The great dais was deserted. Nagash paused nearby.
“A crown,” he murmured thoughtfully, looking up at Settra’s throne.
Unnoticed by the dwindling crowd, Nagash climbed the stone steps and stood beside the ancient chair. He rested his hand on the arm of the throne and contemplated the backs of the milling nobles, his eyes full of dark and terrible thoughts.
The druchii warlock frowned at the centre of the chamber’s stone.
“You’re certain this faces directly north?” Malchior said in his sibilant tongue. Nagash glanced up from the pages of the book.
“Of course,” he said. “The pyramid is precisely aligned with the four corners of the earth. It’s vital to maintaining the aura of preservation within the tomb. Have you no understanding of geomancy in your homeland?”
“Geomancy,” the warlock sneered, “how quaint.” He stepped forwards and laid a black-gloved fingertip against the sandstone. “Never mind the fact that this material is a poor conductor of magic. Marble works far better.”
Nagash scowled at the pale-skinned figure. Two years of imprisonment had done little to blunt the arrogance of the three druchii. Once they had accepted the terms of Nagash’s agreement they had quickly demanded everything from fine foods to books and other entertainments, which they seemed to regard as nothing more than their due. The Grand Hierophant had humoured them, within reason. Over time, their prison had expanded to include more than a dozen adjoining chambers, and he had taken pains to furnish them so that they would enjoy some measure of comfort.
The great chamber where he had first revived the druchii had become their work room, and the margins were crowded with bookshelves, tables and chairs. Nagash crouched in the centre of the space, with a large, leather-bound book open before him. The thick pages were covered in copious notes dictated by the druchii and copied down in Nagash’s hand. Since he had begun his training, Nagash had committed everything he’d been taught to paper, both for his own reference and to ensure that his tutors remained honest. A horsetail brush and a small pot of ink sat on the floor beside his knee.
“Marble, and gold,” Drutheira hissed. The lithe, white-haired witch was lounging like a sunning cobra on a low divan across the chamber, tracing a set of Nehekharan glyphs with an elegantly pointed fingernail. “This cursed land is too far from the north. I can barely sense a glimmer of power here.”
“Perhaps it is this pyramid,” Ashniel said, raising her dark eyes from the book she was reading and regarding Nagash hatefully. The druchii straightened, extending her slim white arms over the reading table in a catlike stretch. “We should be teaching you out in the open air, not shut up in this awful barrow.” Nagash grunted in amusement as he reached for the brush and ink.
“So the lion said from the hunter’s pit,” he replied. “Perhaps the fault lies in your perceptions, druchii; the pyramid is a potent focus for mystical energies. The mortuary cult has interred our kings in such crypts for centuries to maintain the invocations of restoration.”
Within the first few days of their imprisonment, the barbarians seemed to have appointed roles for themselves. Malchior took on the lion’s share of Nagash’s tutelage, setting a difficult and demanding pace of lectures and exercises. Drutheira assisted Malchior during the more complicated lessons, but preferred to focus her energies on more physical pursuits, and despite repeated failures, her attempts at seduction continued unabated. Meanwhile, Ashniel treated the Grand Hierophant with nothing but contempt, keeping to her books and reading voraciously about Nehekharan culture, religion and, most importantly, the construction of their crypts.
It was clear to Nagash from the beginning that Malchior and Drutheira were meant to distract him, each in their own ways, while Ashniel kept to herself and looked for a way to free them from Khetep’s tomb. The hateful witch had been careful to cover her tracks, but not quite careful enough, and Nagash and Khefru had found evidence that Ashniel had managed to breach the first layer of traps surrounding their apartments and was making slow but steady progress exploring the lower level of the crypt. The battle of wits, keeping one step ahead of the witch by changing the location and nature of the traps, had become a diverting pastime for Nagash and his favoured servant.
The Grand Hierophant dipped the brush in the black ink, consulted the tome open before him, and began to paint the sigil on the floor.
“You are certain this will work?” he asked, tracing the complicated lines with care.
“I am certain of nothing in this place,” Malchior growled. The warlock folded his arms and watched the sigil take shape on the stone floor. “Drutheira is right, this land is a desert in more ways than one. The winds of magic are very weak, scarcely stirring the aether, and, as I’ve said often enough, your kind has a feeble grasp of magic at the best of times.”
The warlock let the implication of his statement hang in the air between them: you may not be capable of this. Nagash clenched the brush tightly in his hand and focused on crafting the sigil.
“If this does not work, what then?” he asked curtly. Malchior shrugged.
“There is nothing else,” he said. “This ritual isn’t even an accepted part of our magical lore. It’s the sort of thing practised by shade-casters and gutter witches, who lack the will to harness the winds of magic.” He spread his hands. “If this attempt fails, the fault lies with you, human. I’ve tried everything I can think of.”
Then, a murmur of voices echoed from the passageway beyond the work room. Nagash glanced up from his work as Khefru entered the room with a hooded figure in tow.
“Here he is, master,” Khefru said with a bow. “Allow me to present Imhep, of the House of Hapt-amn-kesh. He should serve your purposes in every particular.”
The hooded figure swayed slightly on his feet. Imhep reached up and bared his head with shaking hands. He was young, only sixty or so, with large, watery eyes and a receding chin. A short, black wig sat askew on his shaven head.
“It is an honour, Grand Hierophant,” he said in a slightly slurred voice. “Your servant said you requested me personally?”
“Did you drug him?” Nagash asked, frowning at Khefru.
“Well… yes,” the young priest replied. “I thought it prudent, all things considered.” The Grand Hierophant glanced worriedly at Malchior.
“Will that cause problems?”
The notion seemed to amuse the druchii, who said, “That depends on how much effort you intend to put into your lesson.” He pointed to the flowing black lines. “Just be careful that the fool doesn’t scuff your hard work with his plodding feet.” Imhep was glancing around the dimly lit chamber with befuddled interest, taking special note of the two witches.
“What… That is… How may I be of service to you, holy one?” he asked. “My friend Khefru mentioned a reward of some kind.”
“He has debts,” Khefru interjected. “Imhep is something of a gambler, you see.”
Nagash eyed the young noble closely, noting the lack of rings or other jewellery, and the man’s worn kilt and sandals.
“I take it he’s the sort that loses a great deal. Won’t his debtors inquire after him?” Khefru shrugged.
“Perhaps, but what will they learn? No one saw me with him, master. I was most careful.”
“We had some very fine wine,” Imhep said, his slack face quirking into a grin. “Where was that again, friend Khefru?”
Nagash bent and finished the sigil with a few deft strokes of his brush, and then beckoned impatiently to his servant.
“Bring him here,” he said, “but be careful of the glyphs.” Khefru took Imhep’s arm and led the drugged man across the room as though he were a child.
“Mind your step,” he told the noble as they approached the edge of the sigil. “That’s it. Right into the centre.”
Imhep swayed drunkenly in the middle of the circle, forcing Nagash to grip his arms and hold him steady.
“Forgive me, holy one,” the young man said with a chuckle. “I’m n
ot certain how much help I am going to be at the moment. As I said, it was very fine wine.”
“Get that cape off him,” Malchior commanded. At a nod from Nagash, Khefru darted forwards and jerked the cape from Imhep’s shoulders, revealing the noble’s narrow, bony chest.
“Careful!” Imhep barked. “That’s my good cape! I’ll be needing that back.” The warlock paced slowly around the edge of the sigil.
“Where are the implements?” he asked. Imhep turned his head at the sound of Malchior’s voice.
“What’s the barbarian saying?” he asked.
Khefru reached into his belt and drew out a pair of long bronze needles. The young noble’s eyes widened.
“Merciful Ptra! What are those for?”
Malchior glided like a snake towards Khefru, his eyes glinting. He reached out and delicately pulled them from the priest’s grip.
“Yes,” he murmured. “These will do.” He turned to Nagash. “Hold him.”
Nagash seized Imhep’s lower jaw and wrenched his head around, until they were looking eye to eye. The noble let out a startled cry, which turned to a scream of agony as the druchii stepped inside the sigil and drove the first needle into Imhep’s lower back.
The young noble collapsed to his knees, shrieking in agony. Nagash watched as Malchior put his free hand against the side of Imhep’s head and bent it to the side, exposing the tendons of the noble’s thin neck. With a hungry smile, the warlock plunged the second needle into the juncture of shoulder and throat, and Imhep’s entire upper body went rigid. Malchior worked the needle deeper into Imhep’s chest.
“Remember our discussions on nerve clusters and their uses,” he said dispassionately. “This will keep your subject alert and suffering, but unable to interfere.” Nagash looked into Imhep’s eyes, drawn by the gleam of pain radiating from their depths.
“And the suffering is important?” he asked.
Drutheira chuckled.
“It is not vital,” she admitted, “but it is certainly entertaining.” The warlock frowned at the interruption.
“We were speaking of sandstone earlier,” he said. “Some physical objects channel and store magic better than others, but none work so well as flesh and bone. Humans, as I said, have a poor grasp of magic, but like all living things, their bodies accumulate power over time.” Malchior traced a fingernail across Imhep’s cheek. “Can you feel it?” he asked.
Fascinated, Nagash reached out and laid a hand on the noble’s forehead. He cleared his mind and tried to employ the techniques the warlock had taught him. After a moment, he shook his head, and said, “I feel nothing.”
Malchior smiled.
“Touch your fingers to the needle, then,” he said.
The Grand Hierophant’s gaze fell to the needle jutting from Imhep’s torso. Tentatively, he reached out and laid a finger on its round end. The noble stiffened, his eyes widening in pain.
The metal trembled against Nagash’s fingertip. It was cold to the touch… and then he felt it, like a faint thread of fire pulsing against his skin.
“Yes,” Nagash whispered. “Yes…” A terrible, hungry light grew in his eyes. “At last.”
The warlock loomed over Imhep’s shoulder, his face lit with ghastly joy.
“Give me your knife,” he said.
Nagash’s hand fumbled at his belt. The pulse of power sent a tremor through his frame, quickening along with Imhep’s pulse. He handed over his curved knife without hesitation, ignoring Khefra’s quiet protest. Malchior pulled away the noble’s wig and cast it aside.
“Now we shall draw that power to the surface,” he said, laying the point of the knife against Imhep’s scalp. “Hours of agony will shape it, and strengthen it as your victim struggles to survive. When the time is ripe, we will cut his throat and his life force will pour over your hands. Then your education will begin in earnest.”
Slowly, carefully, the druchii began to cut into Imhep’s skin. Nagash watched the warlock work. After a moment, he turned a page in his book and began to make careful notes.
TEN
Tidings of War
Ka-Sabar, the City of Bronze, in the 63rd year of Ptra the Glorious
(-1744 Imperial Reckoning)
The wind from the east in the City of Bronze was called Enmesh-na Geheb, for it was the eastern quarter of the city that contained the majority of Ka-Sabar’s complex of foundries. The Breath of Geheb reeked of cinders and the smell of scorched copper, as ingots of ore carved from the Brittle Peaks were melted in great crucibles and combined with bars of nickel to produce high-quality bronze. For centuries Ka-Sabar had been known as a city of industry, and had made its wealth by trading everything from belt buckles and wheel rims to fine swords and scale armour. In these dark days the demand for her goods was greater than ever. The city’s furnaces lit the eastern skies by night, and her smithies were shrouded in a perpetual mantle of acrid smoke. Heavily armed caravans made their way down the trade road from Quatar bearing chests of gold and silver, and returned laden with swords and axes, scale shirts and shields, bronze-tipped spears and baskets of arrowheads. Rasetra and Lybaras were spending enormous sums, much of it borrowed from the Hieratic Council in Mahrak, to equip their growing armies. Akhmen-hotep’s viziers were stunned at the huge influx of wealth, but the king understood the desperation that drove such furious spending. He, too, had been feverishly rebuilding his shattered forces after the devastating defeat at Zedri, six years earlier. So long as that unholy monster Nagash ruled over the Living City, not a single soul in Nehekhara was safe.
News of the slaughter at Bhagar had arrived with the first of the desert city’s hollow-eyed refugees, less than three weeks after Akhmen-hotep had returned to Ka-Sabar. For weeks the city was paralysed with terror and grief, and its citizens looked to the north with mounting dread as they awaited the arrival of the Usurper’s nightmarish horde. Then a messenger travelled the trade road bearing letters from the Kings of Rasetra and Lybaras. They had risen up against the Usurper and taken Quatar by storm, and were poised to liberate Khemri! Akhmen-hotep swiftly drafted a letter declaring his support for the western kings and then spent the rest of the day in the Temple of Geheb, thanking the gods for his people’s deliverance.
A month passed with no news as Ka-Sabar mourned its dead sons and contemplated the future. Akhmen-hotep sent one messenger after another to the White Palace, seeking word from his new-found allies. None returned. Finally, after six long months, the king despatched a small force of his Ushabti and a squadron of horsemen to Quatar to learn what they could.
Two months later, the Ushabti returned, on foot, bearing a tale of horror and despair. On the very night of the slaughter at Bhagar, the skies above Quatar had wept blood, and within days the entire city was consumed by a plague the likes of which the Blessed Land had never known before. The sickness struck man and animal with equal ferocity, maddening them with a violent, savage fever. Within a week the city was consumed in an orgy of murder and destruction. The allied armies were decimated, torn apart from within as entire companies succumbed to the fever and turned upon their fellow warriors. The Kings of Rasetra and Lybaras had been forced to flee the city, abandoning their armies for the safety of Mahrak at the other end of the Valley of Kings. According to rumour, they intended to raise more warriors and return with a contingent of warrior priests from the Hieratic Council to cleanse the city and resume the advance upon Khemri, but as the months turned to years, it became clear that the priests at Mahrak could not find a way to counter the curse that had befallen the city.
Akhmen-hotep had no doubt that Nagash was the source of the terrible plague. The thought chilled him to the depths of his soul. Grimly, the king began to rebuild his shattered army and prepare for the worst.
Nagash did not stir from Khemri in the wake of the terrible plague. Although the armies of his enemies had been devastated, it appeared that the Usurper’s army had fared little better. To make matters worse, a season of terrible sandstorms had risen from
the Great Desert and swept across central Nehekhara, making travel all but impossible for weeks on end. The result was a stalemate of sorts. A tattered remnant of the western armies still held the White Palace at Quatar, while Nagash was free to work his evils in the Living City. The fate of the Blessed Land hung in the balance as both sides raced to rebuild their devastated forces and start the war anew.
The vizier rose slowly into view as he ascended the sandstone steps leading to the council hall, his robes fluttering in the hot wind blowing across the city from the east. Slanting beams of sunlight shone on the functionary’s bronze skullcap and glittered from the gold rings adorning the man’s wide, scarred hands. He bowed low to the king and the small group of nobles who sat or paced around the windswept chamber.
“The emissary from Mahrak has arrived, great one,” he said.
Akhmen-hotep turned at the sound of the vizier’s rough voice. He was pacing, as was his wont, striding along the wide flagstones beside the short, squat columns that supported the eastern edge of the council hall’s roof. The chamber had no walls, resting as it did atop the royal palace in the centre of the city, which was itself at the summit of one of the Brittle Peaks’ many foothills. The King of Ka-Sabar could look out across the width and breadth of his domain, from the forges spread in a smoking crescent to the east to the brooding stone temples of the gods that filled the Priests’ Quarter to the west. A fine layer of soot coated the round sides of the eastern columns, and swirling drifts of sand and grit blew across the small chamber’s stone floor, reminding the king and his nobles of the earth god whom they worshipped.
The king’s chair, a massive thing made from pieces of petrified wood and heavy bronze fittings, faced the stair from the far end of the room. A score of smaller chairs were arrayed in a rough circle before it, reserved for the city’s major nobles and the king’s closest allies. Less than half were occupied.
[Nagash 01] - Nagash the Sorcerer Page 15