Akhmen-hotep whirled, thinking Nagash’s horsemen had decided to turn around and strike them again, but even as he raised his blade the king saw that both horse and rider were figures of flesh and blood rather than leather and bone. As the horseman drew near, Akhmen-hotep saw that it was none other than Pakh-amn, and it occurred to the king that he hadn’t seen the Master of Horse since the attack the night before.
“Where have you been?” he asked without preamble as the young nobleman reined in his exhausted mount beside the chariot. Pakh-amn’s face betrayed a flash of irritation at the king’s tone.
“I’ve been organising a rearguard and taking stock of our situation,” he replied curtly. “I thought you might like to know the state of our army, great one.” Hashepra bridled at the young noble’s peremptory tone, but Akhmen-hotep forestalled him with a wave of his hand.
“Well. Let’s have it then,” he said to the Master of Horse.
“We’ve got two thousand five hundred men left, more or less,” the young noble said, “though close to a third of them are wounded to one degree or another. No one has any camp gear to speak of, though perhaps a quarter of the men managed to escape camp with a couple of days’ worth of food stuffed into their belt-pouches.” Pakh-amn nodded in the direction of the chariots. “Hopefully you enjoyed better luck with the baggage train before we fled.”
“That remains to be seen,” Akhmen-hotep replied. “What about the Bhagarites?” Pakh-amn’s expression turned grim.
“Whether it was the will of the gods or Nagash’s own design, the Bhagarites suffered dearly during the night,” he answered. “Some of the men swear that the skeletal raiders went out of their way to kill the desert bandits. Out of the hundred that accompanied us from Ka-Sabar, less than twenty remain.” He shrugged. “Perhaps if they’d still had their swords when the attack began, they could have better defended themselves.” Hashepra’s face darkened with rage.
“It’s time someone knocked some manners into you, boy,” he said quietly.
“Enough, holy one,” Akhmen-hotep declared. “Remember what you said about setting an example for the men. The Master of Horse offends no one but his ancestors with such petty behaviour.” Pakh-amn let out a derisive snort.
“Petty?” he said. “I merely speak the truth. If the king is not strong enough to face it, then he’s no true king at all.”
“There is truth, and then there is sedition,” Memnet said. “The king could have you executed for such talk, Pakh-amn.”
The Master of Horse glared at the Grand Hierophant, and said, “I can think of perhaps a thousand men who would disagree with your opinion, priest.”
Akhmen-hotep stiffened. Suddenly, Memnet’s warning from the night before echoed in his mind. Who can say what he might do if he found himself in a position of influence over much of the army?
If he gave the word, Hashepra would strike the young nobleman down with a single blow from his hammer. Just as the command rose to his lips, Pakh-amn turned to him and said, “Forgive me, great one. Like you, I’m very tired, and my nerves are on edge. But I am happy to say that all is not yet lost.”
“And how is that?” the king asked.
“I have been speaking to the Bhagarite survivors,” the nobleman said. “They know of a supply cache a day’s ride from here.”
“A day’s ride is two or more days on foot,” Hashepra countered. “Half the army will be dead before we get there.” Pakh-amn nodded.
“Unless we empty the chariots and send them ahead to gather supplies,” he said. “I could take the remaining Bhagarites as guides and outriders, plus a few hundred picked men. Then in a day’s time you march with the rest of the army and meet us halfway back on the return leg. It would be difficult, but not impossible.”
Akhmen-hotep paused, rubbing at the grit surrounding his eyes as he tried to think through the nobleman’s plan. It seemed sound… if he could trust the Master of Horse. Could he risk sending off all his chariots and most of his guides under Pakh-amn’s command? Even if he chose someone else to lead the expedition, how could he know for certain if the man wasn’t one of Pakh-amn’s sympathisers? The Master of Horse could then slip away in the night and join his compatriots, leaving the army to its fate and returning safely to Ka-Sabar.
The king looked to his brother for advice. Memnet said nothing, but the look in his dark eyes spoke volumes. Akhmen-hotep sighed and shook his head.
“We can’t risk the chariots, or the guides,” he said. “We’ll ration our supplies and head for the oasis as best we can.”
Pakh-amn’s eyes widened at the king’s decision, but then his jaw clenched in anger.
“So be it,” he said tightly, “but men will die needlessly as a result. You will regret this decision, Akhmen-hotep. Mark my words.”
The nobleman spun on his heel and strode swiftly to his horse. Akhmen-hotep watched him go, debating the idea of ordering Pakh-amn’s arrest. Would arresting him prevent a mutiny, or provoke one?
The next thing he knew, Hashepra was gently shaking his shoulder.
“What shall we do, great one?” the hierophant asked.
Akhmen-hotep shook himself, as though waking from a dream. Pakh-amn’s galloping horse was already a long distance away, heading back to the rear of the host.
“Make camp,” the king said dully. “Then pick some men you trust and have them go over the supplies. We’ll start rationing right away. Send runners looking for any servants of Neru that might have survived. We could use a ward to protect the camp once it gets dark.” Hashepra nodded.
“And then?” he asked. The king shrugged. “Then we try to survive the night,” he said in a hollow voice.
Sensations slowly penetrated the darkness: throbbing pain in his chest, shoulders and back, and then the swelling roar of thousands of shouting voices. Cool, slightly oily water lapped against his lower legs, caressing his parched skin. For an instant, his brain was seized with competing sensations of pure terror and giddy relief.
After a moment, the cacophony of noise surrounding Rakh-amn-hotep resolved into the familiar noise of the battlefield. Wounded men screamed all around him, begging for help, while off in the distance hundreds of men shouted lustily for the blood of their foes. The Rasetran king realised in a daze that they were probably referring to him.
Blinking slowly, the king found himself lying on his stomach at the edge of one of the great sacred pools. He couldn’t remember how he’d got there. The last thing he knew, he’d watched the sky-ship’s air bladder come apart, and felt the deck drop away beneath him as the great craft plunged earthwards.
Wincing, Rakh-amn-hotep got his hands underneath him and tried to push himself upright. A stabbing pain lanced through the right side of his chest. More than likely, he’d cracked a rib at some point during the crash. No doubt he’d been thrown clear when the wooden hull crashed to the ground. By the gods’ own grace he’d just managed to clear the deep pool at his feet. Had he landed three feet shorter he would have surely drowned in Asaph’s sacred water.
No, not sacred any more, the king corrected himself. With a hiss of revulsion he jerked his feet from the corpse-choked water and wiped at the oily residue of human rot clinging to his skin. This close to the water the stench of corruption was tangible, coating the back of Rakh-amn-hotep’s dry throat.
Coughing raggedly, the king rolled over and tried to take stock of his surroundings. The wreckage of the sky-boat lay just ten yards or so away, its shattered timbers partially covered by a tattered shroud of canvas and a carpet of seething, chewing insects. To his horror the king saw struggling figures buried beneath the mass of locusts. One lifted a hand skywards, as though beseeching the gods for help. Three of the man’s fingers had been gnawed down to the bone.
Few of the other Lybaran sky-boats had fared any better. Rakh-amn-hotep could see broken hulls scattered across the eastern curve of the great basin, and dozens of dazed and injured men were trying to escape the wreckage.
To the w
est, waves of sound reverberated across the basin from the massed warriors of the Usurper’s host. From what the Rasetran king could tell, the retreating companies had fetched up against Nagash’s hidden reserves, and the Usurper’s immortal champions were angrily re-forming their ranks. The great mass of disordered troops was the only thing standing between the allied survivors and Nagash’s eager companies. That would change in a matter of minutes.
Rakh-amn-hotep staggered over to a group of Lybarans crawling away from the ruins of his sky-boat.
“Where is your king?” he asked hoarsely. “Where is Hekhmenukep?” When the stunned crewmen stared wordlessly at him, the Rasetran applied his sandal to their backsides. “On your damned feet!” he ordered. “We have to get out of here, but no one leaves until Hekhmenukep is found!”
The king’s commanding voice sent the crewmen scrambling back the way they’d come, hurriedly searching around the wreckage of the sky-boat.
“Get the wounded moving!” Rakh-amn-hotep called after them. “Any men who can’t move must be carried!”
As the crewmen searched, the king turned his attention to the survivors of the other sky-boats. Many flocked to the sound of his voice, and he put them to work as well. Large swathes of torn canvas were gathered off the ground to provide crude litters for the most seriously wounded, and the king began sending small groups eastwards as soon as they were organised.
“Over here!” one of the Lybarans called, waving frantically. “He’s here! The king is here!”
Hekhmenukep was lying only a few yards from the smashed prow of the sky-boat. Miraculously, he had escaped the ravages of the locust swarm, while two men who had come to earth a few feet closer to the crash had been reduced to glistening skeletons. When Rakh-amn-hotep reached the king, two of Hekhmenukep’s subjects were trying to help him to his feet. The Lybaran ruler was pale and hunched with pain, and flecks of bright red foam ringed the corners of his mouth. Rakh-amn-hotep muttered a curse.
“A rib has pierced one of his lungs,” the veteran warrior said. “Set him on a piece of canvas and get him back to the army as quickly as you can. Don’t worry too much about his comfort. Right now, speed is what matters.”
As the crewmen hastened to obey, the air shook with the bellow of war-horns and the mingled voices of thousands of eager warriors. Across the basin, the Usurper’s army was on the move once more.
The Rasetran king growled like an old, scarred hound. They had run out of time.
“Get moving,” he said to the remaining men. “Help the wounded as much as you’re able. Now, go!”
The Lybarans needed no further urging, fleeing for their lives in the face of the advancing army. In moments, the king stood alone, in the face of the Usurper’s distant horde. Beaten but unbowed, he turned his back on his foes and headed off after his men.
Behind him, the Usurper’s warriors let out a wordless roar of bloodlust and surged forwards, breaking ranks in their eagerness to catch up to the Lybarans. The enemy warriors were more than half a mile away, and were forced to follow the twisting trails that surrounded the poisoned fountains, but the same could be said for Rakh-amn-hotep and his men, many of whom could barely move. With every passing moment, the bestial sounds of pursuit grew louder in the king’s ears.
Then, up ahead, Rakh-amn-hotep spotted horsemen wending their way carefully among the pools. They were Lybaran light horsemen, the leading edge of the pursuit force that had followed the retreating enemy companies into the basin. As he watched, the horsemen helped their fellows onto the backs of their horses and began to head back the way they’d come. The litter bearers had no choice but to struggle onwards with their burdens, but now they marched under the protective gaze of the light horsemen.
One of the cavalrymen spotted Rakh-amn-hotep and spurred his horse forwards with a shout. He reined in alongside the king and slid from the saddle without hesitation.
“Your champion waits with the Rasetran chariots yonder,” he said breathlessly, nodding his head in the direction of the mists to the east. “Take my horse, great one. The enemy is nearly upon us.”
Rakh-amn-hotep glanced back the way he’d come and was shocked to see enemy spearmen less than a hundred yards away. “Get back in the saddle,” he ordered. “Two can ride as well as one. Besides, I’m like to fall off if I try to ride this beast by myself.”
The cavalryman leapt gratefully back onto his horse’s back and with an effort helped the king up behind him. An arrow hissed through the air off to their right, and then another. The horseman hauled on the reins and spurred his mount away from the advancing host. He wove his mount through the press of retreating figures with great skill, occasionally splashing through shallow pools to circumvent larger knots of men.
Many minutes later they reached the far end of the basin and its tendrils of swirling mist. A hundred Rasetran chariots waited there in a kind of rearguard, their narrow wheels and considerable weight preventing them from penetrating further into the basin’s rough terrain. Ekhreb waited nearby, ordering litter bearers to load their charges aboard the chariots as they arrived. The champion’s expression relaxed considerably when he saw his king approaching.
Rakh-amn-hotep dropped gracelessly from the saddle and clasped the cavalryman’s wrist in thanks before walking over to Ekhreb.
“The damned Usurper was a few steps ahead of us all along,” he snarled. “The battle on the plain was just meant to exhaust us and use up the last of our water. Now he’s poisoned the only water source for fifty miles. If we stay here his reserves will break us by nightfall, and then there will be a slaughter.” Ekhreb listened to the dire assessment calmly.
“What would you have us do?” he asked. Rakh-amn-hotep gritted his teeth.
“We retreat again, damn it. Back to Quatar, though the gods alone know how we’re going to make it. Nagash will pursue us. He’d be a fool not to. We’ll draw him against the walls of the city and try to break him there.”
“What if the Usurper is still thinking a few steps ahead of us?” the champion asked. Rakh-amn-hotep scowled at the champion.
“Well, if it makes you feel any better, we’ll all probably be dead of thirst long before that becomes a problem,” he said. Ekhreb chuckled in spite of himself.
“Now look who’s the optimist,” he said, and lead the king to his waiting chariot.
* * * * *
The tent flaps of heavy canvas swept aside, allowing only the weak grey light of the misty basin into the gloom of Nagash’s tent. Raamket hurried inside, grateful to escape even the faint glimmer of Ptra’s searing rays. Most of his body was shielded by leather wrappings and armour, leaving only his head and hands exposed. His cloak of human skin fluttered like vulture’s wings in his wake as he approached the Undying King and sank to one knee.
“The enemy host is withdrawing, master,” the immortal said. “What is your command?”
Nagash sat upon the ancient throne of Khemri, displaced from Settra’s palace for the first time in centuries. The king’s brooding figure was wreathed in the sepulchral tendrils of his ghostly retinue, their faint cries weaving a fearful threnody in the oppressive shadows. The necromancer’s vassal kings waited upon Nagash’s pleasure: Amn-nasir, the once-proud King of Zandri, sat in a low-backed chair at Nagash’s left and drank wine laced with the black lotus, his expression haunted. The twin Kings of Numas sat next to one another on the necromancer’s right, whispering apprehensively to one another. At the rear of the tent the Undying King’s marble sarcophagus sat beside his queen’s. Neferem’s sarcophagus was shut. Ghazid, the necromancer’s servant, knelt beside the stone coffin and stroked its polished surface with a trembling, wrinkled hand, whispering in a thin, reedy voice.
The Undying King rose to his feet amid a swirl of tormented spirits and strode to the opening of the tent. With a gesture, the mantle of spirits glided forwards and pulled the tent flap aside.
Nagash stared from the shadows into the failing light of day and smiled.
�
�We march to Quatar,” he declared, “where we will grind these rebel kings beneath our heel.”
TWENTY-ONE
The Elixir of Life
Khemri, the Living City, in the 46th year of Ualatp the Patient
(-1950 Imperial Reckoning)
The Priest King of Khemri folded his arms and scowled at the large parchment map spread before him.
“Where are they now?” Nagash asked of his vizier.
Arkhan the Black moved quickly around the corner of the long table and stood beside the king. The nobleman referred quickly to a note scrawled on ragged parchment, and then traced his finger along the length of the Great Trade Road, west of Khemri.
“According to the latest reports from our scouts, the Zandri army is here,” he said, pointing to a spot approximately a week’s march from the Living City.
The other half a dozen noblemen attending upon the king, including the thuggish Raamket and a weary-looking Shepsu-hur, leaned over the table to better hear Arkhan over the sound of voices and the shuffling of pages in the King’s Library. Traditionally a silent, solitary haunt for the king and the royal family, the library occupied almost an entire wing of the palace. In his youth, Nagash spent many years poring over ancient tomes in the library and prowling through the dim, dusty archives in the wing’s sub-levels. Now that he was king, the large sandstone chamber had become his chamber of office, where he conducted much of the business of the kingdom.
Though it was already well into the evening, the room was crowded with scribes, messengers and harried-looking slaves, all going about their business under the disapproving glare of the library’s senior clerk. It had been much the same for days, ever since the Bhagarite trader had arrived at the palace with valuable news to sell: King Nekumet of Zandri had mustered his warriors and was preparing to liberate the Living City from the clutches of Nagash the Usurper. For the first time in eighteen years, Khemri was at war.
[Nagash 01] - Nagash the Sorcerer Page 29