During the disembarkation, a trio of chariots arrived from the city, driven by members of Hekhmenukep’s royal household. One of the king’s viziers climbed carefully down from the lead chariot and waited patiently for Rakh-amn-hotep to descend from the sky-boat. He bowed low as the King of Rasetra stepped clear of the ladder.
“My master the Priest King of Lybaras sends you greetings, great one,” the vizier said. “He asks you meet with him in the White Palace, where he would offer you some refreshment after your journey.”
The stout king planted his feet on the sand and swayed drunkenly. His body felt like it was still falling through the air, and his knees were as weak as a newborn’s.
“Lead on,” he said with a distracted wave, and tried to concentrate on walking the ten yards to the waiting chariots without pitching forwards onto his face.
Once the king and his Ushabti were aboard, the chariots wheeled around in a tight circle and clattered across the landing field towards the Temple Road. The ride smoothed out considerably once they reached the road’s stone surface, and soon the drivers had their horses dashing down the road at a ground-eating canter. After the heady rush of air travel the pace seemed sluggish to the men of Rasetra.
Within half an hour the stained walls of Quatar loomed before the chariots, and Rakh-amn-hotep saw that the city gates were open and empty of traffic, even though it was early afternoon. Only a handful of warriors stood guard upon the walls, and the king noted that they wore the dun kilts of Lybaran soldiers rather than the bleached white of Quatar’s tomb guard.
He had heard that the city had suffered greatly in the grip of Nagash’s foul curse, but Rakh-amn-hotep had no idea what that truly meant until the chariots passed through the open gate and onto an empty street that had once led to the city’s bustling marketplace. The houses and shops lining the road were covered in a fine layer of white ash, and many doorways were streaked with soot from fires set during the plague. Piles of desiccated refuse lay heaped in the narrow alleys or along the sides of the street, but there were no animals rooting through the mess in search of a meal. A heavy pall of silence hung over the scene, muffling even the rattle and squeak of the chariot wheels. The acrid reek of burnt wood and charred flesh permeated the still air. Far off to the north-east, pillars of grey smoke rose languidly into the sky as the priests of the mortuary cult committed still more corpses to Ptra’s cleansing flames.
The plague had been over for more than a year, and the survivors were still dealing with the bodies that had been left behind.
They rode on through the empty bazaar, stirring up clouds of ash and dust, and then through the Merchants’ Quarter. Here the king’s experienced eye saw the telltale signs of past violence. Many of the homes had been looted by bands of maddened plague victims, and piles of broken furniture and shattered pottery lay in drifts outside the smoke-stained doorways. Ominous stains against the walls of some homes hinted at the dire fates of their owners.
As bad as the destruction was in the Merchants’ Quarter, the noble districts beyond had suffered even worse, as though the citizens pinned the blame for their misery squarely on their king and his supporters. All of the homes had been broken into and burned, and even the walls of some estates had been torn open by frenzied work with picks and spades. Walls had been toppled and roofs had fallen in when their wooden supports had finally burned through. Some time in the past, workers had cleared a path through the debris in the centre of the street, and the chariots were forced to ride single file past mounds of broken bricks and charred, splintered wood.
It was only when they were nearly upon the stained walls of the White Palace that they came upon the first signs of life. The grand structure, built to rival then ultimately surpass the glories of Settra’s palace in Khemri, was surrounded by small ornamental parks and wide squares set with fountains that were fed by springs running beneath the city. The parks were filled with weathered, ash-covered tents and ramshackle huts made from crumbling mud bricks, and gaunt, hollow-eyed figures in tattered robes clustered wearily around the dust-covered fountains, washing clothes or filling jugs with water. The few survivors of the plague years watched the chariots roll past with expressions of misery and dread.
The White Palace rose like an island of stability amidst the squalor and despair of Quatar. Though its walls still bore the stains of Nagash’s vile curse, the palace had been completely untouched by the chaos and savagery that had gripped the rest of the city. Warriors of Quatar’s royal household stood guard at the palace gates, garbed in white leather armour and bearing their huge, curved swords. They bowed their heads gravely as the chariots rolled past, and the procession continued on down a wide avenue lined with towering statues of Djaf’s jackal-headed servants. To the west, Rakh-amn-hotep could see the white bulk of the mortuary temple, while to the east rose the forbidding Palace of the Dusk, the temple to the God of Death. The palace lay ahead, a sprawling structure faced with white marble that towered like a sphinx above every other building in the city.
Rakh-amn-hotep’s escort carried him down the wide avenue and into a small square that opened before the palace’s wide steps. There, arrayed in serried ranks ten men deep, waited a company of warriors clad in the heavy scale armour of Rasetran infantry. A tall, broad-shouldered warrior whose skin glowed with the might of the sun god stood at their head. The champion raised his sword in salute as the chariots approached, and as one, the warriors let out an exultant cheer at the sight of their king.
The chariots reined in before the assembled troops, and Rakh-amn-hotep ordered his driver to turn around so that he could better see and be seen by the Rasetran warriors. Smiling fiercely, the king raised his arms in greeting.
“Stalwart souls!” he cried. “It has been too long since I have seen your faces, and I rejoice to see you in such fine spirits. For six long years you few have held this city in the face of calamity. For six long years you alone stood between the monster at Khemri and the kingdoms of the east. All of Rasetra knows of your brave deeds! Your names have been spoken with honour in the temples, and your families have been richly rewarded by my hand in gratitude for your service. Our brothers and cousins are on the march, shaking the earth with their fury. Soon they will stand among you, and we will march east to finish the work we started so long ago!”
Once more, the warriors let out a great cheer and clashed their maces against their shields in salute. Their faces split in proud smiles to hear of the king’s esteem, and only the hard look in their dark eyes hinted at the ordeal they had been forced to endure. Ekhreb, the king’s champion and commander of the detachment, sank to one knee as the king descended from the chariot.
“None of that, by the gods!” Rakh-amn-hotep declared, waving his hand impatiently at his champion. “For all that you and your men have faced, you should never be asked to bow to another man again.” The king strode forwards and gripped the champion’s arms, nearly dragging the taller man onto his feet.
“Welcome back, great one,” Ekhreb replied in a deep voice. The champion was powerfully built, blessed with the strength and vitality of one of Ptra’s favoured sons. His face was wide and his jaw square, and his dark eyes glinted beneath a heavy, jutting brow. Sunlight shone on his shaven head, and gleamed from the gold rings in his ears.
His wide mouth quirked in a wry grin. “Six years is too long to be without your presence.”
“You are too kind, my friend,” Rakh-amn-hotep replied.
“Not at all. We thought you’d be back within the year. In fact, you said something along those lines just before you left.”
“It’s possible that I might have been a bit optimistic in my estimate.”
“We came to that same conclusion after the fourth year or so.” The two men chuckled, and then the king’s expression turned serious once more.
“How bad was it?” he asked quietly. The grin left Ekhreb’s face, and his expression turned bleak as he struggled for the right words. Finally he sighed.
“It was terrible,” he said. “None of us will lead virtuous lives after this. There is no hell that the gods can make that could equal what we faced here in Quatar.” Rakh-amn-hotep grimaced at the look in his champion’s face. He looked over the ranks of jubilant men at Ekhreb’s back.
“Is this all that remains? Barely a company of men out of forty thousand souls?” The champion nodded.
“Only the gods know how many deserted and headed for home during the early months. We tried to stop them, but once the fever took hold of the populace it was all we could do just to stay alive. The Lybaran army was all but destroyed within the first six months. We survived only because we fell back and shut the palace gates against the mob.” Ekhreb shrugged. “Would that I could regale you with tales of courage, but the truth is that we hid behind these walls and prayed for our survival. Eventually we realised that the plague couldn’t find its way into the palace.” Rakh-amn-hotep frowned.
“Why was that?” he asked. Ekhreb’s expression darkened.
“We wondered about that as well,” he said. “In the end, the only explanation that made any sense was that Nagash didn’t want it to. Nemuhareb fears that the Usurper has a special fate in mind for him and his family.” The king’s frown deepened.
“Has Nemuhareb caused any trouble?” Ekhreb shook his head.
“None,” he said. “He is a broken man, drowning his nightmares in wine and the milk of the black lotus. We’re the only reason he hasn’t been deposed.”
“I’m surprised there is anyone willing to take his place,” Rakh-amn-hotep muttered darkly. “How many citizens are left?”
“The gods alone know,” Ekhreb replied. “Less than a thousand, for certain. We have search parties combing each district of the city, and we’re still finding bodies. The city is one vast tomb. It will take generations for the city to recover, if at all.” The king nodded.
“I can see why the Lybarans chose to camp outside the walls,” he said.
“What of our own army?” the champion inquired. “When will they arrive?”
“It will be some weeks yet,” the king said with a sigh. “We were still several days from the Valley of Kings when the Lybaran sky-boat found us. It’s been slow going, all the way from Rasetra. We’ve got sixty thousand infantry and horsemen, plus another twelve thousand barbarian troops and their thunder lizards.” Rakh-amn-hotep shook his head. “I never should have let Guseb talk me into bringing the lizards along. So far, they’ve been more trouble than they’re worth. Fortunately, it appears that Nagash is in no hurry to march on the city, which had been my greatest cause for concern.”
“You can thank Hekhmenukep and Nebunefer for that,” Ekhreb said.
“Nebunefer?” the king asked, his eyebrows rising in surprise. “What’s that old schemer doing back here?”
“He arrived with the Lybarans,” the champion replied, “and then left almost at once for Ka-Sabar. Rumour has it, they’ve hatched a plan to keep Nagash distracted while we marshal our forces.”
“I’m not sure I like the sound of that,” the king said, scowling up at the palace. “Come on, old friend,” he growled, beckoning to Ekhreb. “Time to find out what our allies have been up to while I’ve been away.”
The black tower rose like a blade of stone in a swirling sea of sand. Just on the edge of the Great Desert, it was constantly assailed by the storms that howled across the hot dunes. The great blocks of basalt that comprised the tower’s outer surface had been smoothed to a mirror finish by the scouring sand. The sound it made against the stone was like the hissing of a hundred thousand hungry snakes, seeking the slightest crack or flaw to work their way inside.
Yet, work on the tower continued, even in the teeth of the raging wind. Day and night it went on. An army of slaves shaped stones and carried them to the base of the tower, where still more labourers dragged them up a vast, spiral ramp that wound sinuously around the tall spire to a height of more than two hundred feet. The ramp was made of wood and hides, and lashed together with thick coils of rope, and it wavered and trembled appallingly in the storm. It had collapsed many times, toppled by raging gales of wind or sawn through by the abrasive sand, and each time, scores of labourers were crushed beneath the weight of fallen timbers and splintered stone.
The lucky ones did not rise again. Most, however, pushed aside the fallen beams or clawed their way out through the sand, digging with ragged hands or the pointed tips of finger bones. Some squirmed right out of the ragged scraps of flesh and muscle that had once clothed their gleaming bones. Their strength was born of pure, relentless will, lashing at their trapped souls like a scourge.
The people of Bhagar did not know hunger, or pain, or fatigue. The last of them had died more than three years before at the feet of Arkhan’s black tower, fitting the foundation stones into place. The breath of their god raged impotently around them, scourging their bodies and hollowing out their eyes, and yet the tower continued to grow.
Constructing the tower had been an idea of Arkhan’s for some time, dating back to the early construction of his master’s mighty pyramid. When he found himself in possession of several thousand slaves after the conquest of Bhagar, the vizier saw his opportunity. While his master focused on raising his armies at Khemri, Arkhan proposed building the citadel to guard the city’s southern approaches against another attack from distant Ka-Sabar, or perhaps even a revolt in the Spice City of Bel Aliad. The Undying King considered this, and agreed.
In truth, Arkhan wished to distance himself from Nagash for an entirely different reason: namely, the king’s life-giving elixir. He chafed at the power that Nagash had over him by virtue of that terrible draught, but still its sorcerous formula eluded him. If he were to continue to serve the king from his seat at the black tower then Nagash would have no choice but to show the vizier how to craft the elixir for himself, or so he had thought.
Every six months a courier arrived from Khemri bearing a sealed chest that contained six vials of the elixir, just enough for one drink per month. The privation left him weak and thirsty all the time, and despite his best efforts he could never save enough of the liquid to study its properties for any length of time.
For the first two years after the slaughter at Bhagar the slaves had dug deep into the rocky soil with crude picks and shovels, creating the first of the tower’s many floors more than fifty feet underground. Arkhan summoned stonemasons from Khemri to guide the slaves in their work, while his undead horsemen stood watch from the surrounding dunes. Later, the slaves were sent back to their home city and set to work demolishing their homes for the stone needed to shape the tower’s foundation.
The deepest of the underground vaults was set aside for Arkhan. Although nothing like the grand eminence of his master’s marble crypt, the chambers served the immortal’s immediate needs. It had taken most of a year to move his household from the Living City to the distant tower due to the raging storms, and many loyal servants perished along the way. The rest he killed with poison as soon as they arrived. They waited upon him in the gloom of his sanctum, their shrivelled bodies wrapped in robes of blackest linen and wrought with arcane sigils of preservation.
Arkhan was within his inner sanctum, poring over scrolls of arcane lore and studying the ruby depths of one of his precious vials of elixir when he heard a faint, hissing rustle in the dark corners of the room. For the briefest instant he thought that the questing sand had finally found its way inside the black tower, driven by the implacable hate of Khsar the Faceless, whose people Arkhan had murdered. Pure terror coursed through the immortal’s veins. Then, in a flash he snatched up a guttering lamp and advanced across the room, banishing the deep shadows before him.
Lamplight glittered on shining black carapaces. Scarabs were pouring from cracks in the stonework and flowing in a seething carpet across the sanctum’s floor.
Arkhan took a step back, clenching the vial of elixir tightly in his hand as he prepared to cast a fiery incantation. The scarabs came together in the
centre of the chamber, leaping into the air with a dry clatter of wings and swirling into a seething, glittering cloud.
The words of the incantation died upon Arkhan’s lips as the cloud took on a familiar shape.
“Loyal servant,” said a voice from the depths of the rustling cloud. It was born of scraping mandibles and buzzing wings, scrabbling legs and dusty carapaces, but its identity was unmistakeable. Stunned, Arkhan bowed before the visage of Nagash.
“I am here, master,” the vizier said, tucking the vial into his sleeve. “What is your command?”
“Our enemies march against us once more,” the necromancer said. The vague outline of Nagash’s face turned towards the vizier. “New armies are gathering at Quatar, and the Bronze Host crosses the Great Desert to strike at Bel Aliad.”
“Crossing the desert? Impossible!” Arkhan exclaimed. “The storms—”
“The storms are the work of the craven priests of Mahrak,” Nagash hissed. “They hope to hinder our efforts and conceal the movements of their troops. Even now, refugees from Bhagar are leading the warriors of Ka-Sabar along the secret pathways of the desert tribes. They will reach Bel Aliad within a fortnight. They do not know, however, that there is a traitor in their midst, one who has worshipped me for many years, since the defeat at Zedri. He will deliver the Bronze Host into our hands, and then the City of Bronze itself!”
Arkhan’s mind raced as he considered the sudden turn of events.
“My warriors stand ready, master,” he said. “What would you have us do?”
“Take your undead horseman and ride for Bel Aliad,” the necromancer said. “Once you arrive, this is what you must do.”
The necromancer told Arkhan of his plan in hissing, crackling tones. The vizier listened with his head bowed low, contemplating the downfall of Akhmen-hotep and the people of Ka-Sabar.
[Nagash 01] - Nagash the Sorcerer Page 17