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opening his arms to the sky. “The day wasn’t unlike this, though the air smelled of wild blossoms … Imagine! A great shroud of thunderheads, as broad as the horizon and as black as crow, boiling across this sky, spilling toward us like hot blood over glass. I remember threads of lightning flashing among the hills. And beneath the eaves of the storm, great cohorts of Scylvendi galloping to the east and the west, intent on enveloping our flanks. And behind them, loping as fast as dogs, legions upon legions of Sranc, howling … howling …”
    Kellhus placed a friendly hand upon his shoulder. “You needn’t tell me this,” he said.
    Achamian stared at him blankly, blinking tears from his eyes. “No. I need to tell you this, Kellhus. I need you to know . For this, more than anything else, is who I am … Do you understand?”
    His eyes shining, Kellhus nodded.
    “The dark swept over us,” Achamian continued, “swallowed the sun. The Scylvendi struck first: mounted skirmishers harried our lines with archery, while divisions of bronze-armoured lancers swept into our flanks. When the screen of skirmishers thinned and withdrew, it seemed all the world had become Sranc. Masses of them, draped in human skins, bounding through the grasses, over hummocks. The Kyraneans lowered their spears and drew up their great shields.
    “There are no words, Kellhus, for the dread and determination that moved us. We fought with reckless abandon, intent only on spitting our dying breath against the Foe. We sang no hymns, intoned no prayers—we’d forsworn these things. Instead, we sang our own dirges, bitter laments for our people, our race. We knew that after we passed only the toll we exacted from our foe would survive to sing for us!
    “Then from nowhere, it seemed, dragons dropped from the clouds. Dragons, Kellhus! Wracu. Ancient Skafra, his hide scarred from a thousand battles; magnificent Skuthula, Skogma, Ghoset; all those who’d survived the arrows and sorceries of the High North. The Magi of Kyraneas and Shigek stepped into the sky and closed with the beasts.”
    Achamian stared into the vacant distance, overcome by images.
    “Just south of here,” he said, shaking his head. “Two thousand years ago.”
    “What happened next?”
    Achamian stared at Kellhus. “The impossible. I … no, Seswatha … Seswatha himself struck down Skafra. Skuthula the Black was driven away, grievously wounded. The Kyraneans and their allies stood like breakers against a heaving sea, throwing back wave after black-hearted wave. For a moment, we almost dared rejoice. Almost …”
    “Then he came,” Kellhus said.
    Achamian nodded, swallowed. “Then he came … Mog-Pharau. In that much, the poet of The Saga s speaks true. The Scylvendi withdrew; the Sranc relented. A great rasping chatter passed through them, swelling into an impossible, keening roar. The Bashrag began beating the ground with their hammers. A churning blackness resolved on the horizon, a great whirlwind, like a black umbilicus joining earth and cloud. And everyone knew. Everyone simply knew .
    “The No-God was coming. Mog-Pharau walked, and the world thundered. The Sranc began shrieking. Many cast themselves to the ground, scratching at their eyes, gouging … I remember having difficulty breathing … I had joined Anakka—Anaxophus—in his chariot, and I remember him gripping my shoulders. I remember him crying something I couldn’t hear … Our horses reared in their harnesses, screaming. Men about us fell to their knees, clutching their ears. Great clouds of dust rolled over us …”
    And then the voice, spoken through the throats of a hundred thousand Sranc.
    WHAT DO YOU SEE?
    I don’t understand …
    I MUST KNOW WHAT YOU SEE
    Death. Wretched death!
    TELL ME
    Even you cannot hide from what you don’t know! Even you!
    WHAT AM I?
    “Doomed,” Seswatha whispered to the thunder. He clutched the Kyranean Great King by the shoulder. “Now, Anaxophus! Strike now!