02 - Nagash the Unbroken

by Mike Lee - (ebook by Undead)

  The Women’s Palace was echoing and empty. For more than a century, the sprawling sanctuary housed only Neferata herself, along with the bare minimum of servants and handmaidens that protocol demanded the king provide. And yet his presence in the dusty halls was detected almost at once. Within minutes, the immortal found himself surrounded on all sides by pale, outraged women, some of whom were armed with small, wicked-looking knives. Had he been alone, he had no doubt that they would have set upon him like a pride of angry lionesses. Only the sight of the queen’s motionless corpse held them at bay. They paced alongside him in mute shock for close to an hour while he wandered aimlessly through the sprawling palace.

  Finally, his patience stretched to the breaking point, he turned to the women and asked where the queen’s bedchamber lay. They stared at him as though he were mad—all but one young woman, dressed in fine robes, who stepped forward and silently beckoned for him to follow.

  Her name was Aiyah. Much later, Arkhan learned she had served Princess Khalida as one of her handmaidens during the last year she’d lived at the palace. Despite her youth, she was calm and controlled in the face of catastrophe. She led Arkhan to the queen’s chambers, then banished the crowd of servants to the outer corridor while the immortal laid out Neferata’s body on the bed. The handmaiden returned as the immortal was unpacking Nagash’s tomes, and waited quietly by the door. No protests, no tedious questions or hysterics. She simply waited, patient and composed, ready to serve the queen in whatever capacity she could. Arkhan’s first instinct was to dismiss her, but the more he considered the difficulties of trying to work inside the confines of the sanctuary, the more he had to admit that he was going to need her help.

  He knew that it wouldn’t be very long before Lamashizzar learned where he’d taken the queen: hours, perhaps a day at most. So Arkhan told the handmaiden a partial truth—that the king had conspired to poison Neferata because he resented her claims to equality. Aiyah accepted the story without comment while the immortal took ink and brushes and began to inscribe out a ritual circle on the bedchamber floor. At some point during the process, the handmaiden slipped quietly from the room again, and he knew that his tale was winging its way through the Women’s Palace. Arkhan reckoned that once the story was known, the palace servants would block any attempt by Lamashizzar to enter the sanctuary in search of the queen. As it was, the palace guard would baulk at any command to enter the forbidden halls of the palace; even though the palace was technically open now, hundreds of years of tradition carried a weight that was very difficult to overcome. That left only the king’s fellow conspirators, and Arkhan was certain he could deal with any of them save for Abhorash—if the king’s champion was even involved. He still had no idea how deep the conspiracy went.

  The rest of that first night was spent sitting vigil at the queen’s side and poring through the Usurper’s tomes in search of an incantation or ritual that might banish the poison from the queen’s blood. Hours passed, and Neferata began to turn pale. Her breath was still very faint, and only Arkhan’s preternatural senses allowed him to hear a heartbeat. So far, the elixir was holding the poison at bay, but she was clearly weakening. As dawn began to break, far out to sea, Arkhan was no closer to finding a solution. He had Aiyah draw the curtains tight across the tall windows and continued his search. By the time night fell once more, he still had nothing to show for his efforts, and the queen’s condition was becoming steadily worse.

  Growing desperate, Arkhan set the books aside and placed the queen’s body inside the ritual circle. Aiyah watched the immortal spread open three magical tomes on the floor by the circle, then gather up the inkpot and horsehair brush once more.

  “Undress her,” he said to the handmaiden, and then began riffling through the pages of the three books.

  The young woman hesitated. “What do you intend to do?” she asked coolly.

  Arkhan shot the handmaiden a hard stare. “She will need help to overcome the poison in her veins,” he said. “So far, her… blood is strong enough to at least slow the venom’s progress.” He paused, studying a detailed drawing of a human figure on one yellowed page. After a moment he shook his head and continued his search. “So I must find a way to increase her vigour enough to overcome it.”

  The handmaiden took a step towards the circle and frowned. Her dark eyes lingered on the strange markings painted on the floor. “I could send for an apothecary,” she offered. “The priestesses of Neru have tended to the health of the royal line for centuries. They have experience with poisons—”

  “If I thought there was an herb or potion that could save her, I would have carried her to the temple myself,” Arkhan snapped.

  Aiyah took a deep breath. “But this,” she began. “What you’re doing—”

  “What I am doing is trying to save your queen,” the immortal said. He paused in his search, studied another image, and nodded to himself. Arkhan removed the inkpot’s ceramic stopper. “The longer we wait, the weaker she becomes,” he told her.

  The handmaiden hesitated a moment more, brows knitted in consternation, before making her decision. She knelt carefully within the circle and began to deftly pull away Neferata’s robes.

  Arkhan laid out the runes with care. The work took hours, winding in intricate ribbons from Neferata’s scalp to her toes. The immortal was conscious of each minute slipping away; it seemed to him that her skin was growing steadily cooler beneath his touch.

  It was well past the hour of the dead by the time the preparations were complete. Arkhan stood and pressed the book into Aiyah’s, hands. “Go and stand at the edge of the circle, by her feet,” he said. “When I begin, repeat the words as I say them. They are marked on the page there.”

  Aiyah looked dubious, but accepted the tome nonetheless. “Is that all?”

  “Do you wish the queen to live?” he asked.

  “Of course!”

  “Then make that uppermost in your mind,” Arkhan told her. “Think of nothing else. With luck, it will be enough.”

  Arkhan took his place on the opposite side of the circle. Standing at the head of the queen, he spread his arms and began to chant.

  The ritual was little different from the incantation of reaping that was used to create Nagash’s elixir. He had made several modifications to the arrangement of the runes to account for the elixir already present in her body. He wasn’t interested in transmutation so much as enhancing what was already there. In theory, the problem seemed simple enough.

  Drawing on the surfeit of elixir filling his body, Arkhan poured a steady stream of power into the incantation. At once the air grew heavy above the circle, and he saw the queen’s body begin to tremble. Tiny wisps of steam curled from the sigils painted on her skin.

  The immortal felt the elixir boil inside him and directed the released energy into the arcane words rolling from his lips. And, within the circle, Neferata’s body suddenly spasmed. Her back arched painfully, arms splayed and chest thrust skyward. Arkhan could see the tendons in her neck and along the backs of her hands grow taut as bowstrings; her mouth gaped, emitting a billowing gout of black vapour.

  Arkhan watched as the queen’s skin began to change. Her rich, brown skin, already pale, began to lose all trace of colour, taking on the cold tone of bleached linen or alabaster. He stopped the incantation abruptly, fearing that he might already be too late. The backlash of forces tore through him; he staggered, his hand going to his chest as invisible knives tore through his vitals. A thin trickle of ichor ran down his chin.

  The immortal sank slowly to his knees. Neferata’s body had gone limp again, shrouded in tendrils of steam. The runes painted on her skin had already begun to fade, running together in dark blue threads that formed pools on the stone floor. Aiyah sank to her knees, her eyes wide with shock. She crawled gingerly into the circle and laid a trembling hand against Neferata’s flank. The handmaiden jerked her fingers away as though stung.

  “She’s cold,” Aiyah said. “Colder than the dese
rt night. What happened? What have you done?”

  Arkhan stared at the queen’s near-lifeless form. The runes had all but melted away in the heat that had radiated from her skin. Beneath the bluish tinge of the ink, he could see that her veins had turned black at her temples and throat.

  The immortal rubbed the back of a hand across his lips. It came away slick with a film of ichor. Anger and revulsion roiled in his chest. What horror had Lamashizzar unleashed?

  “I don’t know,” Arkhan said in a hollow voice.

  Five more days went by. Arkhan never relented, searching through Nagash’s books again and again for something he could use to defeat the sphinx’s venom. The queen scarcely breathed now; her flesh was cold and stiff as marble. Her heart still beat, stubbornly driving the elixir through her veins, but it had grown inexorably weaker with each passing night. Every ritual he attempted, no matter how great or small, only seemed to worsen her condition. It seemed that the sphinx’s deadly venom had somehow bonded with Neferata’s ensorcelled blood, transforming it from within. Any attempt to increase the elixir’s vigour empowered the poison as well.

  Now, as the seventh night fell upon the city, Arkhan believed he knew the answer. He sat at Neferata’s writing desk and studied the words and symbols of the incantation one last time, checking carefully to ensure he’d made no errors. Satisfied, he took the large sheet of paper and set it on the floor at the edge of the circle. Next, he laid out the tools for the ritual with care, and then went to kneel at the queen’s side. The immortal took her limp body in his arms and carried Neferata to her bed. He laid her body gently upon the silken sheets, and then returned to the freshly-drawn ritual he’d made. Arkhan took off his sword belt, and then let his robes fall to the floor. He turned to Aiyah and spread his arms.

  “Follow the diagrams exactly,” he said to her. “The symbols and their positions are crucial, or the energies will not conduct properly.”

  The handmaiden nodded, but Arkhan could see the weariness and apprehension in her eyes. She had laboured every bit as hard as he had, yet without the benefits of the elixir to sustain her. When she wasn’t participating in Arkhan’s rituals she was trying to glean information about Lamashizzar and the other members of the cabal. Despite her best efforts, however, there was no way to find out who had chosen to side with the king in the wake of Neferata’s disappearance. All that could be learned was that the king was incommunicado, conferring with his advisors. Arkhan knew he was simply waiting for news that the queen had succumbed at last. With luck, the king’s strategy could be used against him. He had ceded the initiative to Neferata, if only she could make use of it.

  This was their last chance. If this ritual failed, Arkhan was certain that the queen would not last until the dawn.

  Aiyah stepped forward, brush and inkpot in hand. She studied the paper carefully for a moment, then dipped the brush in the inkpot and went to work. Her brushstrokes were tentative at first, but her confidence increased steadily as the hours went by and the ribbons of arcane symbols wove their way along Arkhan’s skin. Still, it was close to dawn by the time the last symbols were inscribed upon the immortal’s flesh.

  “Well done,” Arkhan said, and hoped it was true. There was no way he could tell for certain. “Now, quickly, take your place at the circle. There is very little time left.”

  The immortal went and stood in the centre of the circle. “No matter what happens to me, do not falter,” he told the handmaiden. “Complete the incantation, no matter what. Do you understand?”

  Aiyah nodded. Her eyes were now wide with fear.

  “Then let us begin,” he said gravely. “We are almost out of time.”

  As before, they chanted the incantation together. At once, the immortal felt his veins begin to burn as the ritual tapped into his remaining reserves of elixir. But rather than draw out the stolen power, this ritual was meant to shape it instead, transforming it into a tool designed for a very specific purpose. Arkhan gritted his teeth as stabbing pains shot through his torso and limbs. His vision began to dissolve into a reddish fog, and a hollow roaring filled his ears. His skin drew painfully tight, until he thought it would split apart, but through it all, his chant never faltered. He’d suffered far worse in the past.

  Time lost all meaning for the immortal. The incantation went on forever, and the agony only grew worse, until it was as boundless as the desert itself. Arkhan’s voice was little more than a ragged howl of pain, but he still spat out the words that kept the incantation going. His entire body was afire; a small part of his mind was certain that his flesh and bones were melting in the heat.

  An eternity passed. He did not feel the culmination of the ritual when it finally arrived; for him, there was only a shift in the roaring whirlwind that filled his ears, signifying that Aiyah had finished her chant. It took several long moments before she could make him understand anything else.

  “Now?” her voice echoed in his skull. It sounded small and far away.

  Arkhan tried to see beyond the red mist that filled his vision. He nodded, or at least he thought that he did. “The… knife…” he gasped. The words sounded impossibly loud.

  Aiyah let the page fall from her fingers. Her gaze fell to the small, curved knife at her feet. The edge, honed to a razor’s sharpness, gleamed bright in the lamplight. When she tried to speak again, her voice caught in her throat. “Are—are you certain?”

  The immortal responded with a tortured groan that made the handmaiden flinch. “Do it!” he moaned. His eyes were orbs of dark red, the pupils completely obscured, and yet she could feel the weight of his stare. “This is… her only hope,” Arkhan continued. “She is certain… to die… otherwise.”

  Aiyah took a deep breath. Swiftly, she bent and took up the knife. It felt terribly heavy in her hand.

  She crossed to the bed. But for her unnaturally white skin, the queen might have been sleeping, lost in a deep lotus-dream. Aiyah laid a trembling hand upon the queen’s forehead, grimacing at how cold she felt.

  “Asaph forgive me,” the handmaiden said faintly. Then she took the knife and sliced open the side of Neferata’s throat.

  Black liquid, hot and foul-smelling, poured from the wound and spread across the silken sheets. Neferata shuddered faintly, then went deathly still.

  “It’s done,” the handmaiden said, stepping back from the bed to avoid the rain of droplets pattering on the floor.

  “Good,” the immortal replied. He climbed unsteadily to his feet. He beckoned to her. “Help me. Quickly.”

  Aiyah hurried to Arkhan and took his outstretched hand. She led him, stumbling, to the queen’s side.

  The immortal knelt beside her, leaning in until his face was inches from hers. He nodded. “Not long now,” he rasped. “Hand me the blade.”

  Aiyah handed over the knife and stepped back, wringing her hands. “I never imagined there would be so much,” she said, staring in horror at the spreading pool of ichor. “I’ve killed her. She’s going to die!”

  “It must be done,” Arkhan insisted. “Her blood has been corrupted. Can’t you see? We have to remove it, or she is doomed.”

  The immortal watched in silence for another minute, watching the flood of ichor slowly ebb away. When it had become no more than a trickle, he took the knife in his left hand and pressed the point into the skin of his right forearm, just behind the wrist. He cut deep, slicing open one of the major veins. There was no pain. All he could feel now was fear.

  The knife clanged to the floor. Left hand trembling, he cupped the back of Neferata’s head and raised it from the sodden pillow. “Live, oh queen,” he said, his voice shaking as he pressed the pulsing wound to her pale lips. “Drink of me, and live.”

  Arkhan felt her body tremble as the ichor touched her lips. His skin tingled as her lips brushed the inside of his forearm; they moved against his skin, almost like a kiss, and then she began to drink.

  “Yes… yes!” Arkhan breathed. The red mist began to recede. “Drink!”
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br />   And she did. Hungrily, greedily, with gathering strength, she drew the liquid from the wound. Her mouth opened, teeth pressing into his flesh. Arkhan clenched his fist. As he watched, the cut in her neck closed up with startling speed.

  “It’s working!” he gasped. “Aiyah, do you see? It’s working!”

  The roaring in his ears was receding. Within seconds he could see clearly again, and the pain had begun to fade. Arkhan’s muscles felt loose and weak, and a chill settled into his bones. Neferata still drank from him, her eyes clamped tightly shut.

  And then, without warning, her body began to convulse. Arkhan felt the muscles in her neck writhe like serpents. She tore herself from his grasp, her mouth agape and her chin stained dark with fluids. The queen thrashed upon the bed, arms and legs flailing. A cloud of steam boiled up from her throat, followed by a long, terrible howl.

  Arkhan watched in horror as the queen’s body began to change. Her flesh shrivelled, stretching the skin across her bones, and her lustrous, black hair grew faded and brittle. Neferata’s eyes sank into their sockets, and her cheeks turned gaunt, transforming her face into a ghoulish, bestial mask.

  Shrieking in agony, Neferata reached for him with one flailing hand. It clawed at the sheets, just inches away, but Arkhan could not bring himself to touch her.

  Neferata’s screams turned to a choking rattle. She collapsed back upon the bed. Her head turned towards Arkhan, and the immortal saw that her eyes were wide and staring. They were still vivid green, but the pupils were slitted, like those of a cat.

  She stared at him for barely a moment, her expression filled with pain, and then all the air went out of her lungs and her body went limp. Arkhan heard Aiyah let out a long, heart-wrenching moan.

  Neferata, Daughter of the Moon and Queen of Lahmia, was dead.

  TWELVE

  Apotheosis

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