[Nagash 01] - Nagash the Sorcerer

by Mike Lee - (ebook by Undead)

  A rumble of wheels thundered in from the right, and a Bel-Aliad chariot charged out of the dust. The charioteer angled his machine expertly, passing the king’s vehicle on the right quarter. The archer in the back of the chariot drew his bow and fired, just as Akhmen-hotep lashed out with his sword. The arrow struck the king at the rounded part of his shoulder, punching through the bronze scales and sinking deep into the flesh beneath, but not before the king’s sword had sliced through the charioteer’s right arm. The man let out an anguished scream and fell onto his side, causing the horses to veer suddenly to the left and flip the chariot over.

  The king pulled the arrow free with a snarl and cast it aside, feeling hot blood spread across the inside of his armour. As near as he could reckon, they had penetrated nearly all the way through the enemy formation. He heard a distant, surf-like surge of noise, to his left, but it was too far away to matter to the king at that moment. He glanced wildly in every direction, looking for a sign of the enemy leader.

  There! Off to the right and a few dozen yards ahead, he spied a knot of stationary chariots flying a profusion of brightly coloured banners. It had to be the enemy prince and his bodyguards. Akhmen-hotep brought them to the attention of his charioteer by gesturing with his sword, and the man swung the war machine around. They bore down on the enemy like a hurled spear, aimed directly for the chariot in the centre of the group.

  The prince and his retinue saw the danger at once, but there was little time to get their horses moving. Two of the bodyguards tried to push forwards and bar Akhmen-hotep’s path, but their horses could not get moving quickly enough. Instead, the king’s chariot struck the prince’s machine like a thunderbolt, smashing the wicker hull to pieces and flipping it onto its side.

  Akhmen-hotep leapt from the still-moving chariot and rushed towards a tall, lean warrior clad in burnished bronze armour and desert robes of brilliant yellow and blue. His men, an archer whose arm had been clearly broken in the crash and his unarmed charioteer, both threw their bodies into the king’s path, but Akhmen-hotep hurled them aside like children. Still, it bought the prince enough time to draw his blade and prepare for the king’s attack.

  The prince of Bel Aliad was a brave man, but no warrior. His scimitar slashed at Akhmen-hotep’s face in a clumsy, backhand blow that the king smashed contemptuously aside. His return stroke blurred through the air and came to rest against the prince’s throat.

  “Yield to me, Suhedir al-Khazem,” Akhmen-hotep growled, “or prepare to greet your ancestors in the afterlife.”

  The prince swayed on his feet. His sword fell from his trembling hand.

  “I yield. By all the gods, I yield!” he said, sagging to his knees, as though overcome by a terrible burden, and reaching up to pull away his yellow head scarf. The prince’s face was youthful but haggard, gaunt and pinched with strain. “Spare my people, great one, and all the riches of Bel Aliad will be yours!” Relief washed over the King of Ka-Sabar, but he kept his expression stern and inscrutable.

  “We are not monsters,” he said to the prince. “You have dealt with us honourably, and we will treat you in kind. Signal your men to cease fighting, and we will discuss terms of ransom.”

  The prince called to his trumpeter, and gladly gave the order. From the look on the man’s face, Akhmen-hotep thought that he was happy to have lost the battle. He no longer had to heed the orders of the monster that crouched on the throne at Khemri.

  Horns sounded again and again, cutting through the din of battle. It was several long minutes before the clamour subsided and the dust began to settle. A cheer went up from the Bronze Host, and then was suddenly cut short by confused shouts and angry cries. Bemused, Akhmen-hotep looked to the prince, but Suhedir al-Khazem looked mystified as well.

  The rumble of a chariot approached hurriedly from the north-west. Within moments Akhmen-hotep spied Pakh-amn’s battered chariot racing towards them across the battlefield. As he drew nearer, the king could see the stricken expression on the young noble’s face.

  “What is it?” Akhmen-hotep cried as the chariot rumbled to a halt. “What has happened?” Pakh-amn looked in dread at Suhedir-al-Khazem, and then addressed his king.

  “The messenger has returned from camp,” the nobleman replied. Akhmen-hotep frowned.

  “Well? What of it?” he asked.

  “He could not find the Bhagarite horsemen,” Pakh-amn said in a grim voice. “The camp guards said they never arrived.”

  The king was confused for a moment.

  “But where else would they go?” he began, and then his blood ran cold. Slowly, he turned, casting his eyes to the north, in the direction of Bel Aliad. Suhedir al-Khazem, listening to the exchange, let out a despairing cry.

  The first tendrils of smoke were rising above the distant City of Spices.

  FIFTEEN

  Lessons in Death

  Khemri, the Living City, in the 45th year of Ptra the Glorious

  (-1959 Imperial Reckoning)

  The great architects of Khemri had spared no expense to provide for the late King Khetep’s every spiritual need in the afterlife. They built vaults within the Great Pyramid to hold tall jars of grain and dried fish, candied dates, wine and honey. There were rooms filled with luxurious furnishings, and chests of cedar wood packed with rich garments for the king to wear. Another chamber held a brace of mummified falcons and the king’s favourite bow, in case he wished to go hunting in the fields of paradise. Still other chambers contained the king’s mummified horses, and a great chariot made of bronze and gilded wood.

  There was even a long, low chamber containing a fine river boat, complete with mummified oarsmen, in the event that the mighty king desired to ply the great River of Death.

  The finest chamber of all was built far above the king’s burial vaults, set in the very heart of the Great Pyramid. There, the architects had built a glorious throne room, complete with soaring columns and flagstones of polished marble. A noble dais stood at the far end of the throne room, and upon it stood a single throne, wrought not of wood but of darkest, polished obsidian. Flanking the throne stood towering statues of Ptra and Djaf, their faces stern, but their hands raised in welcome.

  More statues were interspersed among the columns that ran to either side of the chamber: Neru and Asaph, Geheb and Tahoth, all of the gods of Nehekhara, each one awaiting the arrival of the dead king’s spirit. For the throne at the far end of the room was not meant for Khetep, but for Usirian, the baleful god of the Underworld.

  It was in this great hall that Khetep would come to be judged by the gods. If he had lived a virtuous life, he would be allowed into the golden fields of paradise. Otherwise, Usirian would drive the king’s spirit into the howling wastes of the Underworld, there to suffer for all time, or at least until such time as the mortuary priests could summon back his soul and return him to the land of the living.

  It was here that Nagash would summon his noble allies, more than forty in number, and, presiding from Usirian’s black throne, he would work to undermine his brother’s tenuous rule. If Arkhan, Raamket or the other young nobles were discomfited by the necromancer’s profound display of sacrilege, none of them were foolish enough to share it. There was also the fact that he had kept his word and made them all very rich, very powerful men.

  It had been three years since they had signed their names in that run-down house off Coppersmith Street, and in that time a terrible plague had swept through the great houses of Khemri. The sickness literally dissolved its victims from the inside out over a period of days or sometimes weeks. Vast fortunes were paid to the temples of Asaph and Tahoth to cure the sick, but the best that the priests could manage was to prolong the agony of the afflicted. No one survived the plague’s touch, and the healers could not fathom how the sickness spread. Slaves, guards and functionaries were untouched, and only those born of noble blood seemed to be at risk. All, that is, except for those whose names were written on Nagash’s list.

  As the death toll mounted a
nd the great houses became decimated, many vital positions in Thutep’s court, some of which had been kept in the same family for centuries, were left vacant. Finally, the desperate king had little choice but to hand these titles to the only noblemen who still answered the call to the Grand Assembly. Khemri’s fortunes were fading all too quickly. Other than a brief show of esteem from the other great cities upon the birth of his young son Sukhet five years before, the Living City had been all but forgotten by its peers.

  “How fares the caravan trade?” Nagash asked, studying the assembled nobles over steepled fingers. The braziers in the great throne room had been lit, casting long fingers of light past the towering columns and throwing the ominous shadows of the stone gods across the marble flagstones. Khefru moved silently among the necromancer’s allies, providing refreshment to those who wished it.

  Shepsu-hur plucked a goblet of wine from the priest’s wooden tray as he went past. Thutep had named him master of the gates, which gave him responsibility over levying taxes on the merchant caravans that came and went from Khemri. This included the river traffic from Zandri and the grain shipments that came south from Numas.

  “Prices have nearly doubled in the bazaar,” he said, sampling the wine. “Grain, spices, bronze: traders from every city are making life hard in the marketplace.”

  The necromancer nodded.

  “Zandri’s work,” he declared. “King Nekumet is tightening his fist around us. He’s convinced the other kings to raise tariffs on exports to Khemri in order to choke off our trade.” Nagash turned his gaze to Raamket. “No doubt it has increased smuggling tenfold.”

  Raamket folded his thick arms. The burly nobleman had been appointed master of rods, making him responsible for the City Watch. With Nagash’s help, Raamket had quickly used his authority to establish control of Khemri’s criminal gangs as well.

  “The gangs on the docks and the south gate district are doing a brisk trade,” he said with a chuckle. “They plan on passing the goods on to the traders in the marketplace at half again the normal rate, a bargain these days, but the gangs will grow rich off it.” Nagash shook his head.

  “No,” he said. “Inform the gangs to sell their goods at the same price as the foreign traders. It serves our purpose for the city to suffer for a while.” Raamket frowned at the news.

  “They won’t want to hear that,” he said.

  “If they won’t listen, then relieve them of their ears,” the necromancer said. “When the time comes for Thutep to yield his crown, it would be… preferable… if the populace supported his removal.” He turned to Arkhan. “What is the mood of the people at present?”

  Arkhan waited until Khefru approached, and then took a goblet. He drained half of the wine in a single draught and glowered at the rest. As master of the levy, it was his responsibility to maintain the yearly census and ensure that every adult citizen fulfilled his annual civil service. In times of war, he would also be required to marshal the spear levies that would form the bulk of Khemri’s army.

  “The rumours are circulating, as you requested,” he said. “The great houses are being punished by the gods for permitting Thutep to bargain away Khemri’s pre-eminence. It didn’t take much effort to get people to start repeating it.”

  Shepsu-hur sipped his wine thoughtfully. “If we make the people think that the plague is the work of the gods,” he said, “won’t that drive them into the arms of the priesthood? I thought that was something we didn’t want.” Nagash smiled coldly.

  “They can give the priests all the coin and devotion they wish,” he said, “so long as the holy men are helpless to stop the plague.” The necromancer leaned forwards upon the ebon throne.

  “Thutep’s time on Settra’s throne has nearly run its course. The people are restive. A few more weeks of hunger and destitution and they will be ready for my brother to fall. For now, we must recoup our strength and prepare for one last outbreak of the so-called plague. This time, the sickness will spread beyond the great houses and afflict the city merchants. That should be sufficient to ignite the fires of unrest.” Nagash waved a dismissive hand. “Tomorrow is the new moon. Return here at midnight with your offerings and we will perform the Incantation of Reaping.”

  With that, the audience was at an end. The noblemen drained their goblets and set them on the marble floor. Then, they retired from the echoing chamber without a word. Moments later, only Khefru remained, dutifully picking up goblets and setting them on a wooden tray balanced upon his hip. Nagash studied his servant thoughtfully.

  “There is something you are not telling me,” he said. Khefru shook his head.

  “I don’t know what you mean, master.”

  “I can see it in the stiffness of your posture and the way you carefully avoid my gaze,” the necromancer said coldly. “Don’t insult me with your pitiful attempts at subterfuge, Khefru. It would not be wise.”

  A faint shudder caused the young priest’s shoulders to tremble. He paused for a moment, collecting himself, and then set down the wooden tray and straightened. “I fear you are growing too bold, master,” he said. “Thutep isn’t as blind or as foolish as you think. The disappearances are gaining more and more attention. Your supposed allies are dragging dozens of victims off the streets each month for your rituals—”

  “Arkhan and the rest must learn the rudiments of the necromantic arts if they are to be useful to me,” Nagash growled, cutting him off, “and the curse requires a great deal of power to maintain it through the turning of the moon.” The necromancer shifted irritably upon the throne. “The energy dissipates too quickly. It’s like filling a wine jar using one’s bare hands.”

  “But the risk…” Khefru began, spreading his hands helplessly. “Your allies are growing too bold. They’re seizing the first victims they come upon, and many of them have families who take note of their disappearance. I know for a fact that people have gone to the temples begging for a formal inquiry. It’s only a matter of time before a wealthy merchant or a neighbourhood full of grieving families pays the priesthood enough to start a serious investigation. After that it’s only a matter of time before the king becomes involved.”

  “And what of it?” Nagash snarled. “We’ve spent the last three years stripping away the king’s power. The great houses are all but extinct, and my men control all the vital functions of the city. If anything, I expect we could find a way to turn the inquiry to our own ends, embarrassing the priesthood as a pack of corrupt, meddling fools.” As he said this, Nagash saw Khefru blanch. The necromancer leaned forward intently. “Ah. Now I see the heart of it. After everything we have learned, everything we’ve done… you’re still afraid of the priesthood.”

  “No… no, it’s not them,” Khefru stammered. His sallow face grew pinched with fear. “I fear no man in this world save you, master, but what of the gods? We’ve cheated Djaf and Usirian of dozens of human souls. By now, their wrath must be very great.”

  “And yet they have done nothing,” Nagash said scornfully. “Do you know why? Because we stand to usurp them of their power. We are plumbing the secrets of life and death, Khefru. Without the fear of dying, and the threat of judgement, the gods will lose their hold over mankind.”

  “Yes. Yes, I see all that,” the young priest said, his knife-scar accentuating the pained look on his face, “but we’re not immortal yet. Death still waits for us, and beyond that, divine judgement. We… we’ve done awful things, master. There is no hell in Usirian’s teachings terrible enough to suit our crimes.”

  “Leave such things to me, Khefru,” Nagash said coldly. “All things in due time. For now, we must focus on taking Thutep’s crown. Do you understand?”

  Khefru nodded reluctantly. “I understand, master.” He bowed quickly, and returned to his work. The young priest gathered up the wine cups and made for the side passage that led down to the lower levels, where Khetep’s crypt and Nagash’s study were located. Just as he reached the columns along the north side of the room, he paused.r />
  “One more thing, master,” he said. “Your guests have made a great deal of progress exploring the crypt over the last few days. I believe Ashniel has almost found the way out. Should I introduce the next set of traps?” Nagash leaned back upon the throne, his face lost in thought.

  “Leave that to me as well,” he said.

  The braziers had been left to burn out in the Great Pyramid’s grand throne room. Nearly four hours past midnight they gave off a sullen red glow that lent the huge chamber an ominous blood-hued cast. The ruddy light scarcely reached above head-height along the towering stone columns, and pooled on the broad steps of the great dais.

  Silence stretched through the chamber’s chill air, broken only by the furtive sounds of burrowing tomb beetles.

  Then there was a faint sound, like the whisper of skin across stone, and a thin hissing that nearly resolved into words.

  Dark forms moved in the shadows beyond the columns on the north side of the room. The sibilant whispers rose again, like a conversation between a trio of vipers. Then a lithe shape glided from the darkness and stepped into the centre of the throne room. Pale hands reached up and pulled back a black cotton hood, revealing the sharp-edged features of Ashniel, the druchii witch. She turned slowly in place, as though trying to deduce where the chamber was in relation to the rest of the huge pyramid, and how close she might be to freedom.

  Within moments, Ashniel was joined by her companions. Drutheira had her hood back, letting her white hair tumble across her narrow shoulders. Her ethereal beauty had been transformed into a tight mask of strain, and she clutched an improvised dagger chipped from a broken shard of obsidian. Malchior limped along in her wake, cursing softly under his breath. The shaft of a barbed dart jutted from the druchii’s left thigh, and every step left a small pool of blood gleaming upon the marble. Clearly, Ashniel’s mastery of the crypt’s many traps still left something to be desired.