[Nagash 01] - Nagash the Sorcerer

by Mike Lee - (ebook by Undead)

  On the left hand of the king’s chair sat Memnet, the Grand Hierophant of Ptra. On the right slouched Pakh-amn, the king’s Master of Horse, along with half a dozen young sons of the city’s noble families. A great many of Ka-Sabar’s great lords had not returned from the debacle at Zandri, and the mantle of leadership had fallen on largely inexperienced shoulders. Neither Khalifra, the Priestess of Neru, nor Hashepra, the Hierophant of Geheb, were in attendance, and the king felt their absence keenly. The emissary’s sudden arrival had left Akhmen-hotep with little time to gather his advisors, and the religious leaders were rarely seen outside their temples these days. The new Hierophant of Phakth, a priest named Tethuhep, had not been seen in public at all. His spokesman claimed that Tethuhep was occupied with prayers for the defence of the city, but Akhmen-hotep suspected that Sukhet’s successor was not yet ready to assume his official duties.

  Truth be told, Pakh-amn and Memnet were in little better shape. It was plain to Akhmen-hotep that both men had been deeply scarred by the horrors they had witnessed six months before. The Grand Hierophant was a gaunt, hollow-eyed figure, his face aged beyond his years since the fateful battle. Though still a powerful and influential figure in the city, Memnet had grown increasingly distant and withdrawn with each passing year. Pakh-amn had suffered even worse since his return to the city. Akhmen-hotep had made no secret of the young noble’s precipitous withdrawal from the battlefield, and his early return to Ka-Sabar, more than three days ahead of the king, caused many in the city to question Pakh-amn’s courage. For more than a year after the battle he was absent from the king’s court, and rumours circulated that he had turned to the milk of the black lotus to escape the pain of his disgrace. He, too, was sunken-eyed and brooding, his fingers trembling as he held a cup of wine with both hands.

  Akhmen-hotep studied the council for a moment, and then nodded gravely to his vizier.

  “Bring him forth,” the king commanded. The vizier bowed once more and withdrew down the stairs. Less than a minute later they heard the measured tread of the king’s Ushabti, and four of the devoted rose into view, escorting a very old priest, who wore the vibrant yellow robes of a servant of Ptra. Despite his advanced years, the emissary moved with surprising confidence and strength, and his dark eyes were keen and bright. His gaze fell upon Memnet, and the Grand Hierophant leapt from his chair as though stung.

  “Nebunefer! The blessings of Ptra be upon you, holy one,” Memnet stammered. “The Grand Hierophant clutched at his hands and bowed deeply. This is an unexpected honour—”

  Mahrak’s emissary forestalled Memnet with an upraised hand.

  “Be still,” he commanded roughly. “I haven’t come to inspect your coffers, Grand Hierophant. I bring tidings to your brother the king.” Nebunefer inclined his head respectfully to Akhmen-hotep. “Blessings of the Great Father be upon you, King of the Bronze City.”

  “And to you,” Akhmen-hotep replied neutrally. “It has been some time since an emissary arrived from the City of Hope. Do the desert storms scourge Mahrak as well?” Nebunefer arched a thin eyebrow at the king.

  “The storms are our creation, great one. The Hieratic Council has gone to great lengths to keep the blasphemer in Khemri at bay so that you and your allies can recover from your terrible losses.” The king considered Nebunefer for a moment.

  “We thank the council for its aid,” he said carefully. “Does this mean that Mahrak is ready to send its warrior-priests into battle against the Usurper?” Nebunefer gave the king a terse shake of the head.

  “The time is not yet right,” he replied. “The Kings of Rasetra and Lybaras have raised new armies and are ready to resume the crusade against the blasphemer.”

  “Ah. I see,” Akhmen-hotep said. “So the Hieratic Council has at last cleansed Quatar of its terrible curse?” The emissary paused.

  “The plague has been allowed to run its course,” he replied. “Many of the city’s noble families survived, including Nemuhareb and the royal family, as well as a few hundred soldiers that had been quartered inside the White Palace, but the rest suffered terribly,” Akhmen-hotep nodded gravely.

  “The caravans from the north brought terrible stories: streets covered in ash and human bones, houses barricaded from within and filled with mutilated bodies, and Charnel pits filled with burned skulls. In truth, Quatar is a city of the dead.”

  “And so the monster’s army grows,” Pakh-amn said, raising his red-rimmed eyes to stare at the emissary. His voice was little more than a croak, and his teeth were stained a dark blue from years of drinking the milk of the lotus. “The dead in their tens of thousands are his to command, priest. Quatar is under siege even as we speak!” For a brief moment Nebunefer was taken aback by the vehemence in Pakh-amn’s voice.

  “The Hieratic Council has heard the stories of the battle at Zandri,” he said, “and steps have been taken to put the citizens of Quatar beyond Nagash’s reach. The surviving members of the city’s mortuary cult worked day and night to seal the dead into carefully warded tombs in the city necropolis.” The emissary turned his attention back to the king. “What is more, the accounts of fighting at Zandri and Bhagar tell us that either Nagash or one of his so-called immortals must be present to raise the bodies of the dead, and he will not have that opportunity at Quatar.” The king clasped his broad hands behind his back and looked out across the eastern quarter of the city, feeling the breath of Geheb against his skin.

  “You said that Rasetra and Lybaras have raised new armies.”

  “Rasetra marches for the Valley of Kings even as we speak. Rakh-amn-hotep has mustered every warrior his city possesses, and even includes companies of savage jungle beasts in his army. Hekhmenukep and the warrior-engineers of Lybaras have emptied their fabled arsenals and are hastening to Quatar with a legion of dreadful war machines to counter the blasphemer’s undead horde. Within the month they will be encamped outside Quatar, and will march upon the Living City as soon as the signs are propitious.”

  Pakh-amn muttered darkly into his wine cup and took a long swallow. Akhmen-hotep shot the nobleman a hard look, but said nothing. Instead, he drew a deep breath and turned to Nebunefer.

  “What does the Hieratic Council want from Ka-Sabar?” he asked. The emissary smiled faintly at the king’s frank manner.

  “Our spies in Khemri have reported that Nagash has not been idle since he laid his curse upon Quatar. He has bent the Kings of Numas and Zandri to his will and emptied his coffers to raise a mighty army. They are marshalling on the plains outside the Living City, though the constant storms have slowed their movements considerably,” Nebunefer paused. “It is possible that the army is intended for Ka-Sabar, great king, but the council thinks it more likely that they will head for Quatar first and seal off the Valley of the Kings.” Akhmen-hotep nodded.

  “Nagash is no fool,” he said. “If he can hold Rasetra and Lybaras at bay by seizing the Gates of the Dawn, then he can deal with us at his leisure.” The king considered the situation. The size of the eastern armies would work against them on the march, slowing their progress almost to a crawl. The armies of the Usurper, on the other hand, were closer to Quatar, and could move with much greater speed. Nagash did not have to burden himself with food and water for his troops, after all. The thought sent a shudder down the king’s spine.

  “The next few weeks will be crucial,” Nebunefer continued. “Rasetra and Lybaras must safely cross the Valley of Kings. Once they have reached the plains beyond, the advantage in battle will be theirs. Thus, we must take steps to draw Nagash’s attention away from Quatar for a time.” A heavy silence descended upon the council chamber, broken only by the hissing breath of the god. Memnet glanced fearfully from his brother to Nebunefer.

  “What would you have us do, holy one?” he asked in a wavering voice.

  “We propose attacking Nagash from an unexpected quarter,” the emissary replied, his dark eyes glinting. “For all his supposed genius, the blasphemer is also a petty and arrogant king. Any
defeat, no matter how small, is an insult to his overweening pride, and he will be compelled to respond.” Nebunefer spread his hands. “The Bronze Host is in an ideal position to launch such a blow.” Akhmen-hotep frowned at the man.

  “And where would you have us strike?” he asked.

  “At Bel Aliad, on the other side of the Great Desert.”

  Pakh-amn let out a choking sound, spraying wine over the rim of his tilted cup. The haggard nobleman’s gasping coughs quickly dissolved into mirthless laughter as he lurched drunkenly from his chair. Many of the council’s young noblemen looked to one another in embarrassment and dismay, but some few joined Pakh-amn in laughter, believing they understood the point of the joke.

  “A daring plan from a bunch of cowering priests,” Pakh-amn spat, fixing Nebunefer with a hateful glare. “Your precious council sits on perfumed cushions and leaves us to do battle with the armies of the damned! You’ve heard stories of what happened at Zandri, but you weren’t there! The sky didn’t boil with darkness over your head! Your friends weren’t turned into hissing, clawing corpses!”

  Akhmen-hotep took two long strides across the council chamber and smote the Master of Horse on the side of the head. The nobleman was knocked from his feet, his empty goblet clattering musically across the stones. Swords flashed as the king’s Ushabti stepped forwards, ready to act upon Akhmen-hotep’s command.

  “Shame me once more, Pakh-amn, and I will kill you,” the king said coldly. “Now begone. The council has no further need for you.”

  At a nod from the king, the four Ushabti stepped forwards and surrounded the nobleman. Pakh-amn climbed unsteadily to his feet, rubbing his hand over the red welt left by the king’s open hand. With a last, hateful look at Nebunefer, the Master of Horse was escorted swiftly from the hall.

  The king waited until Pakh-amn had disappeared from sight before bowing his head to the emissary.

  “My apologies,” he said. “Ka-Sabar means no insult to our honoured allies. That said, surely you must appreciate the… challenges… of such an undertaking. As you said, Bel Aliad lies on the other side of the Great Desert. Travelling around it would take months, and would bring us dangerously close to Khemri along the way.”

  “We do not propose travelling around the desert, but through it,” Nebunefer replied. “There are ancient routes across the sands that caravans used to travel in centuries past.”

  “Many of the oases along those routes have long since dried up,” the king said, “and they would not have been enough to support an army in any case.” The emissary smiled.

  “The desert holds more secrets than you know, Akhmen-hotep. The bandit princes of Bhagar could and did move large bands of horsemen across the desert virtually at will, and we know that there are almost a hundred Bhagarite refugees here in the city. Put the question to them, great one. They can lead you across the desert.”

  “Why should they?” the king asked. The question took the priest aback.

  “Why? For revenge, of course,” he said. “Nagash must pay for what he did to Bhagar. Do you not agree?” Akhmen-hotep ignored the emissary’s question.

  “And if we attack Bel Aliad, what then?” he asked.

  “You occupy the city for a time,” the emissary said. “Loot the homes of the noblemen and the spice markets. Slay those who support the blasphemer in Khemri. When word reaches the Living City that you have conquered the city, Nagash will be forced to order his army to move against you. From Bel Aliad you could threaten the city of Zandri, and that is something that he cannot allow. By the time his warriors arrive, you will have already disappeared back into the desert, and the blasphemer’s army will have been drawn hundreds of leagues in the opposite direction from Quatar.”

  Nebunefer’s proposition deeply unsettled the king. Occupy the city? Loot its riches and slay its leaders out of hand? That was the way of barbarians, not civilised Nehekharans, but the Usurper had done far worse at Bhagar, and would not stop there. As king, he had a duty to defend his people, regardless of the cost. He could only hope that the gods would forgive him when it came time for his soul to be judged. Akhmen-hotep turned to his brother. “What say you, Grand Hierophant?” he asked.

  Memnet blanched under the king’s searching gaze. The Grand Hierophant was but a shadow of his former self. Gone was the proud, confident religious leader that six years ago had demanded vengeance for the deaths of his fellow priests. He had come away from the battlefield at Zandri a changed man, wounded to his very soul by what he had seen and done. He had grown distant from the king since then, and had never spoken of the price he’d paid for calling down the fires of his god against the Usurper.

  The Grand Hierophant tucked his hands into his sleeves and once more glanced fearfully from the king to Nebunefer. With an effort of will, he gathered his courage and said, “Lead us, oh king, and we will follow.”

  Akhmen-hotep drew a deep breath and nodded gravely. Outside, the breath of the god fell still.

  “Then it is decided,” the priest king said. “Sound the trumpets and call forth our warriors. The Bronze Host marches once again to war.”

  ELEVEN

  The Game of Kings

  Quatar, the White Palace, in the 63rd year of Ptra the Glorious

  (-1744 Imperial Reckoning)

  Rakh-amn-hotep, Priest King of Rasetra, clenched the railing of the sky-boat with his scarred, stubby fingers the moment he heard the warning grumble of the wind spirits overhead. Sure enough, there was a crackle of canvas and the huge air bladder contracted along its thirty-yard length, pitching the wooden hull of the sky-boat downwards like a ship cresting the peak of a towering wave. The king bit back a startled shout as the craft descended in a swift, graceful arc out of the Valley of Kings and over the crescent-shaped wall of the Gates of the Dawn.

  Standing at the prow of the sky-boat, Rakh-amn-hotep felt hot, chalky wind buffet his face and watched the dusty ground race past with terrifying speed. They were past the fortifications sealing the western end of the valley in less than a minute, and through teary eyes he could see the gleaming stones of the Temple Road winding down the gentle slope towards the city of Quatar. The walls of the city and the central palace were a faint cream colour, Ptra’s blessed sun having bleached away much of the ghastly red stains left by Nagash’s cursed rain. If the god was kind, within another ten years there would be no sign of the nightmare that the Usurper had inflicted upon the city.

  The great plains of central Nehekhara stretched beyond the city, a vast, rolling vista of sandy soil marked with trade roads in lines of white stone. To the king’s relief, the air bladder overhead swelled once more in answer to the chorus of chanting priests at the craft’s notional stern, and the sky-boat levelled out several hundred feet above the ground. Fighting to control his lurching stomach, the king could see the sharp-edged flanks of the Brittle Peaks stretching in a vast line to the north and south, and the broad ribbon of the life-giving River Vitae winding off to the west, towards the distant sea. The southern flank of the river was bordered with a thick band of vibrant green, while to the north stretched the rich fields of the Plains of Plenty, where the horse lords of Numas tended their herds and harvested the grain that fed much of Nehekhara.

  To the king’s relief, he saw no columns of dust or swarms of metal-clad figures making their way across the plains towards Quatar. The rolling plains were empty, all the way to the glinting, mist-wrapped Fountains of Eternal Life, many leagues to the north-west. Nagash’s armies still had not stirred from the fields outside Khemri, which lay hidden behind a smudge of ominous purple clouds just at the edge of the north-west horizon. For the moment at least, Quatar and the forces encamped outside it were safe.

  A vast, orderly camp had sprung up in the wide fields west of the city. Lines of dun-coloured tents were laid in neat rows, organised by company and arrayed around a central square containing parade grounds, supply tents and portable smithies. Neat columns of unhitched chariots filled an open square near a makeshift h
orse corral, and three adjoining fields were filled with huge, hulking shapes wreathed in tendrils of steam and thin wisps of darker sacrificial smoke. Rakh-amn-hotep saw huge catapults, war scorpions and towering giants made of carved wood and bronze plates. The army of Lybaras had arrived with all its strength, and it was a fearsome sight to the battle-hardened king.

  The air spirits hissed and grumbled overhead, and with a creak of timbers and a groan of cables the great sky-boat swung around and began to descend. Rakh-amn-hotep saw that they were making for a large plain to the south of the Temple Road, less than a mile from the perimeter of the Lybaran camp. Three other sky-boats were already grounded on the sandy plain, unloading jars of supplies to long lines of waiting slaves. The sky-boats were hidden beneath the vast bladders of canvas, which contained the air spirits that kept the craft aloft. Built from modified river boat hulls, they hung beneath the bladders from a web of stout cables thicker than a man’s arm. Each hull could carry a huge amount of cargo in its holds, including an entire company of soldiers, if their stomachs were up to the trip.

  When the Lybaran sky-boat had found the Rasetran army a week ago and offered to carry Rakh-amn-hotep ahead to Quatar, the king had left much of his baggage behind and loaded the boat with a mixed company of Ushabti and heavy infantry. Their frightened cries and queasy groans had been a never-ending source of amusement to the sky-boat’s small crew. The king didn’t envy the slaves who would be given the task of washing out the cargo holds.

  The craft sank in a slow, graceful arc towards the field, drifting slightly south and gliding to a stop with a crunch of sand and gravel, just like a river boat sliding up to the shore. By the time that one of the boat’s acolytes had thrown a rope ladder over the side, the first of the king’s Ushabti were staggering up onto the deck and turning their faces gratefully to the sun. Smothering a wry grin at their discomfort, the king ordered his troops to disembark first. He did not have long to wait.