Slowly, he became aware of a soft, white light filling the narrow cell. A figure knelt beside him, just beyond the edge of his vision. And then from the depths of his pain, Alcadizzar felt a gentle hand touch his cheek.
Tears welled up in his eyes. “Khalida?” he whispered. He struggled to move, his hands slipping on the cell’s slimy floor. With an effort, he moved his head and tried to peer up into the face of the person beside him. The nimbus of white light made it difficult to see details, but he could make out the fall of dark hair and the slope of a woman’s shoulder.
Alcadizzar lifted a trembling hand, trying to touch her. At once, the apparition withdrew. With a despairing cry, he tried to follow, drawing his knees up beneath him and weakly pushing himself upright.
The apparition had retreated across the cell, until she stood next to the heavy wooden door. Alcadizzar tried to crawl over to her, but before he had the chance, there was the grating of metal as an ancient lock was turned and the cell door groaned open.
Two short, furtive creatures shuffled into the room, dragging a heavy, rectangular chest between them. They took no notice of the apparition whatsoever, focussing their beady eyes solely upon him. Alcadizzar blinked in the uncertain light, trying to make sense of the strange figures. They looked like two enormous rats, clad in filthy robes and walking upright like men. He looked to the apparition for guidance, but the indistinct figure only watched in silence.
The ratmen laid the chest on the floor of the cell and, with great trepidation, they set about breaking the seals that held it shut. They looked at one another uneasily, then without a word they drew back the lid of the box and took several quick steps backwards.
As the lid flew open, a terrible light filled the room—it was a kind of poisonous greenish-black, and gave off heat like the touch of sunlight. The terrible glow radiated from a weapon of sorts: a crude-looking single-edged sword with a curved blade and long hilt that would just barely take a pair of human hands. Strange runes had been etched along its length and it had been crafted out of a mottled, greenish-grey metal unlike anything Alcadizzar had seen before. It was also deadlier than anything he’d ever known. The sword radiated death. It was the kind of weapon that could kill a god.
Or an Undying King.
Alcadizzar’s eyes rose from the sword and regarded the apparition. He could not say why, but it seemed as though she was waiting for him.
And then he understood. She wanted him to take up the sword. Khalida was giving him a chance to make things right before it was too late.
With a deep breath, Alcadizzar reached into the chest. The hilt of the sword was hot to the touch and caused his hand to tingle painfully as he took hold of it and lifted the blade free. Heat, prickly and unpleasant, flooded his limbs, filling his muscles with strength.
Alcadizzar turned to the apparition. “I’m ready,” he said, accepting his fate at last.
The apparition slipped silently through the doorway. He followed after, determined to redeem himself in the eyes of his beloved.
Eekrit and Eshreegar watched the human race from the cell, sword in hand. They turned to one another with identical looks of surprise.
“Who was he talking to?” Eshreegar asked.
“Who knows?” Eekrit replied. “You saw his face. He’s mad as a white rat.”
“Do you think he knows where he’s going?” the Master of Treacheries said.
“We’d best follow along and make sure.”
Nagash lay shrouded in deep shadow, resting like a corpse upon his dark throne. The flames that normally wreathed his skull had been extinguished; his burning eyes had shrunken to cold sparks glowing from the depths of his eye sockets. His mind had slipped into a near trancelike state, pulled into millions of tiny fragments by the souls he’d bound to his will.
Already he was looking ahead to what he would do with the undead legions at his command. They would scour the land from north to south, killing every human, greenskin and rat-creature no matter where they tried to hide. Then he would turn his attentions to the east, and amuse himself with the destruction of the Silk Lands. When they were dead, he would continue eastwards, searching out the living and destroying them, until at last he came round again to Nagashizzar, and the entire world had been rendered as lifeless as a tomb. It might take a thousand years, or ten thousand. It mattered not to him.
As he brooded, a dim, white radiance took shape at the far end of the hall. At first, Nagash thought it was one of his wights, but as it came closer, he saw with surprise that it had the figure of a woman. The sight bemused him and he tried to focus his dulled senses upon it.
Slowly but surely, the image grew clearer. Details emerged. Dark hair, and pale skin. Eyes like polished emeralds, and the golden headdress of a queen.
Nagash tried to stir, but his limbs felt like lead. “Neferem,” he hissed.
The ancient Queen of Khemri drew nearer. She was not the withered husk that she had been when he’d sacrificed her at Mahrak, but the radiant beauty that he’d first seen on the day of his brother’s ascension. The sight of her sent a chill along his bones.
“You are bound to me once more,” the Undying King said. “Even now, your bones shamble across the desert to bow at my feet.”
Neferem reached the bottom of the dais and raised her chin defiantly. I have no bones for you to command, usurper, she said. They were burned to ash when you broke the sacred covenant at Mahrak. You have no power over me.
“Then I will bind your spirit instead,” he snarled. “I am like unto a god now. All of Nehekhara bows its head to me.”
To his surprise, Neferem smiled coldly and shook her head.
All but one.
And then the apparition vanished, scattering like smoke before the onrushing figure of Alcadizzar, last king of Khemri. Bellowing with rage, the mortal charged up the stone steps with a glowing sword in hand and brought it down upon Nagash’s skull.
Fear and rage galvanised the Undying King. At the last moment he brought up his arm to ward off the deadly blow, catching the sword against his armoured wrist. Instead of turning the blade aside however, there was a flash of searing green light, and the sword’s edge bit clean though metal and bone, severing the hand with one blow. It fell to the dais, its clawed fingers twitching spasmodically.
Nagash shrieked in agony. The fell blade’s power clawed at his bones. For the first time in ages, the spectre of death sent a chill down his spine.
Yet even in his weakened state, Nagash was not completely without power. As Alcadizzar drew back his sword for another blow, the Undying King raised his other hand and spat sulphurous words of power. Fearsome energies leapt from his fingertips, bathing the mortal’s body in jagged arcs of fire that would strip the flesh from his bones in an instant.
But the sorcerous bolts washed harmlessly over Alcadizzar, deflected by runes of protection forged into the glowing sword. Undaunted, he lunged forwards, shearing the blade through Nagash’s ribs and severing his spine.
Nagash screamed in pain and terror. The sword’s unnatural energies leached the very power from his bones. Already, he could feel his strength ebbing away. Cursing, he lunged forwards with his one remaining hand and seized Alcadizzar by the throat.
The mortal king struggled in Nagash’s grip. Blood flowed freely down his neck where Nagash’s claws bit deep into his skin. The Undying King put all of his remaining strength into his fingers, trying to crush Alcadizzar’s spine.
Alcadizzar’s knees began to buckle. His eyelids fluttered. But just when it seemed that he was about to fall, he raised his sword with the last of his failing strength and brought it down on Nagash’s arm. The fell blade sliced through the armour, severing the arm at the elbow—then a backhand stroke slashed across Nagash’s neck, severing his head.
A hideous, rending scream echoed through the hall. The last thing Nagash saw, as the fires faded from his eyes, was the ghostly apparition of Neferem standing at the foot of the dais. Her smile was terrible to behold
.
Darkness waits, she said.
Nagash’s death reverberated through the aether like the tolling of a broken bell. The power of his ritual shattered, sending shockwaves through the legions of the dead. Thousands of corpses collapsed to the earth, their spirits drawn back once more across the veil of death. These were the souls of those who had died during the days of the plague and the bloodshed afterwards, who had been buried without the customary rituals of the mortuary cult.
The rest ground slowly to a halt, no longer at the mercy of Nagash’s implacable summons. They had been restored to the living world, and now were free to act as they pleased.
The great tomb kings reined in their golden chariots and surveyed the empty land around them. Their burning gaze fell upon the legions of the dead. Without hesitation, the corpses bowed before their masters, responding to ancient loyalties that had guided them in life.
Some kings commanded more loyalty than others. The strong eyed the weak and ancient ambitions once more occupied their thoughts.
Skeletal hands gripped tarnished khopeshes and raised them to the baleful moon. Bone horns wailed as the tomb kings went to war.
Metal rang on metal, striking fat, green sparks as Alcadizzar hacked at Nagash’s still form. The burning fell blade hacked through the Undying King’s armour, tearing the ancient skeleton to pieces and hacking up the wooden throne beneath.
Finally, his body spent, Alcadizzar stumbled back a step and looked upon the carnage he’d wrought. His hands were numb and tingling from the awful energy of the sword, as though its power had seeped into his body like poison. Repelled by its corrupting touch, Alcadizzar let the blade tumble from his hand.
“It’s done,” he gasped. “Thank the gods, it’s done.” He looked about, searching for the apparition. “Khalida?” he called. “Beloved? Where are you?”
He had to find her. He had to show her what he’d done. More than anything, he needed her to forgive him. Alcadizzar cast about looking for something he could show her, to convince her that he’d made things right. His gaze fell upon Nagash’s grinning skull.
Alcadizzar bent and tore the jagged metal crown from Nagash’s skull. Gripping it to his chest, he turned and staggered from the dais. The blade’s poison was working its way through his body, killing him from within.
“Khalida!” he called mournfully. “Forgive me. Please.” Clutching the crown of the Undying King, Alcadizzar staggered from the great hall.
EPILOGUE
Land of the Dead
Nagashizzar, in the 110th year of Djaf the Terrible
(-1151 Imperial Reckoning)
Alcadizzar haunted the halls of Nagashizzar for days, calling plaintively for a woman that only he could see. His mind shattered by guilt and the torments he’d suffered at the hands of Nagash, he eventually found his way through the fortress gates and onto the shores of the Sour Sea. Still clutching Nagash’s crown, the last king of Khemri disappeared into the wastelands in search of redemption. There are those who believe he wanders there still.
They searched the fortress for the largest furnace they could find and filled it with charcoal from the enormous bins that stood outside the forges. Eshreegar and Eekrit took turns working the bellows, until the fire breathed like a living thing and the heat scorched their whiskers. Then they went and raided the nearest mine shaft for all the sky-stone they could carry.
“Are you sure this is necessary?” the Master of Treacheries said.
“Without doubt,” Eekrit said, tossing a hunk of sky-stone into the furnace.
Eshreegar winced. “Think of the wealth you’re throwing away! Enough to buy your way back into good graces with the Under-Empire three times over! Enough to make yourself a Grey Lord if you wish!”
Another chunk of stone flew into the furnace’s roaring maw. “The mountain is mine now, Eshreegar,” the former warlord growled. “All mine. At this point, I’m richer than the Horned God himself.”
The Master of Treacheries eyed the flames dubiously. “What if Velsquee goes back on his word and forgets he ever agreed to give you the mountain?”
Eekrit sniffed. “He can either have the mountain or the fell blade. Not both.” They had recovered the sword and tossed it back into its lead container with as little physical contact as possible. Now it was hidden deep within the bowels of the mountain, where only the two of them would ever find it. “If he’s smart, he’ll take the blade back and call it even, and Velsquee is nothing if not very, very smart.” He threw another two pieces of stone into the furnace, then gestured at the bellows. “Stoke the furnace while I get the cart.”
Eshreegar sighed and went to the long, wooden lever. With a grunt, he leapt up and grabbed it, then pulled down with all his weight. Air flowed into the furnace, causing it to roar. Within minutes, the sky-stone turned molten and the heat within changed from orange-white to a bright, baleful green.
Eekrit returned a moment later, dragging a small wooden cart. Piled within was every piece of Nagash’s armour and bone they could find. The former warlord stared down at the remains and shook his head. “I still don’t see how we missed his right hand. It couldn’t have just crawled off on its own.”
Eshreegar shook his head. “We searched every inch of that dais. If it were there, we would have found it. Nagash’s prisoner must have taken it with him, along with the crown. Nothing else makes sense.”
Eekrit sighed irritably. “Perhaps.” He reached in and rummaged through the pile.
“Do you really think this will destroy him for good?” Eshreegar asked, eyeing the roaring furnace.
“I have no idea,” Eekrit replied. “This is for my own personal pleasure.”
He grunted in satisfaction, and pulled Nagash’s grinning skull from the pile. Eekrit stared at it for a long moment, peering into the depths of its empty eye sockets.
“I’ve been wanting to do this for a very long time,” he said, and tossed the skull into the flames.
High above the ancient mountain, a plume of faintly glowing smoke rose from one of the fortress’ many chimneys. Ashes from the seething fire below rose into the air and were scattered on the high winds, spreading across the bleak and blasted land.
Riding high on the swift-moving wind, the ashes travelled for miles before falling back to earth. One mote in particular rode the currents westwards, tumbling through the updraughts over the Brittle Peaks and then gliding lazily downwards again in a long, surprisingly straight path along the bloody line of the dead River Vitae.
Over the silent land of Nehekhara, the tiny mote of ash drifted, until it came to the vast city of the dead that lay beside the river just east of Khemri. There it began to settle, waving this way and that like a leaf on the breeze, until at last it alighted upon the tip of a towering black pyramid, whose matt black sides seemed to swallow the light of the sun.
By some curious trick of the air currents, the mote of ash was drawn inside the pyramid, slipping through narrow airshafts until it reached the very heart of the giant crypt. There, in an octagonal chamber whose walls were carved with hundreds of complex runes, sat an open sarcophagus of black stone.
Silent, unobserved, the mote of ash settled within the sarcophagus of Nagash, the Undying King.
And there it waited.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Mike Lee was the principal creator and developer for White Wolf Game Studio’s Demon: The Fallen. Over the last eight years he has contributed to almost two dozen role-playing games and supplements. His credits for the Black Library include the Horus Heresy title Fallen Angels and “The Rise of Nagash” trilogy for Time of Legends, as well as writing the Malus Darkblade series with Dan Abnett.
An avid wargamer and devoted fan of pulp adventure, Mike lives in the United States.
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[Nagash 03] - Nagash Immortal Page 53