And if this impulse was mad, they did not see it. Nor did they ponder the deranged condition that had brought it to fruition. To dwell in brotherhood was to set aside all questions, all yearnings trivial and profane. To dwell in brotherhood was to stand for a time outside the cares of time—to discover the Eternal, not in the heroism of faith, but in the sleep of trust.
They passed flasks of precious water. Mere breathing had become the breaking of bread. They sang hymns together, botched jokes and recited prayers. The encampment sprawled on and on beneath the stars, the debris of Men spilling from the pubis of the Occlusion out across the sunken abdomen of Shigogli. Golgotterath’s bastions hunched in the crisp shadow of the Horns, bereft of light or any sign whatsoever. They turned their backs on this monochrome World, spurning it as a task for the morrow, and they remained intent upon one another, upon the light of the generosity they had kindled in lieu of any campfire. And each had occasion to reflect on the souls about them, to gaze upon their comrades and see a beauty that eclipsed their own, souls at once precarious and invincible. Each had the opportunity to say, This man … I throw my sticks for him. And it moved them to wonder. For brotherhood was not the discovery of oneself in the breast of another, but of someone better.
Night waxed. They embraced, and those who were canny murmured gentle assurances, realizing the mad ferocity to come. Some were bellicose, others grandiose, but all were forgiven their excesses—their gorgeous humanity. The Men of the Ordeal discovered a different kind of awe, communing in the shadow of Golgotterath, one that did not so much humble as make whole. They filed to their shelters through murk, warmed against the chill. They slipped into troubled slumber, knowing that for one night in their fearsome journey, at least, they had been blessed.
Galeoth thanes, Shigeki surgeons, Ainoni warrior slaves, Nansur columnaries, Khirgwi marauders … it did not matter. For a span of watches, they knew Grace …
And in the shadow of Apocalypse, that was gift enough.
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
Golgotterath
We, the sons of past sorrow,
We, the heirs of ancient trow,
We shall raise glory to the morrow,
And deliver fury to the now …
—“Hymn of the Pyre-King,” Shimeh Songs
Early Autumn, 20 New Imperial Year (4132, Year-of-the-Tusk), Golgotterath.
A chevron of geese drawn long and ragged fled across the bluing skies.
Daybreak. The sun blackened the scarped bulwarks of the Occlusion, burnished the gleaming enormity of the Horns. Gold lanced down the cracked heights, graced the encampment with the memory of its many-coloured splendour …
The highest of the high-hoisted Circumfixes flashed white.
The Interval tolled for the final time, a bright-humming resonance that hovered in the stationary air. The mazed thoroughfares of the encampment remained vacant for its duration. Spears and lances leaned in the sand. Lords and officers could be heard bawling out lonely commands from unseen quarters, but nothing more. Then the Men of the Ordeal issued forth, sluiced in their myriads into the tangled ways and byways. Silence became booming intercourse. Absence became teeming industry.
The Witches and Schoolmen formed up within the grounds of their respective enclaves, organized themselves into triunes. Given the colours of their billows, they seemed flowers to the pickets stationed across the heights of the Occlusion. Even the most aged and decrepit shimmered with vital glory. The mundane soldiery secured what sustenance they could, then joined the mass exodus to the encampment’s perimeter, where their kin and countrymen assembled beneath the stern regard of their commanders. The near distances bristled for the transport of arms, dazzled for the play of sunlight across polished miscellany. Everywhere, pockets of Men knelt in communal prayer. Hymns floated and filtered throughout the bustling tracts, songs of memory and distraction, praise and outrage. What Judges survived assisted the priests with Whelmings.
Despite all the grievous insults and injuries the Whore had meted, the Great Ordeal remained a martial wonder. Scarcely one-third of those who had embarked from Sakarpus had survived. A full quarter of their number had been lost at Irs?lor. Another quarter had perished at Dagliash, if not in the Scalding, then in its nightmarish consequence. The vagaries of disease, murder, and attrition had consumed the rest. And yet, fairly one hundred thousand souls assembled across the blasted tracts of Shigogli, half again as many Men as Anas?rimbor Celmomas had mustered in Far Antiquity, and at least three times the number of Cu’jara Cinmoi’s Ishroi.
The Host of Hosts formed up across the smoking leagues. For the sentinels across the Akeokinoi, it seemed time itself had been inverted, watching miraculous order congeal from the streams and clouds of Southron Men. Phalanx upon shining phalanx assembled across the waste, the flanks bowed about the sepulchral presence of Golgotterath in the distance. Signs and devices drawn from across the Three Seas adorned the formations. A thousand variants of the Circumfix hung slack in the morning chill.
The Host’s ponies had either been eaten, or lingered beyond the Occlusion starving, too weak to bear a child let alone an armoured knight. Only the Lords of the Ordeal remained mounted. Decked in those warlike accoutrements they had been able to salvage, they paced their formations, inspected and harangued their charges. Answering shouts boomed out over the desolation.
The Holy Aspect-Emperor had divided the Ordeal into three Trials, as he called them, each charged with its own violent objective. The Men of the Middle-North under King Coithus Narnol formed the centre, charged with assaulting Gwergiruh, the cyclopean gatehouse guarding the famed ?bil Maw—the Black Mouth of Golgotterath. The Sons of Shir under the cruel King Nurban? Soter formed the right flank, charged with taking the Tower of Corrunc north of ?bil. And the Sons of Kyraneas under Prince Inrilil ab Cinganjehoi formed the left flank, charged with taking Domathuz, Corrunc’s monstrous sister to the south of the Gate.
The great shadow of the Occlusion shrunk from the gold-fanged parapets, and began its slow retreat to the lee of the scarps, not so much dark as ochre and saffron for the foul brilliance of the Horns. The clamour of assembly gradually faded into the hiss of the morning sun. Soon only the shouts of a few unruly souls could be heard. The Holy Aspect-Emperor himself could not be seen, but his banner stood high and visible to all at their fore, a black Circumfix once intact, but now an empty circle, having lost the image of their divine Prophet to the rigours of the sky. The gazes of all returned to it, and the hearts of all were comforted, for it was scourged as they were scourged, all their differences worn into a singular principle, one aptly signified by the perfection of the threadbare circle.
A lull settled across the Holy Host of Hosts. In one booming, gaseous voice, the Men of the Ordeal recited the Temple Prayer.
Sweet God of Gods, who dwell among us,
Hallowed by thy Many Names …