02 - Nagash the Unbroken

by Mike Lee - (ebook by Undead)

  The warhorse sidestepped, tossing its head and snorting at his confused commands. Even if he managed to get the animal under control the archers would put an arrow in its neck before he’d gone half a yard. As near as he could reckon, he only had one option left. Gritting his teeth, the immortal grabbed the arrow jutting from his thigh and tore it free, then simply let himself fall from the saddle.

  He landed on the right side of the horse, striking the road with a bone-jarring crunch that consumed him with another wave of blinding pain. Pure reflex forced his limbs to work, rolling him off the road and into the brush. He fetched up against a tangle of briars and lay still, pretending to be dead. Were it not for the elixir coursing through his veins, he likely would have been.

  The stallion bolted as he fell, galloping down the road and out of sight. For a moment, nothing moved. Arkhan bit back waves of agony and listened for the slightest signs of movement.

  Before long he heard quiet footsteps edging from the tree line on the opposite side of the road. It sounded like just two men. The bandits must have left camp long before he did in order to set up such an ambush. How had they known he would be heading back towards the city?

  He heard the men make their way cautiously nearer. His right hand, shielded beneath his body, edged towards the hilt of his sword.

  The ambushers paused in the middle of the road, just a few yards away. “Not so tough as we thought,” one of them said. Arkhan thought he recognised the voice.

  Arkhan heard the rasp of a sword being drawn. “He’ll want proof,” said another familiar voice. “We’ll take back his head. Roll his body out of the brush.”

  The two men drew nearer. A hand gripped his right shoulder and pulled. Arkhan rolled onto his back, drawing his iron blade with a bestial snarl. The two ambushers cursed, their faces exposed by the same lambent moonlight.

  They weren’t bandits at all. Arkhan found himself staring at Adio and Khenti, two of the king’s young libertines.

  Arkhan cursed. He’d been a fool. An utter and complete fool.

  The two libertines stared back at the immortal with wide eyes. Khenti still clutched a powerful Numasi horse bow in his left hand, while Adio had left his on the white stone roadway so he could grip a curved, bronze khopesh in both hands. They were both clad head to foot in dark, cotton robes and short cloaks. Neither wore armour, as far as Arkhan could tell. No doubt they’d expected to kill or incapacitate him with a volley of arrows, then collect their trophy and ride back to the city. Had they been proper archers, they likely would have succeeded.

  Careless, the immortal thought angrily. He’d all but planned the ambush for them. The cabal knew about his nightly rides out to the plain, and a few coins in the hand of the right stableboy would tell them exactly when he left. All they would have to do is ride the same route and pick out the best place to lie in wait.

  The two fools hadn’t killed him yet, but the powerful, broad-headed arrows had done their damage. His left leg felt leaden and unresponsive, and the arrow in his left shoulder made it difficult to move his arm. The third arrow had sunk deep into his vitals. It and the shaft in his shoulder had snapped when he’d rolled off his horse, leaving two bloodied and splintered stubs jutting from his robes. Agony washed over his body in cold waves, but he scarcely felt its bite. Pain held no power over him anymore, not since the war. Not since Quatar.

  He only had moments to act; if he was still on his back when Adio’s shock wore off, even a pampered Lahmian libertine would have little trouble hacking him to pieces. Gritting his ruined teeth, he rolled onto his right side and then, using just his sword arm and his right leg, he pushed himself onto his feet. The moment he put any weight on his left leg it began to buckle. Desperate, he drew upon the power of the queen’s elixir to lend him strength and speed.

  For an instant, the immortal felt his veins catch fire, but the heat began to fade almost at once. Neferata’s potion was powerful, but it still had its limits. Darkness crowded at the corners of his eyes, until for a moment he feared that he’d drawn too much and he was about to do Adio’s work for him. The pain ebbed, held for a dizzying instant… and then swept back in again, pushing the threatening shadows aside. His leg remained weak, but at least the muscles responded to his will. It would have to be enough.

  Adio was already lunging forward with a choked cry. He was a tall man, with long, lean arms, narrow shoulders and bony knees. His brown eyes were wide with fear, bulging above a long, hooked nose, and his narrow lips were stained by years of exposure to lotus root. His swing was swift enough, but lacked skill. Arkhan parried it easily with his iron blade and countered with a swipe to the nobleman’s throat, but after more than a century his skill was little better than Adio’s. The libertine clumsily blocked the strike and fell back towards the road, his sandals scuffing across its stone surface. The clash of bronze and iron galvanised Khenti as well. With a startled shout the paunchy nobleman turned and ran back the way he’d come.

  Cursing, Arkhan charged after his would-be ambushers. He would have just as soon see Adio break and run as well, but the nobleman either didn’t like his odds in a foot race, or was possessed of much more courage than the immortal had given him credit for. Adio threw another wild swing that missed the immortal by more than a foot, then abruptly shifted direction, swinging around to the immortal’s left. Arkhan tried to match Adio’s movements, but his wounded leg hindered him. The libertine slashed at him again, and Arkhan’s sword was too far out of position to block it. The bronze blade gouged across the immortal’s upper left arm, leaving a shallow cut through the muscle. Had the blade been sharper, it would have cut him to the bone.

  Snarling, Arkhan planted his right foot and spun on its heel. The iron sword flickered in the moonlight, arcing around to catch Adio from an unexpected direction. The libertine reacted with surprising speed, just barely raising his curved sword in time to block the heavier blade. Still, the nobleman let out a high-pitched shriek as Arkhan’s weapon sliced open Adio’s sword arm just above the elbow.

  Then a powerful blow hit the immortal in the back, punching into his torso just beneath his right shoulder. Arkhan staggered, shouting in surprise and anger. Khenti hadn’t been running away at all; the pudgy little bastard had simply been getting enough room to start firing arrows again.

  You’ve gotten soft in a century and a half, Arkhan thought, as Adio regained his balance and rushed at him, khopesh raised high for a skull-splitting blow. In a moment of cold clarity, Arkhan wondered if this was how he was going to finally die, struck down by a callow young gambler and left in a ditch for the vultures.

  The khopesh swept down, its nicked edge whistling through the air. Arkhan’s limbs moved without conscious volition, driven by instincts honed on countless battlefields. His iron sword swept up in a sweeping block, meeting the khopesh just past the height of its arc. There was a discordant clang, and the lighter bronze weapon snapped in two.

  Adio reeled backwards, staring in shock at the ruined sword, and Arkhan was on him like a wolf. A backhanded blow from his heavier sword shattered the nobleman’s right elbow, eliciting a scream of raw agony. The cry turned to a bubbling wail as the immortal’s second stroke slashed Adio’s throat all the way to the spine. The libertine fell backwards, his left hand trying to stanch the dark blood pouring from the gaping wound. He had no sooner hit the ground than the immortal was standing over him, sword raised. Arkhan ended the nobleman’s thrashings with a single blow to the head.

  Another arrow hissed out of the darkness, flying a handspan over Arkhan’s bent back. The immortal pulled his blade free from Adio’s shattered skull and turned, throwing back his head and howling like a fiend as he charged across the road.

  His wounded leg hobbled him, turning his charge into a headlong stagger, but Arkhan pushed forward as quickly as he could. His bloodcurdling shout echoed from the dense trees. It was a calculated move, meant to rattle Khenti. Every second brought the immortal closer to his foe, and it took nerves of ston
e to calmly draw and nock an arrow in the face of a charging enemy swordsman.

  Arkhan glimpsed movement across the road, then heard a muffled curse. Teeth bared, he oriented on the sound and tried to increase his pace. A moment later he could make out Khenti’s head and shoulders, then the raised arm of his horse bow. The immortal was close enough to hear the twang of the bowstring, then Khenti’s arrow smashed into his chest. It missed his heart but pierced his left lung; Arkhan staggered, but the sight of Khenti reaching for another arrow spurred him forward once more.

  Crying out in fear, Khenti fumbled for another shaft from the hunting quiver at his hip. Arkhan reached him in eight long steps and smashed the bow from the nobleman’s hand with a sweep of his sword. Forgetting the khopesh at his side, the libertine made to turn and run, but Arkhan’s left hand seized him by the throat and held him fast. The point of his iron sword came to rest against Khenti’s chest, just above his heart.

  “I have some questions for you,” Arkhan grated. Flecks of dark ichor stained his pale lips. “How long you live depends on how well you answer.” He drove the point of his sword a fraction of an inch into Khenti’s chest for emphasis. The young nobleman moaned in terror.

  “Who else is part of this?” the immortal demanded. He didn’t know whether to be relieved or insulted that Lamashizzar had sent the two libertines to kill him. Had Abhorash been waiting for him instead, his headless body would already be cooling by the side of the road. Did that mean the king’s champion might not be a part of the plot, or was he being reserved for a more important task?

  Khenti squirmed in Arkhan’s grasp. His puffy features were pale and mottled with fright. “The king—”

  Arkhan shook the nobleman like a dog. “I know the king’s involved, you idiot,” he snarled, revealing ichor-stained teeth. “Who else?”

  “I—I don’t know,” Khenti stammered, his tiny eyes very wide. “I swear! He claimed there were others, but he wouldn’t name them!”

  Which could mean anything, Arkhan mused angrily. It was entirely possible that Adio and Khenti were the only ones stupid enough to turn on Neferata, and the king lied to lend them some extra courage.

  The immortal’s grip tightened. “Is the queen in danger?” he said. “Was this just about killing me, or does the king have plans for Neferata as well?”

  Khenti let out a groan. Tears of fright rolled down his round cheeks. “It’s too late,” he said pleadingly. “She’s already dead. You were—ghurrrk!”

  The libertine’s body spasmed. Arkhan hadn’t realised he’d stabbed the man until the point of his blade burst from Khenti’s back. The nobleman’s body sagged in death, and the immortal let it sink to the ground. He left his blade sticking out of Khenti’s chest, reached up with his right hand and grimly pulled the arrow shaft from his chest. The arrow in his back was more problematic. He groped at it for several moments, only succeeding in breaking off the shaft close to his torso. The exertion left him reeling. He turned his face to the night sky. How much stolen life did he have left, he wondered. More importantly, what should he do with it?

  If Neferata was dead, there was nothing left for him in Lahmia. Lamashizzar would have him killed on sight. On the other hand, if Khenti was wrong, and the conspirators hadn’t yet reached the queen…

  For a long while he stood, staring up at the sky, feeling cold and weak. He tried to think about endless, rolling dunes, and the citadel he’d built in the middle of the empty desert, but Arkhan’s mind kept coming back to the startling touch of a hand against his cheek, and the queen’s depthless eyes staring into his own.

  It was possible Khenti was wrong. In fact, it was more than possible. There could still be a chance to reach Neferata before Lamashizzar’s trap could spring shut. Or so Arkhan cared to believe.

  “Damn me,” he snarled up at the cold face of the moon. “First Nagash, and now this.” He bent forward and pulled his sword from Khenti’s chest. “When will I ever learn?”

  Gritting his teeth, Arkhan staggered down the trade road, towards Lahmia. With luck, his damned horse wouldn’t have run too far.

  TEN

  The Hour of the Dead

  Cripple Peak, in the 76th year of Khsar the Faceless

  (-1598 Imperial Reckoning)

  The storm was the worst of the season by far, and it broke upon the shores of the Sour Sea with little warning.

  It had been a cloudy, windy day, with sudden gusts of rain interspersed with long periods of drizzle—nothing out of the ordinary for that time of the year. But shortly after sundown the wind picked up, howling like a chorus of hungry ghosts across the barrow fields, and flickers of lightning danced behind the roiling clouds out to sea. The barbarians along the north coast heard the ominous rumble of thunder, saw the height of the waves dashing against the shore, and rushed to their low, rounded huts.

  Lowland tribes flocked to the hills, begging the hetmen for shelter from the coming storm.

  The reaction was altogether different among the Keepers of the Mountain, as the barbarian priests were known. Their lookouts reported the rising winds and the ominous clouds to the High Keeper, and after a moment’s thought he ordered the patrols of the barrow fields doubled until the storm had run its course. The High Keeper was an old and cunning man, or he never would have risen to claim the God’s Eye in the first place. The elder Keepers were certain that the grave-robbing monster who’d killed their brethren had been driven away by their hunting parties, but the High Keeper wasn’t convinced. He was certain that the creature was still close by, perhaps hiding somewhere on the mountain in spite of his order’s best efforts to find it. If so, the storm would draw it out of hiding. The wind and the rain would conceal its movements, providing the perfect opportunity to resume its grisly deeds. And when it did, the Keepers would be waiting.

  A few hours later, well past nightfall, the storm broke upon the coast in all its fury. The wind raged, lashing at the men out on the barrow fields with blinding sheets of rain. Visibility dropped to twenty feet, then fifteen, then ten; had the Keepers not known the plain like the backs of their hands, they would have been utterly disorientated. Even still, the patrols could do little more than huddle together against the furious gale and creep from one mound to the next, trusting that the Burning God would lead them to the monster if it were about.

  Then, around midnight, with the storm still scouring the plain, the patrols spied a pillar of green fire blazing fiercely to the south, towards the older barrow mounds. The sight lifted the Keepers’ hearts. At first, they believed their prayers had been answered, and, in a bitterly ironic sense, they were right.

  The four patrols made their way independently southward, converging on the source of the god’s own flame. They had learned their lesson after the first disastrous encounter with the monster. The ostentatious lantern-globes had been left behind, and the acolytes had been armed with bronze swords and spears from the fortress’ ancient armoury. The Keepers in each patrol had been entrusted with even more precious treasures: reliquaries of tarnished bronze, each more than a thousand years old, containing polished spheres of god-stone to fuel their invocations. It was more raw power than any of the Keepers had ever seen, much less controlled. Each patrol felt confident that they could deal with the monster on their own, and pressed forward as quickly as they could in hopes of securing the glory for themselves.

  Nagash stood in the eye of the raging storm, shielded on all sides by a whirling column of power. Beyond the pillar of fire, the tempest roared, clawing at the shield like a frenzied beast, while within the air was still, and silent save for the scratching of his dagger through the damp earth. Where the bronze knifepoint passed, the earth was left blackened and smouldering by its touch.

  The chunk of abn-i-khat burned like molten lead in his shrivelled stomach. He had carved a piece of stone the size of his fist from the centre of the Burning God’s eye and had forced it down his throat, and the tempest raging within his flesh made the storm above seem as gentle as
an evening breeze. He could feel every nerve, every muscle fibre, every inch of flesh and bone with sharp-edged detail. He felt every blade of grass beneath his feet, and every tiny mote of power within them—he could even feel the lingering vestiges of life force in the hide cloak that lay across his shoulders. A veritable sea of sensations raged within him from one moment to the next: it might have been pain, or pleasure, or a mingling of both. Nagash could not tell any longer. He was long past the point of making distinctions between the two.

  Yet his mind was absolutely, utterly clear. His thoughts were gleaming and sharp-etched as obsidian, and beggared the lightning for speed. What mighty deeds could he have accomplished in Khemri with such clarity of thought? The power of the Black Pyramid paled in comparison.

  The site he’d chosen for the great ritual was a flat region surrounded by four barrow mounds near the exact centre of the plain. He’d chosen the spot not only because it would allow him to cast his invocation over the entire area, but also because the pathways around the barrows would serve to channel the barbarian patrols in predictable ways. Nagash had no doubt that they would appear, once his work began in earnest.

  There were more of them than he expected, and by either luck or design they struck at more or less the same time. Thin cries rose and fell amid the howling gale as sword- and spear-wielding acolytes charged blindly across the open ground towards the beacon of flame. Behind them, tiny pinpoints of green light glowed like sullen coals as a dozen priests brandished their bronze reliquaries and made ready for battle.

  The necromancer straightened, gauging the acolytes’ approach. To his mind, they seemed ponderous and slow, stumbling haltingly across the wet ground towards him. When they were halfway to him, he raised his dagger skyward and reached out with his will.