“The warriors of Bel Aliad will not appreciate the distinction,” Pakh-amn said sourly, “when they are scattering our disorganised companies and setting fire to our tents.” Unperturbed, Akhmen-hotep accepted the sacrificial bowl and raised it to his lips. When he passed it back to the acolytes his chin was wet with blood.
“What happens today is the will of the gods,” the king said. He looked pointedly at the waiting acolytes. “Will you show your devotion to the Earth God, Pakh-amn, or do you intend to continue the debate and delay the army further?”
Pakh-amn glared hotly at the king. He started to reply, but caught himself at the last moment, and instead reached impatiently for the red-rimmed bowl. Casting apprehensive glances to the north, the rest of the assembled nobles followed suit.
The early morning sunlight rested like a red-hot iron across Akhmen-hotep’s face and neck. Around him, the Bronze Host surged forwards to the tramp of thousands of feet and the heavy beat of drums. The air above the army was thick with swirling dust that coated a man’s throat and gummed up his eyes. They were three miles north of camp, advancing in a steady, if ragged line towards the City of Spices and its waiting army. As it happened, Pakh-amn’s fears had been for naught. Although the warriors of Ka-Sabar had taken more than two hours to form up and make ready to depart, the army of Bel Aliad was no faster. By the time the two armies came within sight of one another the defending army had managed to travel just a single mile.
They came together on a rocky plain bordered by the Spice Road to the west and the desert fringe to the east. Akhmen-hotep could just see the walls of Bel Aliad rising along the horizon to the north. The fighting men of the City of Spices were advancing in rough order, slowly but surely driving back the hundred Bhagarite horsemen who were trying to screen the Bronze Host’s approach. Bel Aliad boasted its own light horsemen. The city had been originally founded by exiles from Bhagar, after all, more than four hundred years past, but their mounts were ordinary animals bought from Numas, rather than gifts from the desert god. Their squadrons advanced in fits and starts, wheeling across the plain like flights of angry birds before racing back to the safety of their advancing army. The desert horsemen retreated slowly but steadily, greeting the enemy movements with derisive jeers and the occasional bowshot.
The main body of the enemy army numbered eight thousand strong, or so the Bhagarite scouts claimed: a large force, but like their light cavalry, it lacked quality. Bel Aliad was the smallest city worthy of the name in all of Nehekhara. To defend itself from desert raiders and to protect its numerous merchant caravans, the city’s princes spent a fortune maintaining a standing army of sell-swords and hired thugs. Their bowmen were drawn from the fearsome sea archers of Zandri, and their two large City Companies were bolstered by four thousand northern mercenaries, hired from the barbarian tribes and brought south aboard chartered merchant ships to take up arms under Bel Aliad’s banner.
The barbarians were huge, stinking, hairy brutes, clad in matted furs and long, oily tunics cinched with wide leather belts around their waists. Though primitive and ignorant of the proper arts of war, these mercenaries were fearsome fighters with shield and spear, or wielding deadly, leaf-shaped bronze swords brought from their rugged homeland. Leading the army were the merchant princes and their retainers, who disdained the cavalry tactics of their ancestors and instead fought from the back of light, swift chariots like other civilised armies.
Against this army the Bronze Host could muster only four thousand men, plus the hundred Bhagarite horsemen who had served as their guides. Six years had not been enough time for Ka-Sabar to restore its shattered forces, for the heavy infantry companies of the City of Bronze demanded lengthy training and conditioning to fight with spear, shield and scale armour. Akhmen-hotep had managed to field only two full infantry companies, plus a large force of five hundred chariots and a thousand trained bowmen. The rest of his army was comprised of loose companies of warrior-aspirants who had been pressed into service as improvised light infantry. Each aspirant carried only a small, round shield, a short sword and a quiver of light, barbed javelins, identical to the hunting weapons that many of them had used as children. They had been drilled relentlessly on the training fields outside the city, but no one knew for certain how effective they would be on the field of battle.
When the Bronze Host had left Ka-Sabar, it had been generally hoped that they would not see action at all. Now the companies were ranged just ahead and to the sides of the slow-moving heavy infantry, each man holding a javelin loosely in his hand. The army’s bowmen formed a long line behind the heavy companies, their bows strung and ready, while behind them came the army’s chariots.
The army of Bel Aliad had come to an unsteady halt across the plain, and was re-forming its companies. Two lines of mercenary archers were far out in front, their arrows placed and ready to fire. Behind them crowded noisy mobs of barbarian warriors, their faces painted with blue and red dyes and their shaggy faces alight with the prospect of bloodshed.
At the sight of the Bronze Host, the mercenaries began to clash their weapons against the rims of their shields and howl like a pack of hyenas, filling the air with strange war cries spoken in their guttural tongue. Akhmen-hotep thought he could see the standards of the City Companies, beyond the milling barbarians, and a roiling plume of dust that had to come from the army’s chariots. Bel Aliad’s light horsemen crowded around the army’s flanks, threatening to charge once again at the thin line of Bhagarite cavalry occupying the middle ground between the two armies.
Raising his hand, Akhmen-hotep ordered the army to halt. Trumpets sounded, and the king turned and leapt from the back of his armoured chariot. His Ushabti joined him at once, ringing the priest king in gleaming bronze. Pakh-amn dismounted his chariot nearby and hastened to the king’s side, along with his other generals, members of his retinue and Ka-Sabar’s religious leaders. Hashepra was garbed for war, clad in bronze scale armour and bearing his customary hammer, and Khalifra, high priestess of Neru, carried a blessed spear in her slender hand. Only Memnet was unarmed, his face pale and waxy in the fierce light of day.
The king waited until the assembly had gathered and nodded gravely.
“The blessings of the gods be upon you,” he said to them. “The day of battle is upon us, and so far, all is proceeding as expected.” Pakh-amn folded his arms.
“You mean to say you planned this?” he asked. “Instead of sweeping down on Bel Aliad and taking it by storm, you wanted to fight their army in the open field, where their greater numbers would tell against us?” Akhmen-hotep eyed the Master of Horse coldly.
“You expected us to steal upon Bel Aliad like thieves in the night and slaughter its citizens while they slept? That is the way of the Usurper, Pakh-amn. We will fight the men of Bel Aliad according to the proper rules of war, as the priest kings have done since the time of Settra. Quarter will be given if asked, and ransoms will be claimed.” A stunned expression crossed Pakh-amn’s face, followed by one of dawning comprehension.
“That’s why you tarried in camp for so long,” he said scornfully. “You wanted them to discover us. Why didn’t you just send a messenger inviting them to battle? Wouldn’t that have been the civilised thing to do?” Hashepra took a step towards Pakh-amn, glowering forbiddingly at the young nobleman.
“You forget yourself once again,” he warned. “Here, on the field of battle, you can be slain outright for such talk.”
“No doubt that would suit the king well,” Pakh-amn snapped, “but it won’t change the truth of what’s before us. Have you all forgotten what happened at Zedri? The old ways are gone! If we don’t accept that, Nagash will destroy us!”
“The old ways are all that separate us from that monster!” the king cried. “If we abandon our beliefs and fight like the Blasphemer, how are we any better than him?” He raised his fist to the sky. “So long as we live, the old ways survive! So long as I draw breath, the Blessed Land lives within me.” Pakh-amn’s dark eye
s glittered with contempt, but he bowed to the king.
“Lead on, then,” he said, “for so long as you live.”
Hashepra growled angrily and began to raise his hammer, but the king stopped him with a raised hand.
“Return to your chariots!” he commanded his warriors, and then turned to the assembled hierophants. “Remain here and summon the powers of the gods to aid us,” he said. “If Bel Aliad has truly turned to Nagash, there will be no priests among them. Your blessings may well turn the tide in our favour.” Khalifra folded her arms regally, but her face was lined with strain. The beautiful priestess seemed to have aged decades since the terrible battle at the oasis.
“We will give what we can,” she said gravely. Hashepra folded his powerful arms and nodded as well.
“If Bel Aliad has turned to Nagash, they won’t need priests,” Memnet said in a leaden voice. “They will have the Usurper’s power to call upon.” The king looked his older brother in the eye, and a bleak look came over his face.
“Then we will have to trust in courage and god-given bronze,” he said. “That is all any man can do.”
Akhmen-hotep considered his gathered generals, particularly his belligerent Master of Horse. The defeat at Zedri had left wounds that ran deeper than flesh. He knew that the confidence of the army was shaken, nearly to the point of rebellion. Pakh-amn in particular had been badly scarred by what he had seen. Could he be trusted? For a fleeting moment, Akhmen-hotep was tempted to remove the Master of Horse from his position and send him back to camp, but immediately he realised that doing so would send the wrong signal to the rest of the army. If they saw that the king’s faith in them was so shaken that he would arrest one of his generals, their resolve might vanish like wax under the midday sun. He had to believe that there was still strength in the old ties of duty and piety, that the covenant between men and gods was still strong, and that there were some things in the world that not even Nagash the Usurper could sweep aside.
Drawing a deep breath, the king made his decision. He beckoned to his trumpeter. “Order the Bhagarites to probe the enemy horsemen to the right,” he said, “and then withdraw to the rear by way of the desert.” Hashepra frowned as he listened to the king’s order.
“You would deprive us of our light cavalry at the start of battle?”
“Our guides have clad themselves in white once more, and wear the Merciless Mask,” Akhmen-hotep said. “They hunger for vengeance, but I will not allow our cause to be tainted by a massacre of innocents. The Bhagarites will have to bide their time until Nagash and his immortals are made to account for their crimes.”
The trumpeters raised their curved, bronze horns and blew an intricate series of notes. As the sounds faded, the king turned to Pakh-amn.
“I will lead half the chariots forward, comprising the centre of the army,” the king said. “When we start to move, and the dust fills the air, take the remaining half and head for the left flank. Take care to conceal your movements behind the aspirant companies, so that the enemy does not suspect you are there. I’ll draw the attention of the prince and his chariots. Wait and watch for the opportune moment to strike.”
Pakh-amn stared into the king’s eyes, and seemed to understand what Akhmen-hotep was giving him. He nodded slowly.
“I will not fail you, great one,” he said.
“Then return to your chariots,” the king ordered, “and may the gods grant us victory.” As the generals and the king’s retinue raced to their posts, Akhmen-hotep turned to the hierophants. “Will the gods lend their favour today, holy ones?” he asked quietly. “I drank deep of the bull’s blood this morning, and yet I felt nothing. Geheb’s strength does not burn in my veins.”
Memnet refused to meet his brother’s eyes.
“I warned you,” he said softly. “I told you at the oasis that there would be consequences for presuming upon the power of the gods.” Hashepra gave the Grand Hierophant a sour look, and then bowed his head to the king.
“Fear not, great one,” he said. “Geheb has not forgotten his favoured sons. You will feel his presence among you as you race forth to battle.”
Khalifra touched the king’s muscular arm and smiled warmly.
“Neru is always with us, great one,” she said. “Her light ever burns in the darkness. Do not fear.”
The Priest King of Ka-Sabar bowed to the holy ones, and his heart felt light. Smiling, he turned and strode quickly for his chariot, trailed by his leonine Ushabti. With every step, his doubts and fears were swept away by the measured tramp of feet and the clatter of arms and armour. The clamour of the battlefield beat against his bones like a drum. For a moment, he was able to forget the horrors he had witnessed, and the great suffering that the Blessed Land had witnessed in the course of his life. For a moment, he was back in the times of his father, and his father’s father, waging war for wealth and power, and the glory of his gods.
Akhmen-hotep climbed aboard his heavy chariot and grasped the hilt of his gleaming sword. He signalled his trumpeter with a flourish.
“Order the army to advance!” he called.
Trumpets called across the battlefield, and as one the companies of the Bronze Host began to move. As the king’s chariot lurched forwards with a rumble of bronze-rimmed wheels, Akhmen-hotep stood tall and surveyed the disposition of his and the enemy’s forces. The City Companies of Bel Aliad were mustered behind a rough line of four large mercenary bands. Between the two large infantry units Akhmen-hotep could see a profusion of banners, no doubt adorning the chariots of the merchant princes and their leader: Suhedir al-Khazem, the Keeper of the Hidden Paths.
To the far right of the enemy line, Akhmen-hotep could see a swirling smudge of dust. The Bhagarites were withdrawing towards the desert, hopefully drawing the enemy light horsemen on that flank along with them. Mirroring the Bel Aliad formations on the other side of the plain, the two heavy companies of the Bronze Host marched at the centre of the battleline, and in between them advanced half of Ka-Sabar’s feared chariots. Pakh-amn and the other half of the chariot force were already on the move, shifting off to the left behind two marching companies of aspirants. Still further back came the host’s company of archers, still hidden from the enemy’s view.
The warriors of the Bronze Host continued forwards, advancing slowly but steadily. The king peered off to the left, trying to catch a glimpse of the enemy light cavalry on that side, but he couldn’t see them. Shouted warnings from the ranks of the infantry companies brought the king’s attention back to the front, and he saw a cloud of dark, flickering reeds arcing high into the sunlit sky ahead of them. Men cursed and raised their round-topped wooden shields, and the warriors in the chariots crouched low behind the bronze-clad walls of their machines. The arrows fell, whirring malevolently through the air, and Akhmen-hotep felt his skin prickle with heat as the blessings of Geheb came upon him.
Bronze arrowheads cracked against shield faces or smacked into scale and leather armour. Men grunted and stumbled beneath the fearsome rain, but the warriors plucked the arrows from their vests and tossed them contemptuously aside. Shafts struck their tanned skin and glanced aside, turned by the power of the God of the Earth. Cheers went up from the Bronze Host as they discovered that Geheb was with them. Akhmen-hotep bared his teeth and signalled to his trumpeters again.
“Order the aspirants forward!” he cried. “Archers, make ready!”
Two signals rang out along the length of the host, and were answered by lusty shouts from the young men of the aspirant companies, javelins ready, the lightly armoured warriors quickened their pace, jogging swiftly across the plain towards the mercenary archers and footmen. The Zandri bowmen, shaken by the failure of their first volley, made ready to fire again, while the barbarian troops howled like beasts and shook their weapons eagerly as they watched the light infantry approach.
The enemy bowmen fired off one more volley, and then swiftly retreated down prepared lanes between the barbarian mobs as the aspirants drew near.
At sixty paces, the javelin throwers quickened their pace. At fifty, they drew back their arms and hurled a shower of barbed weapons at the waiting barbarians. The javelins fell among the mercenaries, sticking into shields or punching through furs and thick tunics. Men roared and fell to the ground, clutching at the wooden shafts.
At forty paces, the aspirants drew more javelins from their quivers and let fly, and then again at thirty. At twenty paces they cast again. Then, they turned tail and ran back in the direction of their lines. Jeers and obscenities followed, until, seventy paces away, the aspirants turned, drew more javelins, and advanced once more. Flights of javelins fouled the mercenaries’ shields, inflicted terrible wounds and killed a few score men, and again, just as the aspirants were nearly within reach of the barbarians’ weapons, they turned and ran.
On the fourth such attack Akhmen-hotep heard trumpets and the sounds of battle off to his left. The enemy light horsemen had intervened on that flank, attempting to run down the light infantry companies. In the centre and on the right, however, the barbarians had taken all they could stand. Prodded to the point of distraction, the mercenaries abandoned all sense of discipline and charged forwards, eager to strike back at the javelin throwers.
Their job done, the aspirants turned tail and kept on running, drawing the barbarians across the plain towards the heavy infantry of the Bronze Host and the bowmen behind them.
Akhmen-hotep raised his sword.
“Archers, make ready!” he ordered. The king watched as the line of mercenaries rushed towards his companies in a seething wave of flesh and bronze. At fifty yards he brought down his blade. “Fire!”
A rain of deadly arrows leapt from the rear of the Bronze Host and fell among the charging mercenaries, sowing death through the swarming mobs. Men fell by the hundreds, and for a moment the pursuit faltered in the face of mounting casualties. The mercenaries were more than two hundred yards away from the rest of their army, however, beyond the reach of their bowmen and the support of the City Companies. Trumpets blew urgently from the midst of the enemy chariots, vainly trying to call the warriors back and re-form their disorganised companies, but Akhmen-hotep was not about to give them the chance.
[Nagash 01] - Nagash the Sorcerer Page 20