[Nagash 01] - Nagash the Sorcerer

by Mike Lee - (ebook by Undead)

  The victim within his hands went limp, his screams dwindling to a breathless whimper as his body burst into a hissing plume of green flame. Nagash felt the sorcerous fire lick up his arms and threw back his head in exultation as the young man’s lifeforce passed through him. Not for the first time, he felt the heady, fleeting rush of youth and wondered if there might be some way to make that vigour his own.

  Nagash scarcely felt the slave’s body crumble to ash in his hands. He added the stolen life-force to the fabric of the curse and brought the Incantation of Reaping to a conclusion. The necromancer swayed slightly, drunk from the taste of so much power. By his count they had sacrificed half of the night’s bounty so far.

  “You are dismissed,” he told the men standing around the circle. “Go and send the others to me.” Then he beckoned to Khefru, who waited in the shadows near the dais. “Wine,” he commanded.

  The servant approached with a small jug and a goblet made of beaten gold. Nagash snatched the jug from Khefru’s hand and raised it to his lips. He drank deep, slaking his burning thirst.

  “Better,” he said huskily, handing the jug back to his servant. The vessel fell through Khefru’s slack fingers and smashed upon the stones, mingling wine with the piled ash of the sacrifices.

  “Clumsy fool!” Nagash snarled. “Sop it up at once. Drink it down if you have to! If your act of carelessness breaches the ritual inscriptions…” The necromancer paused, suddenly noticing the look of dumb horror on the young priest’s face. Nagash cuffed his servant on the ear. “Have you not heard a single thing I’ve said to you?” Khefru’s sallow face had turned pale. He pointed a trembling finger at the knot of wailing victims.

  “That girl there,” he said. “The young one, with the gold circlet around her arm.”

  Nagash scowled irritably at the huddled mass of wretches. After a moment, he caught sight of the one to whom the priest referred. She was very young, supple and strong, with a slightly exotic cast to her eyes. He reckoned a girl like her must have been worth her weight in silver on the block.

  “What of her, damn you?” he asked.

  “She’s no slave,” Khefru said, his voice thick with dread. “Can’t you see? She’s Lahmian. I’ve seen her before. She’s one of the queen’s personal servants!” The news gave Nagash pause.

  “Surely not,” he said, studying the girl more closely. “Perhaps she was taken in a raid, part of some caravan bound for Lybaras, or possibly even Mahrak.”

  “No!” Khefru moaned. “I’ve seen her at the palace! What slave would be put on the block with a gold circlet still around her arm?” Forgetting himself, the priest gripped Nagash’s left arm. “I warned you about this, time and again! Someone, perhaps Shepsu-hur, perhaps Arkhan, got lazy and careless, and took the first person that caught his fancy, and now we’re undone! The queen won’t rest until she’s learned who took her maid!”

  Nagash shook off Khefru’s panicked grip. He beckoned impatiently to the second group of nobles, which, interestingly, contained both Shepsu-hur and Arkhan.

  “Quickly!” he snapped. “Bring her first, the young one, with the gold circlet on her arm. Now!” Khefru’s eyes widened in horror.

  “You can’t mean to kill her?” he asked. The necromancer’s hands clenched into fists.

  “Do you imagine we can send her back to the palace, after all she’s seen?” he hissed. “Gather what’s left of your courage, you simpleton. We’ve almost reached the end. In another week, two at most, none of this will matter any more.”

  To Nagash’s surprise, Khefru refused to yield. “You can’t do this!” he said. “I won’t—”

  Before he could say any more, a fierce shout rang across the throne room from the south side of the chamber, followed by cries of surprise and fear from among Nagash’s minions.

  The crowd along the south side of the chamber seemed to recoil from a fierce, golden radiance that shone between a pair of columns at the midpoint of the room. Nagash saw Arkhan, who was leading the second group of noblemen and dragging the young maid by the arm, glance to his right and turn pale with shock. Weeping in relief, the maid tore loose from Arkhan’s grip and ran towards the light.

  Nagash turned on his heel and dashed up to the dais, climbing the cracked stone steps until he could see over the panicked, milling mob. At once, he found himself staring into the angry eyes of his brother, Thutep.

  The young king was dressed as though for war, armoured in a bronze breastplate and woven leather bands that covered his arms and legs. He carried a gleaming khopesh in his right hand, and the golden headdress of Settra rested upon his brow. Thutep was surrounded by a dozen of his Ushabti, and it was from them that the golden light of Ptra shone like a lamp, chasing back the room’s dreadful shadows. The devoted were armed and armoured, too, and their handsome faces were set into masks of righteous rage. Within the protective circle of the bodyguards, a few paces behind the king, stood the regal figure of Hapshur, the High Priestess of Neru. The priestess clutched her slender staff of office and gazed angrily at the tumult that surrounded her. On Thutep’s left side, the queen’s young maid knelt at the king’s feet, her forehead pressed to the flagstones.

  When Thutep saw his brother, his handsome face twisted into a mask of grief-stricken rage.

  “Ghazid tried to warn me about you,” he said to Nagash, his powerful voice cutting through the clamour like a knife. “He said you were a threat, not just to me, but to Khemri. And gods, now I see that he was right all along!”

  Nagash smiled coldly at the king. “That was your trouble all along, brother. You were always too sentimental, too afraid to hurt those around you. You wanted to be loved,” he sneered, “but for a king to rule, he must be feared.”

  The necromancer spread his arms wide, encompassing the entire chamber. “No one in all of Nehekhara fears you, brother. Least of all me.”

  “Heretic!” Hapshur cried, brandishing her staff at Nagash. “You are an abomination before the gods, and a traitor to your priesthood! The hour of your reckoning is at hand!”

  Thutep pointed his curved sword at Nagash, and said, “There is no escape, brother. Companies of the City Watch surround the pyramid, and we know where all the exits lie. In the name of Ptra, the Great Father, you and your followers are under arrest. When the sun rises tomorrow you will be put on trial for your crimes in the temple square at Khemri, and the servants of the gods will pass judgement upon you.”

  Moans of despair rose from Nagash’s minions, but the necromancer felt only a rising tide of icy rage.

  “You would have a reckoning then, brother?” he said. “So be it.”

  The necromancer flung out his hand and spat a string of arcane syllables, unleashing a torrent of sizzling, glowing darts that streaked over the heads of his men and chewed Hapshur apart. The high priestess let out a single, lingering shriek as her body was shredded by sorcerous teeth. Thutep and his bodyguards were all caught in the fine spray of blood and minced flesh.

  “Destroy them!” Nagash commanded.

  Faced with such a display of power, his men did not hesitate to obey. The noblemen drew knives and swords and rushed at the king’s bodyguards from all sides, but despite heavily outnumbering the dozen glowing bodyguards, Nagash’s men were completely outmatched. Blessed by Ptra with superhuman speed and strength, not to mention a lifetime devoted to mastering the arts of combat, the young devoted met the noblemen with a fierce shout of joy and began a terrible slaughter.

  As young and relatively inexperienced as the Ushabti were, their skill and ferocity were appalling. Noblemen fell like ripe wheat, most cut down before they could even lay a single blow. Unless something was done, the battle would be over in moments.

  Nagash hissed the Incantation of Reaping and drank in the life energy of the slain noblemen. With their raw souls bubbling in his veins, he threw out his hands once more and unleashed spell after spell, hurling bolts of pure darkness into the tight circle of bodyguards. Each bolt found a mark, sinking effortl
essly through the armour of the devoted and rending flesh and muscle beneath. The Ushabti staggered beneath the blows, but fought on, sustained by their vows to Ptra.

  The necromancer’s minions grew more cautious, focusing their efforts on the most wounded bodyguards. An Ushabti reeled as one of Nagash’s bolts peeled back the right side of his face. Sensing an opportunity, one of the noblemen lunged forwards, hacking his blade into the bodyguard’s throat. Even as the devoted fell, his sword licked out in a backhanded swipe that cut his attacker in half, and the two men died at nearly the same moment.

  Nagash reaped the dying nobleman’s soul and continued to punish the devoted with a barrage of lethal magic. When the Ushabti surged forwards, trying to use Nagash’s men to shield them from his spells, he opened pits of shadow at their feet. When the survivors reeled back to safer ground, he speared them with bolts of sizzling black flame. It wasn’t just Nagash that the Ushabti had to worry about, for Arkhan and a few of the more magically adept nobles joined in too. They flung darts point-blank into the beleaguered Ushabti, striking them from unexpected directions and creating more opportunities for their fellow nobles.

  Thutep stood his ground through it all, shouting encouragement to his men. More than once he tried to join the fight, only to be pushed back by his men. Their courage and devotion were a wonder to behold, but one by one the devoted were overwhelmed. Within minutes after the fight began, the last Ushabti succumbed, his sword buried in the chest of another of Nagash’s men.

  The surviving noblemen clambered over the bodies of their dead compatriots and closed like jackals around the king. Thutep glared defiantly at the necromancer’s henchmen, his sword held ready. On impulse, he glanced down at the girl, still cowering at his feet, and murmured a quick command. Fleet as a deer, she leapt thankfully to her feet and raced into the shadows behind Thutep, fleeing to the surface and safety.

  It was the last free act that Thutep ever made. At that moment, Nagash cast a powerful spell that gripped his brother’s mind in a vice. He stiffened, his face growing slack with horror as Nagash exerted his will over the king.

  The necromancer’s henchmen saw the king’s transformation and stayed their hands. Most reeled back in exhaustion, grateful beyond words that the battle was done. A circle of torn and bleeding corpses surrounded the king and his fallen bodyguards. Slightly more than half of Nagash’s men were dead, and the rest counted themselves lucky not to be among them.

  Nagash descended from the dais, still pinning his brother in place by sorcery and the weight of his prodigious will. He approached his brother, his cold features lit with triumph. The necromancer stood before Thutep, his eyes blazing. Slowly, deliberately, he reached up and lifted away the king’s royal headdress.

  Thutep’s body trembled with outrage, but he could not make his muscles obey. The necromancer smiled.

  “Go on,” he said. “Strike me down. You still hold your sword. All you need is the will to use it.” Nagash took his time arranging Settra’s headdress upon his brow, and then reached down and took Thutep’s sword hand by the wrist. “Here. Let me help you.”

  He raised Thutep’s sword arm and placed the curved edge of the khopesh against his throat. “There. All you need is a simple flick of the wrist and you’ll slice open the artery. What could be simpler than that? Go on. I won’t stop you.”

  Thutep’s entire body trembled. His eyes were wide and unblinking, his face flushed with effort. A single tear coursed down his cheek. The khopesh did not move.

  Nagash sneered in disdain.

  “How pathetic,” he said, and turned away. “Seize him, and follow me.”

  All at once, the force gripping the king vanished. Thutep, still straining at his bonds, all but fell into the arms of Nagash’s minions. His sword was plucked from his hands and his arms twisted behind his back. The king hung limply in their grip as the noblemen followed Nagash from the hall.

  They took the king through the north passage, down into the depths of the pyramid where their father Khetep was laid to rest. The dead king’s crypt was one among many, set aside for not only his wife, his bodyguards and his servants, but for his children as well. The Great Pyramid was meant to house not just one king, but an entire dynasty.

  Nagash led the way into the crypts, lighting the path with a pale grave-light that seemed to emanate from his skin. Thutep quickly realised what was happening, and began to struggle with his captors.

  “You can’t do this, brother,” he said. “The people won’t permit it! You’re a priest, consecrated to the gods. You can’t sit upon the throne!”

  “I am consecrated to no god, brother,” Nagash spat. “I served the will of Settra, king of kings, but that time is past. Tonight, a new era has been born. It’s a pity you won’t see its glories unfold.”

  Thutep only struggled harder, until two men had to take hold of each of his arms and drag him along the dank stones.

  “You’re mad!” he cried. “The other kings will rise against you! Can’t you see that?”

  “I understand the political realities far better than you, little brother,” Nagash snapped. “Let them come. I will be ready for them.”

  Nagash paused. They had come to the end of a long passageway, lined with smooth, blank walls. The architects had left them unadorned on purpose, so that after Thutep died a host of artisans could come and create elaborate mosaics that would depict the glories of his reign. At the end of the passageway stood a narrow doorway, flanked by two stone horex. A huge slab of stone rested against the wall to the right of the opening.

  The necromancer’s light penetrated some way into the burial chamber, revealing a small room with more bare walls and a pedestal intended to hold the king’s sarcophagus. Nagash gestured, and his men shoved Thutep inside. He landed hard against the stone pedestal and whirled, his expression still defiant.

  “Do you have the nerve to kill me with your own hand, brother?” he snarled. “Or will you stand there in the corridor and send in your jackals to finish the job? The gods do not countenance the murder of a king. It has been that way since the dawn of civilisation. By striking me down, you will damn yourself.”

  Nagash only laughed while his men went to work around him.

  “I have no intention of killing you, brother,” he said. “Nor will any of my men raise a hand against you. I wouldn’t dare, but not for the reason you might think. You see, there’s another law I have to be wary of, even older than the one you described: the one that says that a man’s murderer is forbidden to marry his widow.”

  The look of shock and anguish on Thutep’s face was priceless. Nagash savoured every moment of it, right up to the point that Arkhan and his men pushed the stone slab into the doorway and buried the king alive.

  NINETEEN

  Blood and Water

  The Fountains of Eternal Life, in the 63rd year of Ptra the Glorious

  (-1744 Imperial Reckoning)

  The priests were kept busy throughout the night as the army prepared for battle. Neru’s acolytes paced the sprawling perimeter of the allied camp, raising their eyes to the face of the goddess and filling the cold air with song to keep the spirits of the wastes at bay. Around the campfires, hammers clattered against bronze as warriors made last-minute repairs to chariots or mended their battle-harnesses. Men prayed as they worked. Some called upon Ptra to drive their enemies before them, while others beseeched mighty Geheb to lend them the strength to overcome their foes. Still others made worship to ashen-faced Djaf, God of Death, praying that their blows struck clean and true. The rattle and murmur of the enormous host mingled with the cries of oxen, goats and lambs as the priests led their charges from the sacrificial pens and dragged them before red-stained altars in the centre of the camp. The clamour of the army ebbed and flowed across the sands like the restless breath of a vast, elemental beast.

  The army of the Usurper waited little more than three miles away, across rolling dunes and a broad, rocky plain. Small campfires flickered among the hundre
ds of dark tents, and from time to time the nervous whicker of a horse would reach the ears of the allied sentries, but otherwise the enemy camp was eerily still.

  At the centre of the vast encampment, ringed by scores of watchful Ushabti, Rakh-amn-hotep listened to his scouts’ reports and contemplated the field of battle for the coming day. Long after he’d dismissed his captains to their tents, the king perched on a camp stool and brooded over the large map arrayed before him, studying the positions of his and his enemy’s troops. From time to time his champion, Ekhreb, would rise from his chair near the entrance to the large tent and fill the king’s empty cup with a mix of herbs and watered wine. At the far side of the tent’s central chamber the King of Lybaras reclined upon a dust-stained divan. The papyrus sheets resting in his lap fluttered slightly as Hekhmenukep snored, his chin resting upon his narrow chest.

  Two hours before dawn the army’s slaves rose from the cold ground and began preparing the morning meal. Bowls of grain porridge were passed out to the thousands of grim-faced warriors, along with a palm-sized piece of unleavened bread and a single cup of water. Among the tents of the noblemen, those who could bring themselves to eat breakfasted on bread and olives, goat’s cheese and river fowl. Their wine was thick and resinous, for no water could be spared to thin it.

  Half an hour before sunrise, as the sky was paling to the east, the army began to muster. Horses thundered down the camp’s narrow lanes as the kings despatched the first orders of the day to their companies. File leaders bellowed orders to their troops, drawing them from their tents and forming them into lines. The rumble of man-made thunder and a furious shriek of steam sounded in the north-eastern quarter of the camp, setting the Rasetran cavalry rearing and stamping in fright as the Lybaran war machines stirred to life. Six huge figures reared slowly into the brightening sky, their heavy armour plates grating and groaning as they shifted against one another.