Fiction:Tenet/History/25

= The Cunning Man, I = Anungim, pacted to Bephret of Nurgath, Warsinger of the Ulugalzu Choir, known to some as the Cunning Man, strides across the battlefield. Around him whirls a storm of razor-edged bronze triangles, will-guided. His two right hands carry his long-axe, a weapon as ancient and spiteful as he is; his upper left hand carries a curved khopesh, taken from a rival's corpse eons ago. He keeps his lower left hand free, for on his belt and across his armor are strung a myriad of arcane weapons: glass spheres full of poison smoke, flying darts with crude minds capable of seeking out enemies on their own, thin spikes that immolate living things and living things alone.

This is everything Anungim lives for. Bloodshed. Carnage. Violence unrestrained. Churning, turbulent waves of emotion wash across his senses like sea spray. There is so much suffering here, so much terror and rage and pain -- he breathes it deep, feeding. This is the only food he needs, the only food he has ever needed since he pacted himself to Bephret half a billion years ago. And need it he does, because this battle is different.

The war has reached a fever pitch, an apocalyptic pitch, and Anungim revels in it. He is a Warsinger; his Nurgathul kindred may slink in shadows, striking at weakness, but Anungim meets the enemy blade-to-blade and looks them in the eye as they die. He is cruel, and savage, and arrogant. He has fought a million wars over a million worlds, and he goes into battle full of mockery and laughter.

Which is usually true. This time, it isn't. This time, Anungim goes into battle with his hands slick with cold sweat and his heart sick with terror.

Around him, the armies of the Tenet clash against the armies of the Yakuin Continent. The Xanidactae have brought everything to this fight -- every body they can arm, every ally they could raise, every weapon they could build. There are at least a hundred thousand Yakuin soldiers present on the plain. They are Xanidactae footmen in munition armor, drawn into phalanxes bristling with tower shields and spears; they are Omiyan heavy cavalry with plate mail and lances; they are Jorrous bladesmen carrying their signature two-handed swords; they are Klavkin bowmen with automatic crossbows. They are cannons and organ-guns and trebuchets with payloads of cling-fire; they are armored wagons carrying ballistae and flare-launchers that hurl dazzling, disorienting fireworks into enemy ranks; they are null-pylons that kill magic and apotropaic talismans that protect the bearer from curses.

And from the east comes the Kingdom of Tenet. They are one people with one mind -- Adrumalesh, the Wise Man, has made sure of it. They come with savage warriors armored in bronze, each one ox-strong and snake-fast, armed with axes and leaf-bladed swords and spears that spit bolts of thaumic lightning from their tips. They come with light chariots that dart across the plain to harry and harass and heavy chariots that smash into the massed rank of the enemy and trample them. They come with fleshcrafted war-beasts straight out of nightmare and thoughtbound automata made of polished stone and porcelain. They come with towering wheeled war-engines that might project shields around the army that no cannon can break, that might cast earth-shattering arcs of lightning, that might seize minds and fill them with terror and madness.

It's glorious. Glorious. Anungim has, even over his unnaturally lengthened life, seldom seen a battle so visceral, so raw like a wound. He wants to ride the wind and descend into the front and lose himself in the killing. He wants to do this because he would enjoy it, and also because he would really prefer not to do his half of the plan.

But there's a voice in his head that says:

~Anungim. What are you waiting for? Go.

And he hisses:

-Are you comfortable, Adrumalesh? Sitting back in your fortress, knowing you won't have to deal with him yourself?

~I will have to deal with him myself if you do not distract him, and if that happens we both will die. There are not enough spare magi for another Setrapa. You agreed to this, Anungim.

-Because I had no other option.

~No, you did not. Now go.

And Anungim, spitting with loathing for Adrumalesh and all the Choirs of Azzak, goes.