[Nagash 01] - Nagash the Sorcerer

by Mike Lee - (ebook by Undead)

  “I thought you and I could share a drink,” Memnet said thoughtfully, sniffing at the strong smell of the dates. He made a face. “No water for the wine?” Akhmen-hotep took another sip.

  “I do not drink it for the taste,” he said quietly.

  The Grand Hierophant nodded, but said nothing. He took a tentative sip of the wine, before saying, “You cannot blame yourself for what happened. It’s the nature of war.”

  “War,” Akhmen-hotep growled into his cup. “This is not war as our fathers knew it. This… this is grotesque!” He drained the dregs and glared at one of the slaves, who crawled forwards with a fresh jug of wine. “And the harder we fight, the worse it becomes.” He turned abruptly, causing the slave to slosh the syrupy wine over the king’s hand.

  “What is happening to us, brother?” Akhmen-hotep asked. His handsome features were etched with despair. “Have the gods forsaken us? Everywhere I turn, all I see is death and ruin.” He held the brimming cup before him, his dark eyes bleak. “Sometimes I fear that even if we do defeat the Usurper, we’ll never be free of his taint.” Memnet stared into his cup for some time. He took another sip.

  “Perhaps we are not meant to be,” he said quietly. The king grew very still.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  Memnet did not answer at first. His expression grew haunted, and Akhmen-hotep saw how ravaged his features had become since that fateful day at Zedri. The priest’s face was like an ill-fitting mask, resting uneasily upon his skull. He took a deeper draught of the wine and sighed heavily.

  “Nothing is eternal,” he said at last. “No matter what we believe.” The high priest sat back in his chair, turning the polished cup in his hands. “Who remembers the names of the gods we worshipped in the jungles, before we came to the Blessed Land? No one. Not even the oldest scrolls in Mahrak speak of them.” He glanced up at the king. “Did they abandon us, or did we abandon them?” Akhmen-hotep scowled at his brother.

  “Who knows?” he said. “That was a different age. We are not the people we once were.”

  “That is my point,” the high priest said. “You ask if the gods have forsaken us. Perhaps it would be better to ask if we have grown estranged from them. Nagash may be the herald of a new age for our people.”

  “How can you say that?” Akhmen-hotep snarled. “You, of all people!” Memnet was unfazed by the king’s accusatory tone.

  “The role of a priest is about more than making sacrifices and collecting tithes,” he said. “We are also the bearers of deeper truths. That is the charge that the gods lay upon us.” His gaze fell to the shadows upon the ground. “Those truths are not always pleasant to hear.”

  Akhmen-hotep considered this as he peered into the depths of his cup. Despair ate at him, draining the colour from his face. Then, slowly but surely, his expression hardened. His brows drew together and his lips pressed into a thin, determined line.

  “I will tell you what I think,” he said slowly. “I think that the truth is what we make of it. Else, why would we have need for kings at all?” He raised the cup to his lips and emptied it in one long swallow, and then held the empty vessel up to his eyes. His fist tightened, the tendons on the back of his scarred hand growing as taut as cords as he slowly crushed the metal cup. “Nothing is preordained, so long as we have the courage to fight for what we believe.” He tossed the lump of metal onto the ground. “We will cast down the Usurper and drive his spirit into the wastes where he belongs. We will make this land right again, because I am the king and I command that it be so!”

  Memnet raised his eyes to the king and studied him for a long moment. His eyes were like dark pools, depthless and inscrutable. A ghost of a smile flitted across his face.

  “I expected no less from you, brother,” he said.

  The king made to reply, but faint sounds beyond the confines of the tent made him pause. He scowled, listening intently. Memnet cocked his head to one side and listened as well.

  “Someone is shouting,” he said.

  “Not just one,” the king answered thoughtfully. “Perhaps it is Pakh-amn, leading his soldiers back into camp. They’ve been putting out fires in the city all evening.” The Grand Hierophant stared at the dregs in his cup.

  “Keep a close eye on that one, brother,” he warned. “He grows more dangerous every day.”

  Akhmen-hotep shook his head dismissively, saying, “Pakh-amn is young and proud, to be sure, but dangerous?” Yet even as he said it, he recalled the tense confrontation just before the battle today. Lead on then. For so long as you live.

  “He has regained some of the respect he lost at Zedri,” the high priest said. “His cavalrymen cheered his name when the battle was done.”

  “And what is wrong with that?” the king asked, though he could not help but feel a twinge of apprehension.

  “The Master of Horse has made it plain that he opposes the war against the Usurper,” the Grand Hierophant said. “Who can say what he might do if he found himself in a position of influence over much of the army?”

  The shouts were still distant, but growing more intense by the moment. Finally the king could stand it no longer.

  “What would you have me do, brother?” he asked, reaching for his sword. “Pakh-amn served me well on the battlefield today. I have no reason to suspect him.”

  “Nor will you, if he is clever,” Memnet pointed out. “Watch him closely. That is all I ask.”

  Akhmen-hotep glowered at the priest. “Bad enough that we must guard against the schemes of the Blasphemer,” he growled. “Now you would have me question the honour of my noblemen.”

  Before Memnet could reply, the king snatched up his sword from a nearby table and strode swiftly out into the cold night air. With an effort of will he tried to banish his brother’s dire observations from his mind as he hurried in the direction of the voices, flanked by four Ushabti who had been standing guard outside the king’s tent.

  The shouts carried easily in the chill air, coming from the western edge of the camp. Akhmen-hotep quickened his pace at the sounds of alarm that were spreading among the tents of the Bronze Host. Men were stumbling out into the darkness, their armour half-on and their weapons in their hands. A flash of movement to the king’s right drew his eye. He saw a pair of Neru’s acolytes stumbling down an adjoining lane, half-carrying a third acolyte between them. Their ceremonial garments were speckled with blood. Muttering a curse, the king broke into a run.

  As he drew near the edge of the camp, Akhmen-hotep began to encounter groups of panicked men running the other way. Their kilts were stained with dust and soot, and their faces were pale with fright. The men were blind to the presence of the king in their midst, rushing past him like a flock of startled birds, intent on nothing more than running east as quickly as they could.

  Five minutes later the king found himself at the edge of the sprawling camp. He came upon a scene of chaos and confusion. A nobleman on horseback was shouting orders and trying to control his plunging mount at the same time, while a small group of warriors was pulling open the crude enclosure holding the barbarian prisoners they’d taken in battle. A second enclosure, built to contain the imprisoned members of Bel Aliad’s City Companies, had already been opened, and the prisoners were milling around the moonlit plain in confusion.

  Akhmen-hotep ran up to the shouting horseman, realising at the last moment that it was Pakh-amn.

  “What is going on?” he shouted up at the Master of Horse.

  Pakh-amn twisted in the saddle and stared wide-eyed at the sudden appearance of the king. “They’re coming!” he said hoarsely.

  “What?” the king asked. He looked around, trying to make sense of the scene. “Who is coming?” The young nobleman eyed the throng of milling prisoners and cursed under his breath. He leaned down until his face was just inches from the king’s.

  “Who do you think?” he hissed. “The people of Bel Aliad have risen in their multitudes, great one. They set upon us as we were leaving the
city and killed a third of my men. The rest of us ran the entire way back to camp, but even so, we haven’t much time. The dead are rising from the battlefield, too, and are heading this way even as we speak.”

  Akhmen-hotep felt his blood turn to ice as he heard the news. “But there were no sorcerers in the city,” he protested numbly. “Suhedir al-Khazem swore an oath on it.”

  “Go and see the carnage at the city gates if you don’t believe me,” Pakh-amn snarled. “Old men with their stomachs torn open, mothers with slit throats and trampled children. They came at us out of the side streets and alleys and tore my men apart with their bare hands!”

  The king’s shock melted beneath the young noble’s acid tone. He glowered up at the Master of Horse, and replied, “Even so, we have the wards. The priests of Neru—”

  “Are dead or dying,” Pakh-amn shot back. “They were ambushed a short while ago as they walked their circuit. We heard hoof beats off to the north, probably light horsemen armed with bows. Neru’s holy wards have no power over a flight of arrows.”

  The king gritted his teeth at the news, remembering the trio of wounded acolytes he’d seen earlier. He considered the unfolding situation quickly, and his heart sank at the realisation that he’d been caught in the jaws of a trap. The battle they’d fought earlier in the day had only been a prelude, meant to wear his men out and swell the numbers of the enemy’s forces even further. The king drew a deep breath.

  “It’s good that you thought to free the prisoners,” he said heavily.

  Pakh-amn bared his teeth. “If the gods are good, the fiends will go for them first and give us time to get out of here,” he hissed. The nobleman’s cold-blooded tactic took the king aback.

  “We’ll form up the host here,” he said, “between Bel Aliad and the camp. Perhaps we can find some spare weapons and arm the City Companies—”

  Forgetting himself completely, Pakh-amn glowered at the king.

  “Are you mad?” he snapped. “Even had we the time to form up the army, the men are exhausted and the horses are blown, and the dead won’t bother forming into companies and marching to battle. They’ll lap around our flanks and swarm like ants over the camp.”

  “Then what would you have me do, Master of Horse?” Akhmen-hotep growled threateningly.

  Pakh-amn blinked at the king’s tone, perhaps realising how far he’d overstepped his bounds.

  “We must flee,” he answered, his voice more subdued, “right now, while there’s still time. Gather the Bhagarites and see if they can lose us among the sands.”

  The king’s lip curled in distaste, but there was some sense in the young noble’s words. If he offered battle he risked playing further into his enemy’s hands. The thought of such an ignominious flight went ill with the king, but they’d done what they’d come to do. They’d fulfilled their obligation to their allies. Now, their only obligation was to themselves and their city.

  To the king’s left, a group of barbarians began to shout, pointing off to the west and babbling in their guttural tongue. Akhmen-hotep stepped away from Pakh-amn’s horse and peered westward.

  At first, it seemed as if the broken plain was slowly undulating, like sluggish waves along the surface of a river, but as the king’s eyes adjusted to the shadows he could make out round, drooping heads and slumped shoulders, dark and tattered beneath Neru’s silver light. A shambling mob of figures limped and lurched its way silently towards the camp. Some brandished axes or spears, while others reached for their distant prey with bare and bloodied hands. The leading edge of the horde was less than a mile away, advancing at a slow, relentless pace. Akhmen-hotep felt their mindless hunger like a cold blade pressed against his skin.

  The men of the City Companies saw the undead creatures too. Some of the men called out tentatively to the approaching figures, thinking that their kin had come to pay the ransom for their release.

  In a few more minutes the slaughter would begin, and panic would spread like a desert wind through the camp. If they were to have any chance to escape at all, the king knew that they would have to act quickly. Sick at heart, the king turned back to Pakh-amn.

  “Go and rouse your horsemen,” he told the young nobleman. “You’ll have to be our rearguard as we try to withdraw.”

  Pakh-amn stared at the king for a long moment, his dark eyes hidden by shadow. Finally he gave a curt nod and kicked his horse into a gallop. The king watched the Master of Horse disappear deeper into the camp, and then began issuing orders to his bodyguards.

  “Rouse the company commanders at once,” he told them. “Tell them to muster their troops and gather everything they can carry. We move out in fifteen minutes.”

  The Ushabti bowed quickly and raced off into the darkness. Akhmen-hotep looked around and saw that the mercenaries were already gone, fleeing pell-mell off to the south. The warriors of Bel Aliad were heading westwards in a ragged mob, calling out to figures that they vaguely recognised among the approaching horde.

  Burning with shame, Akhmen-hotep said a short prayer to Usirian, that their souls might find their way safely into the afterlife. Then he turned and raced for the centre of the camp.

  The walking dead of Bel Aliad were methodical in their work. They stumbled after their screaming kinsmen, dragging them to the ground and stabbing them with spears or tearing them open with tooth and claw. The warriors of the City Companies fled in every direction, but they were weary from a long day of battle and terrified beyond reason at the sight of the bloodstained monsters that had once been their wives and children. Some tried to fight, taking up rocks or pieces of wood and striking in vain at the tide of relentless corpses. Others tried to hide amid the broken ground, cowering behind boulders or burying themselves in drifts of sand, until clumsy, grasping fingers closed around their throats. Still others begged for mercy, appealing to those among the horde whom they knew by name. In every case, the result was the same. The men died, slowly and terribly, and then, within minutes, they rose anew and joined in the hunt.

  When the men of the City Companies were no more, the undead army combed the darkness for the pale-skinned northmen. The hulking barbarians swore wild oaths and called upon their rough-hewn gods as they fought, smashing skulls and breaking bones even as cold, dry teeth closed upon their throats. For all their struggles, the horde claimed them as well.

  The last to die were the city’s proud rulers. They stumbled from the empty camp of the Bronze Host and found their people waiting for them on the broken plain. Silently, reverently, the dead of Bel Aliad surrounded the princes and tore them limb from limb. Suhedir al-Khazem was eaten alive by his three daughters, watching in mute, insensate horror as they dug their fingers into his abdomen and tore his entrails free.

  All the while the Bronze Host of Ka-Sabar was fleeing further and further into the desert, carrying only what the weary soldiers could sling upon their backs. They moved in silence, casting fearful glances back at their abandoned tents and wondering when the first packs of shambling corpses would find their trail, and the long hunt would begin.

  Sitting atop his rotting horse on a sand dune to the north, Arkhan the Black watched the army retreat into the merciless desert, and smiled. For a moment, just before the city’s dead reached the enemy camp, he’d feared that Akhmen-hotep would offer battle instead of retreating. That would have complicated his master’s plans. Fortunately, the doomed king had chosen to enter the trap instead.

  The immortal waited with deathless patience until the last of the enemy warriors had vanished across the rolling hills of sand. Then he nudged his dead mount forwards with a creak of old leather and a rattle of bones. At once, his squadron of skeletal horsemen followed, their harnesses rattling hollowly in the waning moonlight.

  EIGHTEEN

  Sealed in Stone

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

  (-1959 Imperial Reckoning)

  The wails of drugged and terrified victims created a shrill counterpoint to the fur
ious chants echoing in the great throne room deep within the Great Pyramid. Nagash stood within a carefully marked ritual circle, not far from where the barbarian witch Drutheira had met a gruesome end not twenty-four hours before. Khefru had worked frantically to clear away the bodies, and then find an unmarked part of the floor where he could inscribe the ritual circle. Only the remnants of Asaph’s shattered head, and the grisly remains beneath, still remained as proof of the magical duel waged on the previous night.

  The braziers were burning brightly, and clouds of incense hung above the gathered nobles. All forty of Nagash’s allies were in attendance, in two groups of twenty. While a score of the noblemen stood around the perimeter of the circle and joined in the invocations, the rest kept a close watch on the waiting sacrifices. Many of the victims were slaves, bought in the market near the docks that very day. Others were drunkards or gamblers, who had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time when one of Nagash’s men passed by. Their senses were dulled by wine or black lotus root, or numbed by the mild narcotic mixed with the burning incense, but even so they could not help but be aware of the terrible fate that awaited them.

  Nagash led each ritual, his powerful voice rising to a crescendo as the victim caught within his grip began to burn. He drank deeply of their souls and wove the energy into the greater incantation that he’d begun hours earlier, feeding the curse that continued to plague the noble-born of Khemri. Beneath his ritual robes his torso was bandaged from his shoulders to his waist, and his cheeks were burned from the touch of the druchii’s sorcery. His arms, particularly the one that Drutheira had cut, ached down to the very bone. It was all he could do to move them, much less grip each squirming slave and tear free his soul. What sustained him was the memory of his victory over his erstwhile tutors, and the knowledge that the throne he’d coveted for so long was nearly within his grasp. Another week, perhaps two, enough time for the plague to claim the last of the city’s high nobility and provoke the angry citizens to riot, and he would be ready to make his move.