they retired to their underworld mansions to mourn the loss of their wives and daughters, and the inevitable extinction of their glorious race. Their surviving mages sealed the Ark, which they had come to call Min-Uroikas, and hid it from the world with devious glamours. And from the eastern mountains, the first tribes of Men began claiming the lands they had abandoned—Men who had never known the yoke of slavery. Of the surviving Ishroi Kings, some fought, only to be dragged under by the tide of numbers, while others simply left their great gates unguarded, bared their necks to the licentious fury of a lesser race.

And so human history was born, and perhaps the Nameless War would have ended with the fading of its principals. But the golden Ark still existed, and the lust for knowledge has ever been a cancer in the hearts of Men.

Centuries passed, and the mantle of human civilization crept along the great river basins of Eärwa and outward, bringing bronze where there had been flint, cloth where there had been skins, and writing where there had been recital. Great cities rose to teeming life. The wilds gave way to cultivated horizons.

Nowhere were Men more bold in their works, or more overweening in their pride, than in the North, where commerce with the Nonmen had allowed them to outstrip their more swarthy cousins to the South. In the legendary city of Sauglish, those who could discern the joints of existence founded the first sorcerous Schools. As their learning and power waxed, a reckless few turned to the rumours they had heard whispered by their Nonman teachers—rumours of the great golden Ark. The wise were quick to see the peril, and the Schoolmen of Mangaecca, who coveted secrets above all else, were censured, and finally outlawed.

But it was too late. Min-Uroikas was found—occupied.

The fools discovered and awakened the last two surviving Inchoroi, Aurax and Aurang, who had concealed themselves in the labyrinthine recesses of the Ark. And at their hoary knees the outlaw Schoolmen learned that damnation, the burden that all sorcerers bore, need not be inevitable. They learned that the world could be shut against the judgment of Heaven. So they forged a common purpose with the twin abominations, a Consult, and bent their cunning to the aborted designs of the Inchoroi.

The Mangaecca relearned the principles of the material—the Tekne. They mastered the manipulations of the flesh. And after generations of study and searching, after filling the pits of Min-Uroikas with innumerable corpses, they realized the most catastrophic of the Inchoroi’s untold depravities: Mog-Pharau, the No-God.

They made themselves slaves to better destroy the world.

And so the Nameless War raged anew. What has come to be called the First Apocalypse destroyed the great Norsirai nations of the North, laying ruin to the greatest glories of Men. But for Seswatha, the Grandmaster of the Gnostic School of Sohonc, the entire world would have been lost. At his urging, Anasûrimbor Celmomas, the High King of the North’s mightiest nation, Kûniüri, called on his tributaries and allies to join him in a holy war against Min-Uroikas, which Men now called Golgotterath. But his Ordeal foundered, and the might of the Norsirai perished. Seswatha fled south to the Ketyai nations of the Three Seas, bearing the greatest of the legendary Inchoroi weapons, the Heron Spear. With Anaxophus, the High King of Kyraneas, he met the No-God on the Plains of Mengedda, and by dint of valor and providence, overcame the dread Whirlwind.

The No-God was dead, but his slaves and his stronghold remained. Golgotterath had not fallen, and the Consult, blasted by ages of unnatural life, continued to plot their salvation.

The years passed, and the Men of the Three Seas forgot, as Men inevitably do, the horrors endured by their fathers. Empires rose and empires fell. The Latter Prophet, Inri Sejenus, reinterpreted the Tusk, the First Scripture, and within a few centuries, the faith of Inrithism, organized and administered by the Thousand Temples and its spiritual leader, the Shriah, came to dominate the entire Three Seas. The great Anagogic Schools arose in response to the Inrithi persecution of sorcery. Using Chorae, the Inrithi warred against them, attempting to purify the Three Seas.

Then Fane, the self-proclaimed Prophet of the so-called Solitary God, united the Kianene, the desert peoples of the Great Carathay, and declared war against the Tusk and the Thousand Temples. After centuries of jihad, the Fanim and their eyeless sorcerer-priests, the Cishaurim, conquered nearly all the western Three Seas, including the holy city of Shimeh, the birthplace of Inri Sejenus. Only the moribund remnants of the Nansur Empire continued to resist them.

War and strife ruled the South. The two great faiths of Inrithism and Fanimry skirmished, though trade and pilgrimage were tolerated when commercially convenient. The great families and nations vied for military and mercantile dominance. The minor and major Schools squabbled and plotted. And the Thousand Temples pursued earthly ambitions under the leadership of corrupt and ineffectual Shriahs.

The First Apocalypse had become little more than legend. The Consult and the No-God had dwindled into myth, something old wives tell small children. After two thousand years, only the Schoolmen of the Mandate, who relived the Apocalypse each night through the eyes of Seswatha, could recall the horror of Mog-Pharau. Though the mighty and the learned considered them fools, the Mandate’s possession of the sorcery of the Ancient North, the Gnosis, commanded respect and mortal envy. Driven by nightmares, they wandered the labyrinths of power, scouring the Three Seas for signs of their ancient and implacable foe: the Consult.

And as always, they found nothing.

Some argued that the Consult had finally succumbed to the toll of ages. Others that they had turned inward, seeking less arduous means to forestall their damnation. But since the Sranc had multiplied across the northern wilds, no expedition could be sent to Golgotterath to settle the matter. The Mandate alone knew of the Nameless War. They alone stood guard, but they suffocated in a pall of ignorance.

The Thousand Temples elected a new, enigmatic Shriah, a man called Maithanet, who demanded the Inrithi recapture Shimeh, the holy city of the Latter Prophet, from the Fanim. Word of his call spread across the Three Seas and beyond. Faithful from all the great Inrithi nations—Galeoth, Thunyerus, Ce Tydonn, Conriya, High Ainon and their tributaries—travelled to the city of Momemn, the capital of the Nansurium, to swear their swords and their lives to Inri Sejenus. To become Men of the Tusk.

And so the First Holy War was born. Internal feuds plagued the campaign from the outset, for there was no shortage of those who would bend the holy war to their selfish ends. The Inrithi host marched victorious nonetheless, winning two great victories over the heretic Fanim at Mengedda and Anwurat. Only with the Second Siege of Caraskand and the Circumfixion of one of their own would the Men of the Tusk find common purpose. Only when the Men of the Tusk discovered in their midst a living prophet—a man who could see into the hearts of Men. A man like a god.

Anasûrimbor Kellhus.

Far to the north, in the very shadow of Golgotterath, a group of ascetics called the Dûnyain had concealed themselves in Ishuäl, the secret redoubt of the Kûniüric High Kings ere their destruction in the First Apocalypse. For two thousand years the Dûnyain had pursued their sacred study, breeding for reflex and intellect, training in the ways of limb, thought, and face—all for the sake of reason, the Logos. They had dedicated their entire existence to mastering the irrationalities of history, custom, and passion—all those things that determine human thought. In this way, they believed, they would eventually grasp what they called the Absolute, and so become true self-moving souls.

But their millennial isolation was at an end. After thirty years of exile, one of their number, Anasûrimbor Moënghus, reappeared in their dreams, demanding they send to him his son Kellhus. Knowing only that Moënghus dwelt in a distant city called Shimeh, the Dûnyain dispatched Kellhus on an arduous journey through lands long abandoned by Men—to kill his apostate father.

But Moënghus knew the world in ways his cloistered brethren could not. He knew well the revelations that awaited his son, for they had been his revelations thirty years previous. He knew that Kellhus would discover sorcery, whose existence the forefathers of the Dûnyain had suppressed. He knew that given his abilities, Men would be little more than children to him, that Kellhus would see their thoughts in the nuances of their expression, and that with mere words he would be able to exact any devotion, any sacrifice. He knew, moreover, that eventually Kellhus would encounter the Consult, who hid behind faces that only Dûnyain eyes could see—that he would come to see what Men with their blinkered souls could not: the Nameless War.

The Consult had not been idle. For centuries they had eluded their old foe, the School of Mandate, using doppelgängers—spies who could take on any face, any voice, without resorting to sorcery and its telltale Mark. By capturing and torturing these abominations, Moënghus learned that the Consult had not abandoned their ancient plot to shut the world against Heaven, that within a score of years they would be able to resurrect the No-God and bring about a new war against Men, a Second Apocalypse. For years Moënghus walked the innumerable paths of the Probability Trance, plotting future after future, searching for the thread of act and consequence that would save the world. For years he crafted his Thousandfold Thought.

Moënghus knew, and so prepared the way for his Dûnyain-born son, Kellhus. He sent out his world-born son, Maithanet, to seize the Thousand Temples from within, so that he might craft the First Holy War, the weapon Kellhus would need to seize absolute power, and so unite the Three Seas against the doom that was their future. What he did not know, could not know, was that Kellhus would see further than him, think beyond his Thousandfold Thought …

That he would go mad.

Little more than an impoverished wayfarer when he first joined the Holy War, Kellhus used his bearing, intellect, and insight to convince ever more Men of the Tusk that he was the Warrior-Prophet, come to save mankind from the Second Apocalypse. He understood that Men would render anything to him, so long as they believed he could save their souls. He also befriended the Schoolman the Mandate had dispatched to observe the Holy War, Drusas Achamian, knowing that the Gnosis, the sorcery of the Ancient North, would provide him with inestimable power. And he seduced Achamian’s lover, Esmenet, knowing that her intellect made her the ideal vessel for his seed—for sons strong enough to bear the onerous burden of Dûnyain blood.

By the time the battle-hardened remnants of the First Holy War laid siege to Shimeh, Kellhus had achieved absolute authority. The Men of the Tusk had become his Zaudunyani, his Tribe of Truth. While the Holy War assailed the city’s walls, he confronted his father, Moënghus, mortally wounding him, explaining that only his death could realize the Thousandfold Thought. Days later Anasûrimbor Kellhus was proclaimed Holy Aspect-Emperor, the first in a millennium, by none other than the Shriah of the Thousand Temples, his half-brother, Maithanet. Even the School of Mandate, who saw his coming as the fulfillment of their most hallowed prophecies, knelt and kissed his knee.

But he had made a mistake. Before reaching the Three Seas and the Holy War, his passage across Eärwa had delivered him to the lands of the Utemot, a Scylvendi tribe renowned for warlike cruelty. Here he had struck a murderous compact with the tribe’s chieftain, Cnaiür urs Skiötha. Moënghus had also fallen into the hands of the Utemot some thirty years prior, and had used the then adolescent Cnaiür to murder his chieftain father and effect his escape. The youth had spent tormented decades pondering what had happened and had come to guess the inhuman truth of the Dûnyain. So it was that Cnaiür and Cnaiür alone knew the dark secret of Anasûrimbor Kellhus. Before his death, the barbarian revealed these truths to none other than Drusas Achamian, who had long harboured heartbreaking suspicions of his own. At the coronation, before the eyes of the entire Holy War, Achamian repudiated Kellhus, whom he had worshiped; Esmenet, whom he had loved; and the Mandate masters he had served. Then he fled into the wilderness, becoming the world’s only sorcerer without a school. A Wizard.

Now, after twenty years of war, conversion, and butchery, Anasûrimbor Kellhus prepares to realize the penultimate stage of his father’s Thousand-fold Thought. His New Empire spans the entirety of the Three Seas, from the legendary fortress of Auvangshei on the frontiers of Zeum to the shrouded headwaters of the River Sayut, from the sweltering coasts of Kutnarmu to the wild rim of the Osthwai Mountains—all the lands that had once been Fanim or Inrithi. It was easily the equal of the old Ceneian Empire in terms of geographical extent, and far more populous. A hundred great cities, and almost as many languages. A dozen proud nations. Thousands of years of mangled history.

And the Nameless War is nameless no longer. Men call it the Great Ordeal.

THE JUDGING EYE

Achamian

For twenty years Drusas Achamian has kept a painstaking record of his Dreams of the First Apocalypse.

He lives as an exile, the world’s only Wizard, on the savage northeastern frontier of the empire Anasûrimbor Kellhus has raised about his supposed divinity. The Sranc once besieged his half-ruined tower with regularity, but the scalpers have driven the inhuman creatures over the mountains, chasing the Holy Bounty. For years now Achamian has lived in peace, hunting his sleep for hints and rumours of Ishuäl, the hidden fastness of the Dûnyain. If he can find Ishuäl, he believes, he can answer the question that burns so bright in so many learned souls …

Who is the Aspect-Emperor?

This peace is shattered when Anasûrimbor Mimara, the daughter of his former wife, arrives demanding he teach her sorcery. Her resemblance to her mother, Esmenet—the harlot who has become Empress of the Three Seas—returns the old Wizard to all the pains he sought to escape. He refuses her demand, bids her to leave time and again, but she defies him and takes up a vigil outside his tower.

Mimara, who has never forgiven her mother for selling her into slavery as a child, has fled the Imperial Court with no intention of returning. She possesses the ability to see the fabric of existence and so the power to learn sorcery—and this, she has decided, is the one thing that will lift her from the mire of shame and recrimination that is her life. She tells herself she has nothing else …

But she also possesses a different kind of sight, one both more precious and more significant: on rare occasions, she can see the morality of things, the goodness and the evil inherent to them. She has what the ancients called the Judging Eye.

Day and night she howls at his tower, demanding that he teach her. The first time he comes down, he strikes her. The second time he tries to reason with her. He explains his lifelong quest to discover the truth of her stepfather Anasûrimbor Kellhus, how he seeks the location of Ishuäl because it is the Aspect-Emperor’s birthplace, and the truth of a man, Achamian insists, always lies in his origins. He tells her how his Dreams have slowly transformed, abandoning the epic atrocities of the First Apocalypse, and focusing more and more upon the mundane details of Seswatha’s ancient life. Because of this, Achamian now knows how to find Ishuäl: he must recover a map that lies hidden in the ruins of ancient Sauglish, far to the north.

You have become a prophet, Mimara tells him. A prophet of the past.

And then, desperate to win his tutelage, she seduces him.

Only in the shameful aftermath does she tell the old Wizard that he has dwelt upon his suspicions for too long. The Aspect-Emperor has already embarked on his quest to destroy the Consult and so save the world from a Second Apocalypse. The Great Ordeal marches.

Achamian abandons Mimara at his tower and strikes out for Marrow, the nearest scalper outpost. Here he contracts a company called the Skin Eaters to join his quest, deceiving them with promises of the Coffers, the ancient Library’s famed treasury. The Captain of the company, a veteran of the First Holy War named Lord Kosoter, troubles him, as does Cleric, his mysterious Nonman companion. But time is short, and he can think of no one else who would accompany him on such a mad trek. He must somehow reach the Library of Sauglish, and thence Ishuäl, before the Great Ordeal reaches the gates of Golgotterath. The scalper company departs shortly thereafter, planning to cross the Osthwai Mountains into the Sranc-infested North.

Mimara, however, is not so easily dissuaded. She shadows the scalpers without appreciating the cunning of their forest craft. She is discovered, and Achamian is forced to save her, saying that she is his wilful daughter. Fearing she will reveal his true purposes, the old Wizard at last relents. He allows her to accompany him on his quest and agrees to teach her sorcery.

Shortly afterward they learn that a spring blizzard has closed the passes through the Osthwai Mountains, perhaps delaying them for weeks—for too long. Only one path remains open to them: the accursed halls of Cil-Aujas.

The company camps before the entrance to the derelict Nonman Mansion, plagued with apprehensions. Then, with the coming of dawn, they descend into the heart of the mountain. For days they wander the wrecked halls, led by Cleric and his ancient memories. Deep in the Mansion, Mimara finally confesses her sporadic ability to see the morality of things, and Achamian, obviously troubled, tells her that she possesses the Judging Eye. She presses him to tell her more, but the old Wizard refuses. Before she can berate him properly, the company discovers that the Mansion is far from abandoned.

Sranc assail them with fury and countless numbers. Despite the sorcerous toll exacted by Cleric and Achamian, the company is overcome, and the survivors are forced to flee down into the bowels of Cil-Aujas. Achamian is knocked unconscious by a Chorae-bearing Sranc. Mimara kills the creature and pockets the sorcery-killing artifact. They flee through the mines that riddle the foundations of the mountain, and find themselves on the scorched rim of a burning lake. The Sranc pour after them, a howling tide. They flee along a stair, and would certainly perish, were it not for Cleric and his sorcerous might. Their route sealed behind them, they find themselves in an ancient slave pit, huddling among the bones of a dead dragon. Only a handful survive.

While they recover themselves, Cleric dispenses Qirri, an ancient Nonman remedy. Mimara finds herself staring at her Chorae. It is void and terror to her sorcerous eyes, yet she persists gazing. The Judging Eye opens, and the thing is miraculously transformed. Suddenly she sees the Chorae for a true, white-burning Tear of God. She turns to Somandutta, the scalper who has become her protector with the Wizard incapacitated. But he sees nothing …

Then she notices the stranger sitting in their midst.

Cleric recognizes the figure as the shade of Gin’yursis, the ancient Nonman King of Cil-Aujas. The wraith dons the Nonman as if he were clothing, possesses him. While the company stands watching in dread, the Qirri finally revives the old Wizard. Recognizing their peril, he begins screaming at them to flee.

Again they race into the black, while something dark and nebulous and godlike pursues them. In desperation, Achamian brings the ceiling crashing down, sealing the company even deeper within the dread Mansion.

They find themselves at the bottom of a vast well, what Achamian remembers as the Great Medial Screw from his ancient Dreams, a stair that plumbs the whole mountain. The sky is little more than a prick of light above them. The battered Skin Eaters rejoice. All they need do is climb …

But Gin’yursis rises from the deeps to claim them, dragging hell itself as his mantle.

Mimara’s Judging Eye opens, and she raises high her Tear of God, somehow knowing …

The Great Ordeal

Far to the north, young Varalt Sorweel finds himself staring down upon the boggling might of the Southron Believer-Kings. He is the only son of Varalt Harweel, the King of Sakarpus, who has resisted the Aspect-Emperor’s demand to yield his ancient city and its famed Chorae Hoard. Standing with his father on the high curtain walls, the adolescent realizes that he and his people are doomed. Then, miraculously, a stork—a bird that is holy to the Sakarpi—appears on the battlements above his father. After a moment of uncanny communion, King Harweel turns and commands that Sorweel be taken to safety. See that no harm comes to him! he cries. He will be our final swordstroke! Our vengeance! Dragged away screaming, the young prince watches sorcerous flames engulf the parapets and his father upon them. A desperate flight ensues, and it seems that the Aspect-Emperor himself pursues them through the chaotic streets.

The pursuit ends in the apparent safety of the citadel. Blasting through walls, Anasûrimbor Kellhus effortlessly kills Sorweel’s protectors. He approaches the adolescent Prince, but rather than seizing or striking him, he embraces him. Tells him that he is forgiven.

The city secure, the Great Ordeal prepares for the long march across the trackless wilds. Sorweel finds himself desolate for the loss of his father and the shame of his new circumstances. As the new King of Sakarpus, he is naught but a tool of the New Empire, a way for the Aspect-Emperor to legitimize his tyranny. Before the host departs, none other than Moënghus and his eldest son Kayûtas visit him in his palace. They tell him he is to join the Ordeal as the symbol of his nation’s commitment to their holy cause. The following day Sorweel finds himself part of the Scions, a horse company composed of princely hostages from across the rim of the New Empire. This is how he meets and befriends Zsoronga ut Nganka’kull, the Successor Prince of Zeum.

A Mandate sorcerer named Eskeles is assigned to tutor Sorweel in Sheyic, the common tongue of the Three Seas, and through him the young King learns the reasons why so many worship the Aspect-Emperor so fervently. For the first time he begins to doubt his father … What if the Aspect-Emperor spoke true? What if the world was about to end?

Why else would someone so cunning march so many Men to their doom?

Sorweel is also provided a slave named Porsparian to attend to his needs, a wizened old man who is anything but the submissive thrall he pretends to be. One night Sorweel watches him tear away the turf and mold the face of the Goddess Yatwer from the dirt. Before his eyes, mud bubbles up as spit from her earthen lips. The slave palms this mud and smears it across the incredulous King’s cheeks.

The following morning Sorweel attends a Council of Potentates with Zsoronga and Eskeles. His dread waxes as he watches the Holy Aspect-Emperor move from lord to lord, declaring the truths they think hidden in their souls. He fears what will happen when the man sees the hatred and treachery smoldering in his own. But when Anasûrimbor Kellhus comes to him, he congratulates Sorweel for grasping the truth, and before all those assembled declares him one of the Believer-Kings.

The all-seeing Aspect-Emperor, Sorweel realizes, is blind to the truth of his soul.

Esmenet

Far to the south in Momemn, the capital of the New Empire, Esmenet struggles to rule in her husband’s absence. With Kellhus and the bulk of his armed might faraway, the embers of insurrection have begun to ignite across the Three Seas. The Imperial Court regards her with condescension. Fanayal ab Kascamandri, the Padirajah of what had been the heathen Kianene Empire before the First Holy War, grows ever more bold on the fringes of the Great Carathay Desert. Psatma Nannaferi, the outlawed Mother-Supreme of the Cult of Yatwer, prophecies the coming of the White-Luck Warrior, the godsent assassin who will murder the Aspect-Emperor and his progeny. Even the Gods, it seems, plot against the Anasûrimbor Dynasty. Esmenet turns to her brother-in-law, Maithanet, the Shriah of the Thousand Temples, for his strength and clarity of vision, yet she wonders why her husband would leave the Mantle in her incapable hands, when his brother is Dûnyain like himself.

She also has the travails of her own family to contend with. All her eldest children have gone. Mimara has fled—to Achamian, she hopes and prays. Kayûtas, Serwa, and her stepson, Moënghus, ride with their father in the Great Ordeal. Theliopa remains with her as an advisor, but the girl is scarcely human, she is so narrow and analytical. The next youngest, the mad and murderous Inrilatas, Esmenet keeps imprisoned atop the Andiamine Heights. Only her very youngest, the twins Samarmas and Kelmomas, provide her with any comfort. She clings to them as if they were flotsam in a shipwreck, not realizing that Kelmomas, like his brother Inrilatas, has inherited too many of his father’s gifts. The boy has already driven away Mimara with the cunning of his insinuations. Now he plots deeper ways to secure sole possession of his mother’s heart.

He will tolerate no rivals.

In the city of Iothiah, meanwhile, the White-Luck Warrior reveals himself to Psatma Nannaferi, who summons all her High Priestesses to plot the destruction of the Anasûrimbor. None other than Yatwer, the monstrous Mother of Birth, moves against the Aspect-Emperor. As the Goddess most favoured by slaves and caste-menials, she commands tremendous temporal power. Unrest spreads among the servile poor throughout the Empire.

Even as the first rumours of this sedition reach his mother in Momemn, young Kelmomas continues his own devious insurrection. Where before he had driven Mimara away, now he engineers the death of his idiot twin, Samarmas, knowing that grief for his loss will make his mother even more desperate for his love.

Agonized by the death of Samarmas, Esmenet turns to her brother-in-law, Maithanet, frantic for the thought of a God hunting her family. He reminds her that the Gods can see neither the No-God nor the coming Apocalypse, and so perceive her husband as a threat instead of the Saviour.

At his bidding, Esmenet summons Sharacinth, the officially sanctioned Matriarch of the Yatwerians, to the Andiamine Heights with the intention of setting the Cult against itself. When they fail to cow the woman, Kellhus himself arrives, and breaks her will to resist with the sheer force of his presence. The blubbering Matriarch yields, promising to wrest her Cult from Psatma Nannaferi. The Aspect-Emperor returns to the Great Ordeal, dismaying his Empress with his lack of grief for the death of Samarmas, his son.

Kelmomas sets out that very night and, using his Dûnyain gifts, murders Sharacinth and her retinue. Rumours of her assassination travel quickly, igniting the embers of sedition among the slaves and caste-menials. Riots erupt across the Three Seas.

Esmenet does turn to Kelmomas for comfort. At night, she takes to embracing him in her bed while the smell of smoke and the sound of screaming waft through windows. Intoxicated with success, the young Prince-Imperial begins plotting against his uncle, Maithanet, who alone possesses the ability to see through his deception.

THE WHITE-LUCK WARRIOR

Achamian

The horror of Cil-Aujas lies as much within them as behind. Achamian, Mimara, and the Skin Eaters descend the heights into the vast forests the scalpers call the Mop. The old Wizard presses Mimara, desperate to discover how she had overcome the evil shade of the Nonman King, but she demurs, resenting him for his refusal to explain the Judging Eye. Achamian attempts to make amends a short time after, but a second scalper company, the Stone Hags, ambushes them, and the matter is forgotten. The Skin Eaters have scarce travelled a fraction of the way to the Coffers, and they are decimated. The men take to mutinous muttering, and Achamian finds himself advocating for their Captain, as much as he despises the man’s homicidal understanding of discipline.

Days later, they hear cries filtering through the forest gloom, and Achamian spies the Stone Hags caught upon a distant ridge battling more Sranc than they can hope to overcome. Later that night, the survivors come upon the Skin Eaters. Chaos and conflict rule, then the skinnies come shrieking out of the forest blackness. Mimara finds herself apart from the others, almost certainly doomed, but Somandutta appears before her, and in an inhuman display of skill, handily slays the Sranc assailing her. Soma is a skin-spy, she realizes, but their straits are such that she waits until they reach the relative safety of Fatwall, an Imperial outpost they find abandoned and burning, before telling Achamian. The old Wizard confronts the Nilnameshi caste-noble, who flees the ruined fortress rather than parlay. Vast numbers of Sranc descend upon the ruined tower they take as their citadel, and the Skin Eaters endure a night of gibbering slaughter.

The subsequent days see them travel fast through the foliated underworld of the Mop, thanks to the way the Qirri quickens their limbs—fast enough to break the body and spirit of those surviving Stone Hags who have joined them. Mimara shares stories of her life upon the Andiamine Heights with Achamian, and the two outcasts come to an unspoken accord, an affection borne of trial and shared affliction. But Mimara is not long in violating this trust. The thing called Soma has been tracking them all along. It surprises her alone in the gloom, tells her she must murder the Captain to prevent Cleric from killing them. It also tells her that she is pregnant. Overlooking the ruins of ancient Kelmeol, the thing encounters its Consult master, who bids it to continue tracking the scalper company, and to continue protecting Mimara—all the way to Golgotterath if need be. "All the prophecies must be respected, the Synthese says, the false as much as the true."

The Mop behind them, the scalpers begin the long, arid trek across the Istyuli Plains. The days become more feverish, the nights more crazed, and it seems to Mimara that she alone is aware of the madness slowly consuming them. Cleric’s ritual dispensation of the Qirri has become a raucous, even rapturous affair, far more religious than medicinal. The Nonman’s sermons have become both more ominous and profound. Despite her reluctance, Mimara presses Achamian on the issue, begs him to abandon the Skin Eaters, to flee as far from Cleric and his Qirri as they can, only to sob with relief when he argues why they must stay. They march into the very wake of the Great Ordeal, encounter a supply company—Men they murder to pass undetected.

Not long afterward, Mimara meets with the thing called Soma once again, though now it has taken her own form. She demands that it tell her what is happening; it presses her to ask Cleric about the Qirri, to discover what it is. Before she can ask the thing why, Achamian appears, and the skin-spy flees leaping into the night, pursued by the Wizard and his sorcerous might. Achamian is furious, convinced the creature meant to replace her. She lies to him, tells him nothing about her previous encounters with the thing.

More and more she can feel the unborn child within her, and its presence seems to fortify her against whatever consumes the others. She dares question the company’s Sergeant, Sarl, whose sanity was snapped in twain in the depths of Cil-Aujas. He tells her nothing of Cleric, but he does reveal that the Captain somehow knows her true identity. There can no longer be any doubt: the Skin Eaters are an instrument of the Holy Aspect-Emperor.

When the scalpers congregate to receive their Qirri the following night, she astounds them all by refusing her portion. Nothing is made of it, but in the pitch of night she awakens to find Cleric gazing down at her. She asks what the Qirri is, and he tells her that it’s the ashes of some long-dead Nonman hero. When she asks who, he bids her taste to see. And so she succumbs to the drug once again—and in doing so discovers what they have been consuming for the length of their mad and onerous quest …

The ashes of Cu’jara Cinmoi.

As the Captain leads them ever deeper into the dead North, they finally come upon the trail of the Great Ordeal: field upon field of burnt and hewn Sranc. Mimara asks Achamian how he could still doubt Kellhus. Was this not proof that he waged war against Golgotterath? This, combined with the truth of the Qirri, proves too much for the old Wizard, and that evening he denies Cleric’s dispensation of the cannibal ash. Mimara awakens to cries in the night, finds the Captain and the Nonman binding and gagging the Wizard. She throws herself at them, only to be seized by Galian and the others, who immediately set about stripping her clothes. The Captain falls upon them in a fury, killing one, raging at the others, telling them that damnation awaits any who harm her. The Judging Eye opens, and she sees what sin has made of Lord Kosoter, something infernal for the numberless atrocities he has committed. So it seems that a wheezing demon falls to its knees at her feet, calling her Princess-Imperial, and imploring that she save them from damnation.

The Captain is not simply a Zaudunyani fanatic, he is an agent of the Aspect-Emperor, one of her stepfather’s countless slaves. But as inclined as he is to worship her, he possesses no inclination to heed her. He refuses to release Achamian—or to reveal the nature of his mission. All she knows is that it involves following through on Achamian’s quest. Even with the old Wizard bound and gagged, they continue the trek to the Library of Sauglish and the legendary Coffers.

The surviving Skin Eaters find themselves divided along the line of this revelation. Galian and his cohorts—those who care nothing for matters of faith—become more and more mutinous. Only their awe of Cleric—and craving for Qirri—seem to constrain them. They make no secret of their carnal designs. With Achamian incapacitated, the crazed Captain has become her sole refuge. So she plies the man as they march ever nearer the ancient Library, searching for some weakness, something she can use to win Achamian’s freedom. When the man proves immovable, she turns to Cleric, going so far as to shave her hair in an attempt to seduce him—anything that might change their dismal fortunes.

This is how she learns the astonishing truth of his identity. Cleric is none other than Nil’giccas, the last of the Nonman Kings.

She dares tell Achamian as much. Taking advantage of darkness and preoccupation, she crawls to a point behind where the old Wizard lays trussed and gagged. She tells him of the child—his child—in her womb. She tells him of her love … her hope.

The Captain discovers her, whips her with his belt before the leering others. But in doing so, he simply reminds her who she has always been: someone who cannot be broken for violence alone, someone who always has one sip remaining. The following morning, the Judging Eye opens, reveals the degrees of damnation awaiting each of her captors—none more than the Captain. And she understands that the tragedy of their circumstance dwarfs her own.

Though her silence gulls the scalpers into thinking her broken, their eventual arrival at the Library of Sauglish finds her strong, resolved in a manner she had never known.

Fearing treachery, the Captain bids Cleric accompany Achamian to the Library alone while he and the others hang back, holding Mimara as surety. As much as the prospect of leaving Mimara behind terrifies the old Wizard, he cannot but see the arrangement as a profound opportunity, given what Mimara has told him of Cleric. Seswatha was an ancient friend of Nil’giccas, the King of Ishterebinth: perhaps he can use his knowledge of the ancient Sohonc Grandmaster to prise the Erratic from the Captain’s homicidal influence. So they depart, and Mimara finds herself stranded with the last four surviving Skin Eaters aside from Lord Kosoter—Sarl, Pokwas, Xonghis, and Galian—as well as the sole surviving member of the Stone Hags, Koll.

Achamian plies the Nonman as they pick their way through the wooded ruins of Sauglish, bidding him time and again to recall who he really is: Nil’giccas, the Last Nonman King, anything but Cleric, the slave he has become. Too late does he realize his mistake: tragedy and farce, atrocity and slaughter: only these can make an Erratic remember. By declaring Seswatha’s ancient love in Seswatha’s own voice, Achamian has simply whetted the ageless Nonman’s appetite for loss. When they at last reach the ruined Library, they find the entrance to the legendary treasury of the Sohonc destroyed. If the surrounding blight were not sign enough, the smell and the spoor are unmistakable: Wracu …

A Dragon has made a den of the Coffers.

Mimara remains with the Captain in the camp, watching apprehensively as Galian, emboldened by Cleric’s absence, begins baiting his legendary leader. The surviving scalpers, it seems, have been plotting mutiny for some time, biding their time, waiting for this very opportunity. Horrified, she watches them cut down Lord Kosoter, a man she had thought immortal for sheer ferocity. The last of the Skin Eaters turn to her …

Cleric and the old Wizard, meanwhile, dare enter the ruined maw of the Coffers, where they find Wutteät, the famed Father of Dragons, coiled about a great heap of Far Antique treasure. Achamian attempts to bargain with the Wracu, offering to exchange Truth for the map to Ishuäl.

TURN FROM THIS PLACE, the beast croaks. TURN! COME TO ME WHEN THE WORLD HAS TRULY ENDED.

As the leader of the mutiny, Galian is the first to assault Mimara. He tears her clothing away, promises to kill the unborn infant in her womb …

Achamian and Cleric assail the undead Dragon in tandem—Man and Nonman, as in days of ancient old. The Coffers become a furnace of killing light.

No more than a league distant, the Judging Eye opens, and Mimara apprehends the extent of Galian’s damnation, the eternity of torment that awaits his final heartbeat. She tells him what she sees, and he hesitates for the certainty of her warning, the pity in her gaze. Then he is flopping across the humus, writhing about the knife in his back. Mimara looks up and sees that Koll, the sole, travel-wasted survivor of the Stone Hags, has saved her.

Together, Achamian and Cleric drive Wutteät roaring from the Coffers, fleeing like a moth afire into the skies. Thinking their triumph might seal some compact between them, Achamian once again appeals to the Nonman Erratic, to Nil’giccas, but the Last Nonman King has already forgotten. Cleric turns his fearsome sorceries upon the old Wizard.

Stunned, Mimara watches Koll battle Galian’s confederates, Xonghis and Pokwas. Sarl retreats, hugging his beloved Captain’s severed head, cackling and crooning nonsense. Koll, she realizes, is not Koll at all, but Soma—or, rather, the skin-spy that had replaced him so very long ago.

An agent of the Unholy Consult has saved her … Why?

Cleric hammers Achamian with ancient and inhuman sorceries, howling out his final, cryptic sermon as he does so. The Last Nonman King wants only to die, the old Wizard realizes, for he attacks only, and raises no sorcerous defenses. The antique Hero has given Achamian a choice: kill him, or be killed.

Between Xonghis and Pokwas, the thing called Koll is overmatched, but the two scalpers have overlooked Mimara, who is nowhere near as helpless as she appears. Using their distraction, she kills the two scalpers with Galian’s sword. One cannot raise walls against what has been forgotten.

Heartbroken, Achamian strikes Nil’giccas from the sky above him.

Mimara runs to where the thing called Koll lies, demanding to know why it has saved her. But Sarl falls upon the thing with his knife, cackling about the bounty for spiderfaces. The forest burns about the sordid scene.

The old Wizard returns to the scalper camp in horror and dismay, only to be overjoyed to find Mimara alive. Together they flee to the Library of Sauglish. They raise a bier to provide Nil’giccas a proper funeral. As the Last Nonman King’s body burns, they ransack the Coffers, find the ancient map described in Achamian’s dreams, the map to Ishuäl—the hidden stronghold of the Dûnyain, the birthplace of the Holy Aspect-Emperor.

They gather the ashes of Nil’giccas to replenish their supply of Qirri, then set out on the final leg of their journey. Now far from the lodestone of the Great Ordeal, they are once again beset by Sranc. They persevere, gain the Demua Mountains, and at last surmount the glacier overlooking the vale of the Dûnyain. At long last, they see it, Ishuäl …

Itself a gutted ruin.

The Great Ordeal

Once the victim of forces beyond his comprehension, Sorweel now finds himself the agent of such forces as well. He remains a victim so far as he remains the guest of the Aspect-Emperor, the demon who murdered his father, conquered his city, and plundered the famed Chorae Hoard. But he has become an agent through the occult ministrations of his slave, Porsparian, who had rubbed the spit of Yatwer, the Dread Mother of Birth, across his cheeks and so rendered his sedition invisible to the Anasûrimbor. But now that Sorweel can hide his heart, what should he do?

Leaving the Pale of Sakarpus behind, the Great Ordeal marches into the arid emptiness of the Istyuli Plains. Not a single Sranc opposes them.

Aimless, Sorweel gives himself over to the camaraderie of the Scions. Though Sheyic, the common tongue of the host, defeats him, he is a young warrior among young warriors—even more, a young hostage among young hostages—and the language of boyish, martial yearning transcends all tongues. If he cannot avenge his father or fathom the Dread Mother’s design, then he will ride out and test himself with his new comrades.

He will ride in his enemy’s war.

Exalt-General Proyas, meanwhile, confers with Kellhus, who informs him the time has come for the Great Ordeal to break up to facilitate foraging. Even more alarmingly, he reveals that the New Empire crumbles in their absence. With all his power concentrated in the Great Ordeal, his old enemies grow ever more bold. To assure the Ordealmen suffer no distractions, no fear for the loved ones they have left behind, he declares an embargo on all sorcerous communications with the Three Seas.

Henceforth, the Great Ordeal marches both divided and alone.

The Scions ride out to the southwest of the Army of the Middle North, tasked with securing game—a mission the young hostages bemoan for its safety. Nevertheless, Sorweel’s knowledge of the Istyuli allows them to track and destroy a wandering Sranc clan. They discover and begin following a great elk trail shortly thereafter, only to find the herd that authored it butchered across the plain. Eskeles, who continues to teach Sorweel the rudiments of Sheyic on the trail, recognizes the carnage as the consequence of a Hording, a massing of Sranc. But only Sorweel, relying once again on his knowledge as a native of the plains—and impossible communications with the Dread Mother—can see the true significance of the slaughter. The Consult, he tells the wondering Mandate Schoolman, prepares an ambush. Days later, they find an entire legion of Sranc hidden to the south of the Great Ordeal.

Now divided into four armies, the host plumbs the great, vacant heart of the Istyuli. The outriders begin returning with tales of Sranc congregating just over the northern horizon, a vast and raucous Horde strewn across the path of all four armies, growing ever more numerous as clan after clan joins its inchoate retreat. Soon all the Ordealmen can see the great, bilious clouds of dust the creatures have kicked across the horizon: the Shroud. Soon all can hear the shrieking cacophony from afar.

Kellhus, meanwhile, begins meeting with Proyas in his private chambers, where he confesses to things that have long troubled the Exalt-General’s heart. Achamian, he tells the Believer-King, was right about him all along.

As the Scions race back to warn the Great Ordeal, Sorweel at last confides in Zsoronga, who has been wary of him ever since the Aspect-Emperor declared him one of the Believer-Kings. Sorweel tells his friend about Porsparian—and more importantly, about Yatwer, the Mother of Birth—begging for whatever insight he has to offer. Zsoronga tells him he is Narindari, a divine assassin sent to murder Anasûrimbor Kellhus.

Sorweel is denied the luxury of ruminating on his friend’s mad assertion. The Scions push their ponies to the limits of endurance in an attempt to reach the Great Ordeal ahead of the Consult Legion. The Scions find themselves fleeing across treacherous ground through the darkness, their numbers dwindling as more and more of their exhausted mounts fail. When Eskeles is thrown, Sorweel leaps from his pony to assist the portly Mandate Schoolman. Sranc overrun them, cluster about the sorcerer’s Wards. Eskeles panics, but Sorweel remains calm, instructs the man to find some means of warning Anasûrimbor Kayûtas and the Army of the Middle-North. The sorcerer casts a Bar of Heaven, revealing the Legion to the embattled Norsirai, and so saving a mighty fraction of the Great Ordeal.

The following morning Sorweel and Zsoronga swear an oath to be as brothers, boonsmen until death. Kayûtas declares him a hero, saying that his actions had saved the Army of the Middle-North from almost certain destruction. What Zsoronga said earlier was true, the young Believer-King realizes: the Dread Mother of Birth positioned him within the Great Ordeal. In typical Anasûrimbor fashion, Kayûtas follows his praise with the demand that he kill his slave, Porsparian. The Great Ordeal is running out of food, the man explains, and the Aspect-Emperor has commanded that his Believer-Kings put down all their noncombatant servants and slaves.

Sorweel bids Porsparian to follow him into the grisly tracts of dead Sranc, planning to release rather than murder him. But it is the old Shigeki who leads him into the bloody wrack. The slave clears a pocket of turf, then begins unearthing bones from the soaked muck: a skeleton that takes on the ghostly image of the Mother herself. Skeletal hands reach into a vacant womb and draw out a strange pouch, which Sorweel takes in trembling hands. Porsparian throws himself upon a spear before the youth can question him.

Sorweel investigates the leather pouch in his tent later that evening, knowing what it contains even before he draws it open: a Chorae. Zsoronga had called him Narindari, an assassin of the Gods.

Every assassin needs a weapon.

Later that night he seeks out Anasûrimbor Serwa, the Grandmistress of the Swayali, on the pretext of thanking her for saving him. She cannot see that he lies, nor can she sense the Chorae within the pouch the Mother of Birth has given him. He departs knowing that in the entire World, he alone possesses the means both to deceive—and to kill—the Aspect-Emperor.

The Great Ordeal continues crawling north toward the ever-withdrawing Horde. The desolation of the Istyuli gradually gives way to the knuckled landscape of ancient Sheneor, a High Norsirai nation prominent in the Holy Sagas, and the Ordealmen rejoice for finally reaching the outskirts of scripture. At the behest of their Aspect-Emperor, the Schools begin what comes to be called the Culling, drawing up in long lines and floating out over the masses of the Horde, killing and burning as many of the obscene creatures as they possibly can. The slaughter is great, but as the Horde withdraws, it scoops up ever more clans: the Culling can do little more than slow the foul mustering of their foe.

Summoned to the Umbilicus, Proyas finds Kellhus preparing to receive an embassy of Nonmen from Ishterebinth. Claiming to speak for Nil’giccas, King of Ishterebinth, the emissary declares that his people will add their voice and shield to the Great Ordeal, but only if Kellhus manages to retake the ancient fortress of Dagliash, and sends them three hostages according to the ancient Law of Niom: a son, a daughter, and an enemy, one who can gainsay any deception.

Sorweel learns that he is to be that third hostage the following morning, a false enemy, Serwa assures him. The news so dismays Zsoronga that he refuses to believe it at first, arguing that the Dread Mother will find some way to keep Sorweel near the Aspect-Emperor. But the Goddess fails to intercede. Swearing to return, Sorweel charges his friend with keeping Her gift, the Chorae-concealing pouch, safe while he is gone.

Serwa must rely on Metagnostic Cants of Translocation to convey herself, Sorweel, and her eldest brother to Ishterebinth in a swift and safe manner. Her diluted blood, however, means that she, unlike her father, must sleep several watches between each casting. And so they cross the ruined breadth of ancient Kûniüri, stepping from horizon to horizon in blinding flashes of sorcerous light, but only twice daily. Sorweel comes to know both brother and sister in the