Ghazid rose from his pallet just inside the door, his battered face gaping in terror. He let out a wordless, childlike cry of fear as Raamket seized his arms and hurled him out of the way. The servant hit the stone wall beside the table and crumpled into a senseless heap.
Sukhet bolted from the narrow bed as the two noblemen closed in on him. Raamket reached him first, closing a powerful hand around the prince’s left arm. Sukhet’s right arm flashed downwards in a blurring arc, and Raamket let out a roar of pain. The handle of a small eating knife jutted from the man’s collarbone, just a few inches to the right of his neck.
Shepsu-hur stepped forwards and smashed his fist into the prince’s face, breaking his aquiline nose and splitting his lip. Sukhet’s head jerked back and hit the wall over the bed, and the young man collapsed.
Raamket and Shepsu-hur grabbed the prince’s legs and dragged him roughly onto the floor. Ghazid, regaining his senses, cowered against the wall and began to wail in terror. Sukhet spat blood and tried to tear himself free from the grip of his assailants, but then a shadow fell over him from the doorway of the cell.
Nagash loomed over the young prince with a pair of long, copper needles clutched in his hands.
“Hold him still!” he snapped. The coppery smell of spilled blood hung in the close air of the chamber, making the king almost dizzy with hunger.
Shepsu-hur and Raamket tightened their grip on the prince’s arms, their faces contorted with effort. Nagash lunged forwards like a striking snake and drove the needles home. Sukhet’s body went rigid with agony, the sight of which made Ghazid wail all the louder.
“Shut him up!” Nagash snarled, and Raamket began to beat the old man. At a nod from the king, Shepsu-hur stripped away the prince’s tunic and threw it aside.
“The ink!” Nagash commanded, turning and stretching his hand to Khefru, who still stood in the corridor beyond.
The young priest hesitated, clutching the brush and ink pot in his hands. A look of dread marked his sallow, puffy features, but he had been given a taste of the king’s elixir more than once, and a faint gleam of hunger shone in his eyes.
“Surely there is another way,” Khefru stammered. “We can’t do this, master. Not to him.”
“You dare to question me?” the king hissed. “You, of all people? He is flesh and blood, just like all the others you stole off the city streets. He is no different from the slaves whose blood you drained, and then sipped from a golden cup!”
“He is a prince!” Khefru cried. “The son of Thutep and the Daughter of the Sun. The gods will not forgive us!”
“The gods?” Nagash said incredulously. “You little fool. We are gods now. The secret of immortality is ours.” He gestured to the stricken prince. “His body is charged with divine power. Imagine how much sweeter, how much more potent it will be. We might not need another taste for a hundred years!”
Anguish wracked Khefru’s face. “If it’s divine blood you want, then kill a priest!” he cried. “If he dies, you lose your hold on Neferem, and Lahmia may well declare war against us. Is that what you want?”
“Neferem will not hear of this,” Nagash said coldly, “until such time as I choose to tell her. Neither will Lahmia be told.” He took a threatening step towards Khefru. “Sukhet has to die. He is too dangerous to be allowed to live. Did you not see how the people reacted to him at court?”
“But the queen—” Khefru stammered.
“The queen does not rule here!” Nagash roared. “Don’t tell me you have fallen under that witch’s spell, have you? Have you? Because if you would rather I took the blood of a priest, I will open your veins here and now.”
Khefru recoiled from the king’s malevolent voice, straight into the arms of Arkhan, who held him in an iron grip. The priest glanced up into the vizier’s ghoulish face, and the courage went out of him. With trembling hands, he held out the ink and brush to the king.
Nagash took the instruments and turned back to the prince’s rigid body. His eyes shone with avarice.
“Have a bowl ready once I’ve finished with the glyphs,” he said as he knelt beside Sukhet. “I don’t want to waste a single drop.”
Hours later, Nagash swept down the darkened corridor outside the queen’s chambers, his robes billowing behind him like the wings of a desert eagle. Blood roared in his temples and burned along his veins: stolen blood, hot with the vitality of youth and the divinity of royal birth.
The guards standing outside the queen’s door were hard-bitten men, cruel and incorruptible. As the queen’s jailers they were prepared to die at a moment’s notice to keep the queen’s chambers sacrosanct, but they all quailed like frightened children at the sudden appearance of the king. They looked into Nagash’s eyes and glimpsed the terrible power burning in their depths, like the fiery gaze of Usirian. As one, the guards sank to their knees and pressed their foreheads to the stone, their bodies trembling in fear. The king paid them no mind, sweeping past them like a storm wind and knocking the heavy door open with a brush of his left hand.
At once, a chorus of frightened shouts arose from the maids sleeping in the great antechamber beyond. They rose from their couches in terror, crying out the name of their mistress and begging the gods for aid.
“Silence!” Nagash cried, clenching his left hand into a fist and reciting an incantation in his mind. At once, the shadows of the great room thickened like ink and swallowed the women up in an icy embrace. He glided across the piled rugs, past their silent and quaking bodies, and burst into Neferem’s bedroom.
The chamber was luxuriously appointed, with a gleaming marble floor and a high terrace that looked northwards towards the great river. Neferem had risen swiftly from her bed and covered her naked body with a silk sheet. Her black hair was unbound and spilled across her bare shoulders, and her eyes gleamed like a cat’s in the moonlight. For the first time, a look of real fear shone upon Neferem’s face.
Once more, Nagash looked upon her and was gripped with desire. With the power seething in his body, power drained from her son’s veins he knew that he could take whatever he wished from her. He smiled a jackal’s smile.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said slowly.
Neferem said nothing. Her body was taut with tension. All at once, Nagash realised that she had positioned herself with her back almost to the terrace across the room. If he took one step closer, he was certain she would throw herself from the balcony. The thought only made him want her even more.
“When I saw you at the assembly today, alongside your son, I realised that what I had done to you was wrong,” Nagash said. He indicated the bedroom with a wave of his arm. “It isn’t right to keep you locked up here, like a caged bird. I cannot possess you in such a way. Your will is strong, nearly as strong as mine, and you have already said that you would sooner die than submit to me. Every year that passes only draws you further from my grasp, until one day you will shed your mortal flesh and join your husband in the afterlife.”
A wary look came over Neferem’s face. Her body relaxed very slightly.
“What you say is true,” she replied. “If you thought to break my will by reuniting me with Sukhet this afternoon, it did just the opposite.”
“Oh, I know,” the king said. “Your will is very strong, nearly as strong as mine. I see that now. And so, I’m here to set you free.”
The Daughter of the Sun gave Nagash a bewildered look.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“I mean you have a choice,” the king said with a smile. “Here and now, I swear an oath before the gods not to harm Sukhet from this moment forward. I will not use him to compel you ever again.” He took a slow step forwards. “You are free to choose your own fate. Either remain here as you are and rule alongside me, or drink this, and life as you know it will end.”
Nagash raised his right hand. In it he held a small golden cup, half-full with dark liquid. The elixir was still warm, fresh from Sukhet’s young heart. The queen considered the cup. He
r face became very still and calm.
“You swear that Sukhet will be safe?”
“From this moment forward he may do as he wishes,” Nagash said. “I swear it, by all the gods.”
The Daughter of the Sun nodded, and came to a swift decision. “Give me the cup, then,” she said.
“Are you certain?” Nagash asked. “Once you have drunk from the cup, there will be no turning back.” Neferem raised her chin and gave Nagash a haughty look.
“I have never been more certain of anything in my life,” she replied. “Let the darkness come. I weary of this sad and terrible life.” The necromancer smiled.
“As you wish, queen,” he said, and handed the cup to her. “Drink deep, loyal wife. The effect will be swift and painless.”
TWENTY-FIVE
The Road of Bones
Quatar, The City of the Dead, in the 63rd year of Ptra the Glorious
(-1744 Imperial Reckoning)
The army of the east had marched through the night and on into the sunrise, hastening their steps towards the City of the Dead.
The first companies crested the high dunes at the western edge of the Plain of Usirian just before midday, and when they saw the white city shimmering in the searing light they raised their hands to the sky and thanked the Great Father for their deliverance. They lurched and stumbled down the sandy slope, breaking ranks as they succumbed to the promise of cool water, fresh food and a pallet in the shade where they could sleep without fear. The noblemen in command of the companies made a half-hearted effort to restore discipline, but their throats were caked in dust and after weeks of strict rations they were hungrier than they had ever been in their lives. When the subsequent formations reached the edge of the plain and saw the headlong rush for the city they joined in, until by the time Rakh-amn-hotep reached the dunes with the army’s centre he saw a veritable flood of tanned bodies pouring across the rocky ground towards Quatar’s stained walls.
The king reined in his chariot with a stream of bitter curses. The leading edge of the mob was more than a mile away. There was no stopping them, but Rakh-amn-hotep vowed that he would have their commanders whipped before the day was out. His presence at the dune crest kept the rest of the army in line. He could see temptation in the eyes of the men, but one look at the king’s furious expression was enough to remind them of their training, and their discipline held as they continued on to Quatar.
Rakh-amn-hotep waited there as the rest of the host filed past, baking in the still, dusty air as he watched for the leading elements of the army’s rearguard. The long, terrible retreat would not be done until the last man of the last company passed through the city gates.
The king’s chariot driver wiped his gleaming brow and pulled a thin leather flask from his belt. He offered it first to the king, but Rakh-amn-hotep stoically declined.
“Drink your fill,” he told the man. “I can wait.”
When the creak and rumble of chariot wheels reached the king’s ears several minutes later it took Rakh-amn-hotep by surprise. He found himself blinking dazedly to the west.
“So soon?” he murmured. “By the gods, is this all we have left?”
The army’s remaining chariots and its squadrons of heavy horsemen rode past the king in good order, tired but proud of their hard duty covering the army’s retreat. The Rasetran chariots were pulled by horses, taken from the supply train when their swift jungle lizards had perished in the heat. The charioteers raised their weapons in weary salute to the king.
Ekhreb, the king’s champion, appeared with the last of the rearguard squadrons, riding in the saddle of a dust-stained mare.
“What did you do with your chariot, you damned fool?” the king asked.
“Traded it to a bandit princess for a cup of cool water,” the champion replied in a deadpan voice.
“She didn’t try to entice you with her other charms?”
“She may have tried. I was too busy drinking.”
The king managed a weary chuckle, and asked, “What did happen to your chariot?” Ekhreb sighed.
“We hit one too many rocks cutting back and forth across the road. The left wheel was cracked through. Fortunately, the cavalry has plenty of spare horses.”
“Any signs of pursuit?” the king asked, but the champion shook his head.
“Not since dawn,” he said. “We were probed by some Numasi horsemen just before the moons set, but they withdrew off to the west just before daybreak.” Rakh-amn-hotep nodded thoughtfully.
“They assumed we’d make camp at daybreak, like normal,” he said. “Now they’re more than half a day’s march behind us. That’s the first good news we’ve had in weeks.”
“And not a moment too soon,” Ekhreb agreed. He gestured at the distant mob streaming across the plain. “The men are at their breaking point.”
“Only half of them,” the king replied testily. “It’s a disgrace, but the officers are to blame. After we’ve had a day’s rest I intend to sort things out, believe me.”
“And there will be much wailing and gnashing of teeth in the city of Quatar,” the champion said with a rueful grin. He watched the running figures for a moment, and then his brow furrowed in bemusement.
Rakh-amn-hotep was just about to order his chariot forwards again when he caught the look on his champion’s face.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I’m not sure,” Ekhreb said. “Does the city look strange to you?”
At the far end of the Plain of Usirian the city of Quatar shimmered like a desert mirage. Its white walls, once stained with the red rain of Nagash’s terrible plague, had been bleached by years of relentless sunlight, and they shimmered with heat like clay fresh from the kiln. The City of the Dead gleamed like a new sepulchre, and the men of the allied army rushed towards it with open arms and hoarse shouts of joy.
None of the exhausted warriors noticed that Quatar’s gates were still shut, at a time when there ought to have been a meagre but steady flow of traffic into and out of the city. Nor did they wonder at the lack of smoke hanging over the rooftops. The hearths and clay ovens had all gone cold during the night.
The warriors made it to the cool shadow of the city walls and fell to their knees, gasping, and in some cases weeping in relief. Red-faced noblemen shouted up at the battlements, calling for a guard to throw open the gates. After a moment, the rest of the men took up the shout, calling loudly enough to wake the dead.
In the darkness of the city’s eastern gatehouse half a dozen pallid figures were startled awake by the clamour. They cursed in surprise at the sound of hundreds of shouting voices, and in their fear and confusion they commanded their warriors to awaken.
All along the broad walkway running atop the western wall, thousands of skeletal warriors began to stir. Bleached skulls rose from the stone walkway, turning this way and that in search of their foes. Bones clattered and scraped as they reached for bows and arrows or bundles of bronze-headed javelins. There were no shouted commands, nor the strident call of war-horns. Silent and purposeful, the undead warriors climbed to their feet and took aim at the helpless men below.
The first hissing flight of arrows went almost unnoticed by the warriors on the plain. Men toppled over dead with scarcely a sound, or collapsed in shock as the pain of their wounds took hold. The groans of the dying were drowned by the cheers and desperate pleas of their comrades for several seconds more, until a ragged volley of javelins darkened the sky overhead and fell in a deadly rain among the reeling mob. Shouts of relief turned to frightened screams as scores of men were wounded or slain. Warriors shouted in panic and confusion. Some waved their arms wildly at the gaunt silhouettes atop the wall, believing that the city’s defenders were firing on them by mistake. Officers shouted conflicting orders, some acting on instinct and trying to form the men into companies, while others screamed for a full retreat and fled back towards the rest of the army. The men caught in between, dazed with exhaustion and hunger, were cut down where they stood.
When the first arrows started to fly, Rakh-amn-hotep could not believe his eyes. He rubbed his hand across his face and squinted into the harsh light, convinced that he’d been mistaken. Then he heard the faint sound of screams and the strident call of horns from the centre of the army and the awful truth struck home.
“Gods above,” the king said softly, his voice numb with despair. “Nagash has taken Quatar. How in the name of all that is holy…”
Ekhreb cursed, reaching for his sword.
“What do we do, great one?” he asked.
The world seemed to spin around the king. He swayed on his feet, clutching the side of the chariot to steady himself.
“Do?” he echoed, his voice filled with dismay. “What can we do? That monster is always one step ahead of us! It’s as though he knows our every thought—”
“If that were true his men would be right on our heels, herding us to slaughter,” the champion snapped, his tone so sharp that it struck the king like a blow. “Get a hold of yourself. Nagash is no all-seeing god. He’s taken Quatar, but we’re not encircled yet. We still have room to manoeuvre, but the men need direction. What are your orders?”
Rakh-amn-hotep recoiled from the champion’s stern tone, but Ekhreb’s words had their desired effect. Anger replaced shock and despair, and the king began to think.
“All right,” the king growled. “Let’s get ourselves out of this mess.” He stared at the distant city and shook his head bitterly. “We can’t retake the city, not in the shape we’re in.” Once more, despair threatened to overwhelm him, but the Rakh-amn-hotep pushed the feelings aside. “We’ll have to continue the retreat.”
The champion nodded. “South, down the trade road to Ka-Sabar, or north, towards the River Vitae?” he asked.
“Neither,” Rakh-amn-hotep growled. “If we go north, Nagash can trap us against the river and destroy us. And Ka-Sabar lies too far to the south. Without supplies we’d lose more than half the army on the march.” With a bleak look on his face, he pointed further eastwards, beyond the City of the Dead. “No, we’ll have to circle around Quatar and risk the Valley of Kings. It’s more defensible, and Mahrak lies at the far end. We know we can find safe haven there.”
[Nagash 01] - Nagash the Sorcerer Page 35