The immortal sprang into motion, leaping across alleys and rooftops in the direction of the screams. By the time the woman’s shrieks came to an abrupt end, Ushoran was only two streets away. The smell of spilled blood burned in his nostrils and set his cold flesh tingling. It drew him unerringly, like iron to a lodestone.
At the last moment, as he crossed the rooftop of a dice house that rose above the source of the tantalising scent, the immortal considered his appearance. Hastily he shrouded his true features with the bland, noble facade he presented to Neferata and the rest of the Blood Court and then leapt lightly down into the alley yawning before him.
He landed amid piles of refuse, startling a pack of enormous rats that had been gathering near the lifeless body of an emaciated woman near the mouth of the alley. Her body lay sprawled in the stinking slime, her shabby robe undone and the side of her head crushed in like a broken wine jar. The whore’s face was frozen in a wide-eyed rictus of terror, her cheeks spotted with droplets of fresh gore.
“She wouldn’t stop screaming.”
Ushoran turned at the sound of the high-pitched, nasal voice. To his right, less than a dozen feet away, a heavyset man lay sprawled in a pile of rubbish, limbs contorted in death. The corpse’s head had been pulled back and the thick neck torn open, exposing glistening bits of broken cartilage. Blood soaked the front of the corpse’s brown robes and spattered the rubbish pile in a wide arc to either side of the body.
A slender figure in dark, filthy robes crouched over the man’s ravaged corpse, dark blood drooling from his chin. Zurhas had changed a great deal since Ushoran had seen him last. His flesh was white as a corpse and glowed with a translucent sheen under the faint moonlight. Dark veins crawled up his narrow throat and across his bald, bulbous skull, pulsing with stolen life. The skin had drawn tight around Zurhas’ face, emphasising his pointed cheekbones, receding chin and prominent, angular nose. His eyes were dark and beady, with tiny pupils that reflected the light like polished coins. More than anything else, he reminded Ushoran of a pale, hairless rat. He even clasped his strange, unusually long-fingered hands to his chest in a curiously rodent-like manner.
“I didn’t want her,” the immortal told him. “I told her to be quiet, to go away, but she wouldn’t listen. She screamed and screamed, so I had to quiet her.” Zurhas unfolded his hands and gestured towards the dead woman. Drops of cooling blood dripped from dark, curved claws. “You may have her, if you wish.”
Ushoran stared at Zurhas. There was no mistaking the gleam of madness in the immortal’s rodent-like eyes. Not for the first time, he debated the wisdom of his plan. But time was running out. Neferata’s patience was very nearly at an end. Something had to be done, and quickly, before it was too late.
“I have already fed,” the Lord of Masks replied. He managed a bland smile. “But the offer is appreciated.”
Zurhas shrugged and turned his attention back to the dead man at his feet. “This is the one I wanted,” he explained. “He cheated at dice. Not once, but many times.” He touched a claw to one long, slightly pointed ear. “Shaved dice make a very distinctive sound, I have learned. A shame I could not hear it when I was younger. How different my life might have been.” He leaned over the dead man and dipped two fingers into the gaping wound. Zurhas drew them out again and began licking the tips clean with delicate flicks of his bluish tongue. “Are you any good at dice, Lord Ushoran?”
Ushoran’s smooth brow showed the slightest hint of consternation. “I don’t much care for gambling.”
Zurhas rested his hands on his knees and stared up at the Lord of Masks. “And yet here you are,” he said. “Why else go to all the trouble to find me?”
Ushoran felt his hackles rise, purely as a matter of pride. “Trouble? Nothing could have been simpler—”
To his surprise, Zurhas let out a wheezing snort. “You have been searching for weeks,” the immortal said. “I have watched you creeping across the rooftops, wearing one guise or another.”
For a moment, Ushoran was too stunned to speak.
His mind reeled. If Zurhas had seen through his guises, what about Ankhat, or Neferata? “I… I had no idea you were so perceptive,” he managed to say.
“I don’t see why you should,” Zurhas replied. “None of you ever paid the least attention to me.” He showed his teeth in a ghastly, jagged smile. “I bet you couldn’t even tell me the last time I attended the queen’s court.”
Once again, the Lord of Masks bristled. “As I said, I don’t much care for gambling,” he answered stiffly.
Zurhas shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Honestly, neither did I,” he said. “But I wasn’t smart enough for the priesthood, nor brave enough to be a soldier, so what else was there to do?” The immortal chuckled grimly. “At least when I had coins to wager and a pair of dice in my hand, people paid attention to me.”
“You rode with the king’s bodyguard at the Battle of Mahrak,” Ushoran pointed out. “I remember that clearly.”
“Oh, yes. Yes, indeed,” the immortal said. A small, bitter smile tugged at his bloody lips. “My father paid Lamashizzar a handsome bribe so I could join the king’s retinue. He reckoned it cheaper than paying for another year of gambling debts—and if I were to die on the battlefield and spare them future embarrassment, so much the better.”
Zurhas sighed. “There was no chance of that happening, of course. The dragon-staves saw to that. I watched the battle from behind a wall of iron-shod infantry, and watched the Usurper’s champions shot to bits from fifty yards away. The most I suffered were saddle sores and red eyes from the clouds of dragon powder.” He shook his head. “Afterwards, when the battle was done and everyone was looting the enemy’s siege camp, I had my one moment of glory. I found a chest full of gold coin hidden in one of the tents belonging to Nagash’s immortals. Everyone else had missed it, but I turned it up straightaway. You can’t hide gold from a gambler. My father knew that lesson well.”
The immortal spread his stained hands. “I saw a great deal of the king after that. Spent most evenings in his tent, drinking wine and pissing away my new-found wealth.” Zurhas let out a low hiss. “He was the worst cheat I’d ever seen, but then, he could afford to be. He was the king.”
Zurhas’ gaze fell to the gambler’s contorted body. He studied it in silence, as though seeing it for the first time.
“By the time we reached the Living City I hadn’t a coin to my name, but I was still one of Lamashizzar’s personal guests.” He sighed again. “I flattered myself that he and I had become friends. One night, he asked me for my help. Asked me, as though he and I were equals. Naturally, I agreed. And then the next thing I knew, we were following Arkhan the Black into the heart of Nagash’s pyramid. By then, of course, there was no turning back.” Zurhas glanced up at Ushoran, his deep-set eyes strangely haunted. “We carried Arkhan’s body and Nagash’s tomes back to camp in the dead of night. The whole way, I wondered when Lamashizzar would turn his dragon-stave on me. But he never did.”
Ushoran tried to sound sympathetic. “Whatever else, he was still your cousin.” And some menial tasks were too delicate to trust to slaves, the Lord of Masks thought.
“I should have refused him,” Zurhas said. “When we returned to Lahmia, I should have told the king I wanted no part of his schemes.” He scowled. “But what would that have got me? A knife in the back, or poison in my cup, most likely. As long as I kept playing the game, there was the chance my luck would turn. The king would need me for some important task, and I would become someone of value—someone like you, or Lord Ankhat.”
“Is that what you want, Zurhas?” Ushoran asked. “To be someone of import? A person of power and influence?”
“No chance of that now,” Zurhas replied. “Neferata saw to that.”
The Lord of Masks smiled grimly. “What if I were to tell you that the queen’s luck had finally turned?”
Zurhas gave Ushoran a sidelong look. “What do you mean?”
“Is it not
obvious?” Ushoran spread his hands. “The signs are all around us. Look how the city has suffered, ever since she became obsessed with that fool Alcadizzar. She thinks of no one but herself now and Lahmia has been pushed to the edge of revolt. The time is ripe for change.”
The immortal stared up at Ushoran, his beady eyes bright with fear. “You cannot challenge her,” he said. “None of us can. She is too powerful.”
Ushoran smiled. “Perhaps. But what if we had help?”
Zurhas frowned. “I don’t understand. What kind of help?”
“An alliance,” Ushoran said. “With the one being on earth powerful enough to tip the scales against Neferata—the Undying King.”
“Nagash?” Zurhas recoiled from Ushoran, eyes widening in fear. “You don’t know what you’re saying!”
“He lives, Zurhas! How I do not know, but ever since the Battle of Mahrak he has been biding his time in the wastelands, gathering his strength!” Ushoran pointed to the north. “You felt his presence during the night of the Green Witch, the same as the rest of us. Do you deny it?”
Zurhas reluctantly shook his head. “No,” he replied.
“For ten years, I have had agents searching the wastes for Nagash’s fortress,” Ushoran said. “The cost was enormous, but in the end, I found it.” He took a step towards Zurhas, his voice lowering almost to a whisper. “He is very near, Zurhas. Just a few weeks’ ride north along the coast. And he is preparing for his return to Nehekhara. My agents have seen the smoke from his forges. Soon, very soon, his armies will march once more.”
“What does that have to do with us?” Zurhas protested. “Lahmia was neutral during the war.”
“Up until the moment we betrayed Nagash, you mean,” Ushoran shot back. “Do you imagine he has forgotten? No, Lahmia will be the first city to feel Nagash’s wrath—unless we reach an accommodation with him first.”
“What kind of accommodation?”
Ushoran smiled. “Simply this. If he helps us depose Neferata and seize control of the city, then Lahmia will ally with him in his campaign against the rest of Nehekhara.”
Zurhas frowned, clasping his hands together against his chest. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “What about Ankhat? He is loyal to the queen.”
“Ankhat is loyal to whoever holds the crown,” Ushoran replied. “If Neferata falls, then he will change sides quickly—or else he will suffer the same fate. With Nagash behind us, he won’t stand a chance. Think on that! There would be no more need for secrets, no more skulking about in the shadows. We would rule the city openly, and the people would worship us as gods!”
Zurhas stared at Ushoran for a moment, his expression growing ever more suspicious. “Why tell me any of this?” he asked.
“Because I can’t do this alone,” Ushoran said. “Someone must go to the Undying King and negotiate the alliance. I cannot go, because Neferata requires my presence at the temple every night. You, on the other hand, could leave the city for weeks at a time, and not raise anyone’s suspicions.”
On impulse, he reached out and gripped the immortal’s arm. The flesh beneath the grimy robe was hard and cold as marble. “Don’t you see? This is the moment you have been waiting for, Zurhas. Your luck has finally turned. Now the future of the entire city rests in your hands.”
Zurhas’ gaze fell to his bloodstained palms. After a moment he gave a faint smile. “We would share the throne?” he asked.
The Lord of Masks smiled. “We would discuss matters of state and make important decisions jointly, but the crown would be yours alone. I don’t care for that kind of attention.”
Zurhas nodded. Then his smile turned wicked. “You’re taking a great risk,” he said. “What is to stop me from making my own deal with Nagash and taking everything for myself?”
Because you haven’t the wit or the nerve, Ushoran thought. Why do you think I picked you in the first place? He affected a nervous grin, and tried to cover it up with a shrug.
“The advantage is yours. But I make a far better friend than an enemy,” Ushoran replied.
Zurhas laughed—a ghastly, barking sound, like the cry of a jackal—and slapped Ushoran on the shoulder. “You’re right, of course,” he said, but the wicked gleam never left his beady eyes. “I just wanted to make certain we understood one another.”
“Of course,” Ushoran said. He had already begun laying plans for Zurhas’ demise, just as soon as the deal with Nagash had been finalised.
“When do I leave?” Zurhas asked.
“As soon as we can manage,” Ushoran replied. Time was growing short. He could sense that Neferata’s patience was nearly exhausted. If something didn’t happen soon, he would be the one hanging from the torture rack in the queen’s audience chamber. “I must draft documents for you to present to Nagash, detailing the terms of the alliance. I will provide you with a number of trusted agents to serve as your retainers, along with falsified letters of transit that will allow you to leave the city.”
“If Nagash’s fortress lies to the north, why not travel by boat up through the straits?”
Ushoran shook his head. “Too conspicuous. Lord Ankhat has agents of his own, and they watch the docks closely. Better to travel overland, with as small a group as possible. Your retainers have been well trained; they will find you suitable shelter by dawn and guard you during the heat of the day.” He gestured at Zurhas’ tattered clothing. “We will also need to find you garments suitable for a royal envoy.”
“Of course,” Zurhas said. His smile widened, revealing a mouthful of jagged, discoloured teeth. “We wouldn’t want to give a bad impression.”
The immortal threw back his head and cackled at the sky. Ushoran smiled, masking his contempt. He had to work with the tools at hand, he reminded himself. Once the alliance was sealed and Neferata dealt with, there would be ample time to dispose of Zurhas.
The dice had been loaded from the start, and the fool hadn’t suspected a thing.
The hooting of an owl echoed from the woodland to the south-west of the bandit camp. Alcadizzar was awake at once, casting aside his heavy cloak and rising silently to his feet. Around him, the dozen tribesmen who’d stood the daytime watch slept on, heads resting upon their saddles and hands gripping the hilts of their swords.
Their camp was ten yards inside the tangled forest that stretched along the foot of the mountains north of Lahmia’s cramped necropolis. Faisr and the rest of the night watch crouched under the shadows just inside the tree line, peering warily across the rough ground that stretched in a crescent almost half a mile south and west in the direction of the city’s western trade road. The Crystal Sea was a cobalt-blue line stretching along the horizon to the east. Lahmia’s central hill, ringed with white manors and the towers of the royal palace, rose just above the line of broken ridges to the south. A mounted party heading north from the city would be hidden from view as they passed through these foothills. Faisr and the rest of the bani-al-Hashim agreed that it made an ideal spot for an ambush.
The twin-tailed comet blazed in the sky above the distant city, bathing the ridgeline and the rocky ground with pale blue light. His Lybaran tutors had spoken of such sights and had voiced many theories as to their purpose in the cosmos. Some believed that they were fragments of broken stars, careening across the heavens. Others insisted that they were portents of occult knowledge; arcane riddles posed by Tahoth, the god of knowledge. Whatever the truth about their origins, the celestial philosophers all agreed that they were harbingers of conflict. Fire and tumult followed in their wake.
This was the pennon Ophiria had warned him about, all those years ago. He’d known it from the first night that Faisr had pointed it out to him, weeks before. Alcadizzar had asked the chieftain for a dozen tribesmen and had ridden off before first light, racing eastwards as fast as his horse could carry him. Two weeks later, Faisr had joined him with another dozen warriors, and they had been waiting ever since—for what, Alcadizzar could not say.
Not a single human soul had p
assed through the foothills since Alcadizzar’s arrival. The area was desolate and foreboding, home to packs of jackals that stole into the city’s necropolis each night to forage for scraps. The tribesmen had found evidence of hunting trails through the woods when they’d first arrived, but the paths were overgrown and hadn’t been used in many years.
The cry of the night owl echoed from the woods again, low and insistent. Faisr listened closely as Alcadizzar settled down on his haunches close by. “Riders approaching, moving fast,” the white-haired chieftain said. He gave Alcadizzar an appraising look. “Is this what you’ve been waiting for?”
“It is,” Alcadizzar replied. “It must be.” He leaned over and tapped one of the tribesmen on the shoulder. “Yusuf, go and wake the others.”
The warrior nodded silently and vanished back into the trees. The rest of the night watch went to work stringing their powerful horn bows. Faisr loosened his sword in its scabbard and made quick adjustments to his raider’s robe, but his eyes never left Alcadizzar. “Ubaid, you know I trust you above all others,” he said. “When you asked for a dozen of my best men, I gave them to you without question. When you said you were bringing them here, of all places, I did not so much as bat an eyelash. But perhaps now you could explain to me just what in the frozen hells is going on?”
Alcadizzar’s stomach fell. He’d known this was coming, sooner or later. How could he possibly explain more than eighty years of deception? What would Faisr do when he realised he’d been lied to all along?
He sighed. “All will be made clear, chief. Once the arrows have flown and the riders are dealt with, I’ll explain everything. You have my word on it.”
Faisr narrowed his eyes, but gave a reluctant nod. “After, then.”
The rest of the raiding party came up from camp and settled quickly into position. Black-fletched arrows were driven into the sandy soil next to each crouching archer. A horse whickered softly a few yards behind them; Alcadizzar turned to see half a dozen men mounted and ready, just in case any of the riders escaped the initial ambush. The desert warriors were all chosen men, each one a veteran of countless raids. They knew their trade as well or better than Alcadizzar himself. All he could do was ready his blade and wait as the sound of hoof-beats echoed across the broken ground from the south.
[Nagash 03] - Nagash Immortal Page 35