Khenti frowned. He opened his mouth to protest, but Alcadizzar unintentionally cut him off.
“I’m deeply aware of my obligations to the people of Khemri,” the prince said, in that same, sombre tone. “I’ve spent my entire life preparing for the day I become king.”
“So you have,” Neferata said, and there was no need to manufacture the pride in her voice. “You will be a great king, Alcadizzar. But we at the temple believe that you are destined for much more.”
“Destined for what?” Khenti asked, having recovered his composure.
Neferata leaned back in her chair and fixed Alcadizzar with a steady gaze. “What do you know of the Temple of Blood, my prince?”
Alcadizzar answered at once. “The temple is based on the premise that the gods and their gifts have been taken from us, but the bloodlines they have blessed throughout Nehekhara’s history remain. They are our sole remaining connection to the divine.”
“Preposterous,” Khenti sneered.
“And yet the proof stands before you,” Neferata said. “Alcadizzar’s mother came here after she’d spent months praying in vain at the old temples of Rasetra. It was here that her prayers were answered, were they not?”
Khenti’s eyes narrowed, but he made no attempt to gainsay her. Alcadizzar, on the other hand, rubbed his chin thoughtfully and said, “If the gods no longer take an active hand in our affairs, how is it that the goddess answered my mother’s prayers?”
Neferata nodded approvingly. “Remember, oh prince, the gods are gone, but the sacred bloodlines remain. Earlier, I spoke in figurative terms. The truth is that your mother spoke not to the goddess, but to the nascent power of the blood running through your veins.”
“I’m descended from a sacred bloodline?” Alcadizzar replied, both intrigued and dubious at the same time.
“One of the greatest and most venerated of all,” Neferata replied. “We suspected as much when you were born, but it has taken many years to produce the evidence.”
She clapped her hands gently and a priestess appeared from the shadows, bearing a newly bound book in her hands. The priestess set the expensive tome in the prince’s hands, bowed deeply, and then withdrew.
“Naturally, both of you are well familiar with the sacred ties between Lahmia and Khemri,” Neferata began. “Since the time of Settra the Magnificent, the kings of the Living City have wed the eldest daughters of the Lahmian royal house, who were the living embodiment of the covenant with the gods.”
Alcadizzar opened the tome reverently and began to peruse its pages. “So the blood of the royal heirs of Khemri was made sacred as well.”
“Just so,” Neferata replied. “And the Lahmian royal house has gone to great pains to record each and every family line that has been produced as a result. The documents have been maintained here at the palace for many hundreds of years.”
Neferata considered the book in Alcadizzar’s hands. The information within couldn’t be proven beyond a shadow of a doubt, but Lord Ushoran was certain that it would survive all but the most learned scrutiny. All that mattered to her was that Alcadizzar himself believed it.
“Now, Rasetra’s origins are well known; the city was originally a colony of distant Khemri, founded during the reign of King Khetep, some four-and-a-half centuries ago.” During the time of my father, she thought. Neferata still remembered how King Lamasheptra had scoffed at the thought of the small settlement at the edge of the deadly southern jungle. It was their constant, ruthless struggle for survival that had transformed them into a warrior culture both respected and feared throughout Nehekhara.
“When King Khetep made ready to return home, he chose one of his ablest lieutenants, a nobleman named Ur-Amnet, to govern the new settlement. His son, Mukhtail, became the first king of Rasetra, and every king that followed is descended from his line.”
Now Khenti’s interest was piqued as well. “But Ur-Amnet was not part of Khemri’s royal house,” he said. “His family was a noble one, but its lineage uncertain.”
“Until now,” Neferata replied. “We searched the records here at Lahmia and despatched agents to search for confirmation among the old temples at Khemri. Ur-Amnet is descended from Hapt-amn-koreb, who was a great warrior and Master of Horse to the mighty King Nemuret. Hapt-amn-koreb’s lineage is murkier still, but after many years of searching it was determined why—he was descended from Amenophis, fifth son of Settra the Magnificent.”
Alcadizzar closed his eyes for a moment. “Amenophis was disowned by Settra during the tenth year of his reign,” he said, calling upon his years of study.
“Correct. He was suspected of assassinating his older brother Djoser. Though it was never proved, Settra cast him out nonetheless. But that is irrelevant. The bloodline remains true. You, Alcadizzar, bear the ancient birthright of the gods.”
“What does this mean?” Khenti asked, taking the bait.
“That depends on Prince Alcadizzar,” Neferata replied. “There is a unique opportunity here to restore Khemri—and by extension, all of Nehekhara—to a measure of the glory it once possessed. If the prince proved himself worthy, we could witness the dawn of a new golden age of peace and prosperity, and put the dark memory of Nagash behind us forever.”
Alcadizzar raised his head from the book. “What do you propose?”
Neferata leaned forwards. “A new union,” she said. “One not of flesh, but of spirit. Lahmia and Khemri can be united once more by the veneration of our shared bloodline.”
Khenti’s frown deepened. “No, I don’t think—” but Alcadizzar placed a hand on his shoulder and the older Rasetran fell silent.
“What would Khemri stand to gain from such a union?”
“Why, all of the west,” Neferata said. “Right now, Lahmia rules Nehekhara in all but name. What I propose is to divide the land between us. The trade and loan obligations of Zandri, Numas and Ka-Sabar would be placed in your hands. It would ensure Khemri’s growth and prosperity for centuries, and restore a substantial measure of its political power in a single stroke.”
That got even Khenti’s attention. He looked to Alcadizzar, who’d turned pensive once more.
“What would you require of me in return?”
“For the union to be consummated, you must pledge yourself to the temple,” Neferata said. “Lahmia will have its high priestess, and Khemri its priest king.”
The prince sighed inwardly. “How long would such an initiation take?”
Neferata felt a rush of triumph. She knew him better than he knew himself. “That is up to you, of course,” she said. “For most initiates, the path to the temple’s highest rank is a long and difficult one. What might take them a lifetime, you could accomplish in a decade or less.”
“A decade!” Khenti turned to the prince. “Khemri needs you now, great one. This… this is too much!”
“Khenti is perhaps right,” Neferata said slowly. Her eyes never left Alcadizzar’s. “It is a great deal to ask of any man. But the potential is equally great, is it not?”
The prince glanced at Khenti’s worried face. “What if I refuse?”
“Then your time here in Lahmia will be at an end,” she replied.
“I’m… free to go?”
“Of course,” Neferata said. “The choice is yours, oh prince. Do as you think best for your city and your people.”
Khenti gripped Alcadizzar’s shoulders and turned the younger man to face him. “You can’t seriously be considering this,” he said. “It’s over! You’re free! Come with me now, and we can be on the road to Rasetra by dawn!”
Alcadizzar stared down at his uncle, and Neferata could see the longing in his eyes. For a moment, her heart went out to him; she knew all too well what it was like to live as a prisoner, trapped in a gilded cage. One day he will thank me, though, she told herself. This is not just for me, or even for him, but for all of Nehekhara.
“What sort of king would I be if I put my own selfishness ahead of my city’s future?” Alcadizzar sai
d. His voice was heavy with regret, but he gripped his uncle’s arms tightly. “Khemri has survived for decades without me. It will last for a few years more.”
The prince turned to Neferata and bowed his head. “I accept your offer,” he told her. “Let Khemri and Lahmia be united once more.”
Neferata rose from her chair and joined Alcadizzar. Beneath the mask, her cheeks were wet with crimson tears as she placed a hand on his cheek. His skin felt hot beneath her fingers. She could feel the blood coursing through the flesh beneath. The thirst cut through her, slicing deep into her heart.
“As you wish, oh prince,” she said softly.
—
Deadlock
Nagashizzar, in the 98th year of Tahoth the Wise
(-1300 Imperial Reckoning)
Moving as though in a dream, the barbarian witch crept towards the cavern wall. The rough stone had been scribed with angular northern runes in complex spiral patterns that radiated from the centre of the wall and covered an area broad enough for two men to stand abreast. Akatha paused before the strange sigil, her grey-tinged lips working as she murmured sibilant words of power. Arcane symbols had been painted on her cheeks and down the length of her arms in sinuous patterns; they shone a pale and ghostly blue through the fine layer of ash that had been smeared over her skin. Tiny charms of yellowed bone had been woven into her tangled, soot-stained braids, clattering softly with each measured tread. A faint, greenish glow emanated from the whites of her eyes.
Akatha raised her right hand and reached out palm-first towards the wall. Slowly, warily, as though testing the heat of a roaring furnace, she brought her hand close to the stone. Her eyes flickered shut.
She stood that way for several long moments, muttering the words of power. Suddenly, her body stiffened. Her eyes flew open, and she retreated swiftly and silently from the wall, back to where Nagash and her kinsmen waited.
The cavern was small and low-ceilinged, its floor sloping slightly downwards towards the rune-marked wall and the mountain’s distant core. Nagash hadn’t known it existed until just the week before; it had been separated from the fortress’ passageways by little more than a few feet of solid rock at one part of the chamber’s western wall. Akatha had discovered it during a casting of runes, as she’d sought to divine the invaders’ next move.
Nagash stood just inside the narrow opening his labourers had dug into the chamber. At his back stood Bragadh, Diarid and Thestus, as well as a score of Bragadh’s chosen warriors. Like Akatha, the warlord and his men were pallid and moved with an eerie, almost dreamlike grace. Their eyes shone faintly in the dimness, just as hers did, evidence of the potent elixir that Nagash had created to extend their life spans. Based on the same formula he’d used to create his immortals centuries ago, this elixir drew its power from a combination of stolen life force and the dust of the burning stone. It lent the northmen fearsome strength and vitality, though Nagash suspected that, once enough of the dust had collected in their bones, it would begin to change them in unpredictable ways. So long as they could take orders and lead their men in battle, he would continue to make use of them.
Hundreds of Bragadh’s best fighting men waited along the passageways just outside the cavern, listening intently for the call to action. They all knew that, three levels below, the ratmen were launching yet another howling assault on the bastions protecting mine shaft number six.
Akatha approached the necromancer. Daring greatly, the witch met Nagash’s coldly glowing eyes. “They are nearly through,” she whispered, her voice flat and cold. “A few minutes, perhaps. No more.”
Nagash raised a leathery hand and waved her aside. As much as her insolence irritated him, her sorcerous abilities had proven unexpectedly useful in the war against the ratmen. The barbarians, he’d discovered, had a long history of dealing with the creatures, and the arcane traditions of Akatha’s extinct sisterhood contained several rituals that were designed to combat them. The necromancer’s pride prevented him from stooping so low as to learn the barbarian rites for himself, and so the damned witch continued to survive.
The war beneath the mountain had raged for twenty-five galling years and showed no signs of ending. The ratmen were drawn like moths to the burning stone, and no matter how many thousands of the creatures he slew, there were always more to take their place. Losses on both sides had been staggering. The sheer amount of resources Nagash had expended thus far filled him with cold rage. The massive invasion force he’d carefully built for centuries was being squandered against a never-ending tide of vermin. When the war finally ended, it would take years, perhaps decades, to marshal another force capable of destroying Nehekhara. If he did not know for a fact that he’d broken the gods of his old homeland, he might have suspected some divine power bent on thwarting his dreams of revenge.
A faint sound echoed across the cavern—a scratching scrabbling sound that Nagash and the barbarians had come to know all too well. With neither side willing to concede defeat, the course of the war had been measured in tunnels seized and levels taken. Passageways and branch-tunnels leading to the all-important mine shafts had been fortified by both sides, with cunning barricades and redoubts designed to hinder an enemy advance. Smaller tunnels were filled with rubble or sown with vicious traps to slaughter the unwary, forcing teams of sappers to reopen them in preparation for a major attack. Control of the deeps ebbed and flowed from one week to the next. Conquests were made and then lost again, as one side or the other exhausted itself in a punishing attack and then lacked the strength to hold on to what it had taken. In-between major assaults the two armies would pause for weeks or even months at a time, staging punishing raids against their enemy’s forwards positions while they rebuilt their shattered forces.
From time to time, the two armies would try to break the deadlock with cunning stratagems. Most often they involved the digging of new tunnels to strike at the enemy from an unexpected direction—just as the ratmen were attempting now. The assault on mine shaft six was a diversion, meant to pin down the necromancer’s troops so that another contingent of warriors could emerge behind them and cut them off.
It was a strategy that had served the ratmen well since the first day of the war, and one they returned to time and again when their frontal assaults had been stymied for more than a few months at a time. The tactic was effective because the creatures could dig tunnels with a speed and skill that beggared the imagination; by the same token, it was also largely predictable.
Nagash had known this was coming for several months now; he’d planned for it, in fact, reinforcing the defences around mine shaft six with every warrior he could spare and grinding down one frenzied assault after another. When the tempo of the attacks tapered off, he set Akatha to watching for the signs that the enemy was attempting another tunnel. This time he meant to turn their favourite tactic against them.
A part of the cavern wall across the chamber seemed to shimmer in the torchlight as the furious tunnelling stirred up a fine haze of rock dust. There was a faint crackling sound. Tiny fragments of stone began to cascade from the wall. Nagash smiled mirthlessly and clenched his fists. Power coursed through his limbs as he began a soundless chant, summoning up the energies of the burning stone.
The breach opened in a single instant, with a crash and a rumble of broken rock. A cloud of pale dust billowed out into the cavern, followed by the swift-moving silhouettes of ratmen. Hissing and chittering turned to squeaks of surprise as the attackers realised that they were not alone.
Words of power boiled up from Nagash’s throat, reverberating painfully in the dank air. A surge of savage anticipation gripped him; since the war began, he had remained far from the front lines, directing the movements of his forces from on high rather than embroiling himself personally in one small part of the conflict. As a result, the ratmen had yet to suffer the full might of his power.
With a furious cry of exultation, the Undying King flung out his hands and unleashed a storm of death upon hi
s foes.
Streams of hissing green darts leapt from the necromancer’s fingertips, scything through the ranks of the stunned ratmen. The filthy creatures screamed as they were struck; their blood boiled, erupting from their bodies in glowing, greenish-black mist. Scores fell in the first moments, slain before their bodies hit the cavern floor.
Shrieks of terror rebounded across the chamber as the ratmen who escaped the first onslaught fled in panic back through the tunnel and fetched up against their comrades advancing in the other direction. Nagash followed after them, hurling another volley of magical bolts into the press. In the packed confines of the tunnel, the darts savaged the ranks of the ratmen. They collapsed where they stood like reaped grain, their corpses blackened by heat and hissing with escaping fluids.
The sight of so much terror and death filled Nagash with ferocious joy. The necromancer waded into the windrows of heaped bodies like a starving man welcomed to a feast. He seized corpses and flung them out of his way like straw dolls, his desiccated flesh buzzing with the unleashed energies of the abn-i-khat. Screams of pure, animal terror echoed from the roughly hewn walls. Nagash threw back his misshapen skull and howled with dreadful laughter as he hounded the ratmen into the depths.
Roaring wild oaths and battle cries, the northmen followed after their master. There was no way to know how far the tunnel went, but it was certain that it led back behind the invaders’ front lines. The avenue of attack ran both ways, as the ratmen were about to learn.
Thoughts of strategy were lost on Nagash at the moment; he was caught up completely in the slaughter, hurling one burning volley after another at the retreating ratmen. His body was wreathed in a fierce nimbus of crackling green fire that grew fiercer with every spell he cast, until the corpses of the ratmen smouldered beneath his touch.
[Nagash 03] - Nagash Immortal Page 7