“Praise the gods!” cried an elderly hierophant. The old man rose to his feet, his age-spotted hands rising skyward. “Praise be! We are delivered at last!”
The queen smiled fondly at the old man. Go on believing that, she thought. It will help convince the others.
“In the past, my husband believed it was wiser and more compassionate to focus on the needs of the living rather than the memories of the dead,” the queen continued. “And it is not for me to question the wisdom of his policies at this late date. But now that our cities are well on their way to recovery, and we have a plan to ensure our continued trade and prosperity, I believe that now is the time we moved to erase the last traces of Nagash’s infamy. Mahrak, the City of Hope, must be rebuilt. Khemri, the Living City, must be restored to her former glory once more.”
Everyone, even drunken King Teremun, stared in shock. Several of the priests began to whisper prayers of thanks to their gods, silent tears trickling down their lined cheeks. Neferata paused, letting the moment build, until finally King Shepret took the bait.
The old warrior-king of Rasetra put aside his beer and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.
“And how do you plan to oversee such a restoration?” he asked.
Neferata acknowledged the question with a respectful nod. “In truth, I wouldn’t presume to do such a thing at all,” she said, “not when there are better people, like yourself, who have already demonstrated a desire to undertake the effort. Rasetra was born from distant Khemri; the bloodline of her royal house runs in your veins. By rights, it should be for you and your children to determine the city’s future. I merely wish to share some of Lahmia’s riches to make the task possible.”
Shepret didn’t know how to respond at first. That wasn’t nearly the response he’d expected. “How… how much do you propose?” he asked.
“Ten thousand talents of gold each year, until such time as we agree that the city’s reconstruction is complete,” the queen replied.
King Telemun gasped in shock. Queen Amunef’s eyes went as wide as dinner-plates.
King Naeem drew in a long breath and pressed his palms against the tabletop. The look on his face hinted that he was afraid he might be dreaming. “What of Mahrak, great queen?” he said. “Surely you can do no less for the City of Hope.”
Again, Neferata nodded. “Nor shall I. You shall have ten thousand talents of gold each year for you and Mahrak’s surviving hierophants to use for the city’s reconstruction.”
Pandemonium ensued. Mahrak’s priests erupted in loud cries of joy, praising King Naeem and Queen Neferata with equal fervour. Queen Amunet rose from her seat and went around to speak intently to King Shepret, whose eyes were half-glazed with shock. King Telemun threw back his head and roared for more wine.
They were fabulous sums of money, far richer than either ruler could have reasonably hoped for, but in truth they were little more than half of what Lahmia had been paying annually to the Empire. Lahmia would still profit, and while Rasetra and Quatar would spend decades, even centuries, focusing their efforts on rebuilding two cities that would never again enjoy the wealth and power that they’d once possessed. By the time they realised they’d been duped, Lahmia’s preeminence would be unassailable. It was the crowning triumph to decades of carefully laid schemes.
“LIES!”
The shout cut through the din like the peal of a war horn. Khalida was on her feet, hands clenched into fists and trembling with rage. Her face was pale and her expression anguished.
“Queen Neferata lies,” Khalida declared. “It’s not the blessings of Asaph that lend her beauty and unnatural youth, but vile necromancy! She consorts with monsters, and practises the damned sorcery of Nagash himself!”
Neferata stared at her cousin in stunned silence. “Khalida?” she finally managed to say. “How… how can you say such things?”
“I have a witness!” Khalida snarled. She pointed to the woman seated beside her. “Aiyah was there when the pale-skinned creature appeared at the Women’s Palace with your body in his arms! She witnessed the rituals, and the obscene bloodletting! It was a miracle she managed to escape the palace and reach Lybaras with the truth!”
Now Neferata knew where she’d seen the girl before. Aiyah the handmaiden would not meet the queen’s eyes, as though she feared that her very soul would be forfeit if she did so. Betrayed, by a mere handmaiden? The very idea galled her.
“I don’t know what the little fool is talking about,” Neferata shot back. “You’d take the word of a handmaiden over that of the rightful Queen of Lahmia?”
Khalida continued, as though she hadn’t heard. “How long?” she demanded. “How long had you been worshipping at the feet of the Usurper? I always wondered why you never aged, cousin. Did Lamashizzar know? Is that why he poisoned you?”
Neferata’s hand came down on the table like a thunderclap. “You go too far!” she snapped, transmuting shock and sudden fear into burning anger. “How dare you sit at my table, share my bread and salt, and then accuse me of such terrible things, when I alone in all of Nehekhara still bear the mark of the gods’ favour!”
“Beware, cousin! If the gods still hear us, they will not suffer such blasphemy lightly!” Khalida shot back.
“It is you who blaspheme, Khalida!” Neferata cried. “The innocent have nothing to fear from the gods!”
“Then challenge me,” Khalida said. “Prove your innocence beyond a shadow of a doubt.” A glint of triumph shone in the warrior queen’s eye. “Let us cross blades, and see who the gods truly favour.”
Too late, Neferata realised she’d gone too far. Khalida had laid the trap, and she’d charged headlong into it. She did not dare refuse, especially not in front of a gaggle of priests and hierophants. It would undermine everything she had worked so hard to achieve.
“So be it,” she said numbly. “Abhorash, bring me a blade.”
The preparations were made largely in silence. Lord Ankhat led Neferata away from the table to the far side of the garden clearing. For a wonder, there were no clouds overhead, and the queen marvelled at the vault of stars glittering coldly over the palace. Khalida followed several minutes later; King Anhur dogged her heels, whispering urgently, but she paid him no mind. She had bound back her voluminous sleeves with a pair of leather cords, and the hem of her feast robe had been pinned back so that it wouldn’t tangle her feet. Neferata saw that Khalida was wearing sturdy leather sandals instead of slippers, the kind that soldiers wore on the battlefield. On any other day it might have amused her, but now the sight left her cold. She was planning this all along, the queen realised. One way or another, this evening was going to end in blood.
Abhorash appeared before her, gripping a bronze blade in his hands. The champion’s expression was stricken. He held out the hilt to her; it took Neferata a moment to realise he meant her to take it. The leather wrapping felt cold against her palm. The weapon was short and straight, like an oversized dagger about two feet long, but it seemed to fit her hand well. She stared morbidly at the tip of the blade. “Not iron?” she asked.
The champion shook his head. “You’ll notice that Khalida isn’t using iron either,” he said, nodding slightly in her direction. “Bronze is lighter and quicker. She was hoping you’d take iron and give her one more advantage.” He paused, pressing his lips together as if uncertain what to say next. “Have you any training, great one? Any at all?”
“Don’t be stupid,” Neferata snapped.
Abhorash grimaced. “Then you’re going to have to make this quick,” he said to her. “You’re faster and stronger than she is. She doesn’t know it yet. Use that to your advantage.” He reached forward and gripped her wrists tightly, his gaze burning into hers. “And when you strike, don’t hold back. She’s not your cousin any longer. Khalida will kill you if she can.”
Neferata pulled her hands away. “Let’s be done with this,” she said, and stepped into the circle formed by the assembled crowd.
&nb
sp; Khalida gently pushed her husband aside and went to stand before Neferata. She carried a bronze sword nearly identical to the queen’s, though Khalida held hers easily, as though it were an extension of her hand. Her face was emotionless now, her eyes cold and remote, like an executioner.
Neferata surveyed the crowd, seeking out the priests. There were formalities that had to be observed. “Is there a priest or priestess of Asaph in attendance?”
The priests and hierophants shifted uncomfortably. The eldest shrugged his narrow shoulders. “That honour falls to you, great one,” he said.
Neferata growled under her breath. She closed her eyes and raised her hands to the heavens, struggling to remember the proper words.
“Great Asaph, goddess of beauty and the mysteries of the world, we beseech you to preside over this contest of arms and judge it fairly, lending your strength to the righteous and casting down the false claims of the wicked. Let justice prevail in your name.”
“Let justice prevail,” Khalida echoed faintly, and rushed forward, her sandals gliding on the grass, as though hurrying to her cousin’s embrace. Neferata saw the glinting tip of her blade at nearly the last moment and tried to leap aside. She swung her own weapon in a wide, clumsy block, and connected with a discordant clang of metal.
Khalida’s blade flickered again, and the point tugged at the billowing sleeve of Neferata’s left arm. The queen circled right, trying to get away from the slashing sword, her own weapon hanging forgotten in her hand. She felt a burning pain in her left hand and jerked it back with a cry. Khalida’s blade had slashed cleanly across her palm. Neferata stared at the wound in horror, watching beads of dark blood well up from the cut.
But Khalida never paused. She leapt forward, grabbing Neferata’s sword wrist and stabbing at the queen’s chest. Neferata felt the point of Khalida’s sword pierce her robe and sink into the skin beneath her left breast. Without thinking, she seized her cousin’s sword wrist with her wounded left hand before Khalida could drive her weapon home.
They grappled for an agonising moment, nose-to-nose, feeling each other’s gasping breaths against their skin. Khalida dug in her heels and pushed for all she was worth. Neferata could feel the muscles working in her cousin’s arms as she tried to drive the sword deeper. Khalida’s lips were drawn back in a rictus of fury, her dark eyes burning with battle-lust.
Cold terror clenched Neferata’s throat. Without thinking, she drew upon her power and shoved Khalida backwards. Her cousin was hurled off her feet, flying back for nearly five feet before landing hard on her back. Khalida turned the impact into a backward shoulder roll and sprang swiftly back onto her feet. Blood glistened on the tip of her sword.
Now she knows how strong I am, Neferata thought. She won’t make that mistake again.
They circled one another for a moment, contemplating their next moves. Neferata’s left hand ached dully, and the wound in her chest felt like it was on fire. Abhorash’s words echoed dully in her mind. You’re going to have to make this quick.
She stared at Khalida, her eyes pleading. “Don’t do this,” she whispered.
But Khalida was beyond hearing. With a snarl she rushed forward again, sword held low. She was on the queen in moments. Neferata tried to twist aside again, but felt the point of Khalida’s blade dig into her hip. She cried out, groping instinctively for Khalida’s wrist again, but the attack was only a feint. Swift as a snake, Khalida jerked the blade away and brought it around in a swift, looping motion, straight for the side of Neferata’s throat.
She saw the blade arcing towards her out of the corner of her eye. With a scream, Neferata called upon her power once more and surged forwards, deeper into Khalida’s embrace. Her cousin’s sword missed its mark by inches, carving a furrow across the back of Neferata’s neck.
The queen held her cousin for just a moment, and she could feel Khalida’s heart hammering wildly through the thin fabric of her robe. Then they parted. Khalida took one step back, her expression slack. Her gaze fell to the hilt of Neferata’s blade, jutting at a downward angle from her side. Slowly, wonderingly she grasped the hilt with her left hand and with a strangled gasp, pulled the weapon free. Dark blood poured down Khalida’s side.
Neferata watched in horror as her cousin sank to the ground. An agonised cry split the stunned silence. It was Anhur, his face a mask of anguish.
The queen fell to her knees beside Khalida. Her terror was gone, replaced with a bottomless well of sorrow. Without thinking, she pressed her hand to the wound in her cousin’s side, but the bleeding would not stop. The warm fluid ran over her fingers and stained the sleeve of her robe. Khalida made a choked sound and tried to move, but she was already growing weak. Her eyes were open, searching wildly about for something or someone.
“Oh, gods,” Neferata whispered. “Oh, great gods.” Her eyes burned, but no tears would come. She laid a trembling hand against Khalida’s cheek, staining it with blood. “Forgive me, little hawk. Please, please forgive me…”
She could still be saved, Neferata realised. She took her lower lip in her teeth and bit down hard, tasting blood. She bit until her lip was bitter with the taste.
Neferata took Khalida’s head in her hands and turned it until their eyes met. She lowered her face, until all they could see was one another’s eyes.
“Kiss me,” she said to Khalida. “Kiss me, little hawk, and you’ll live forever.”
Khalida stiffened. Tears welled in her eyes. Her head trembled, and her hands pressed weakly at Neferata’s shoulders. When she spoke, her voice was almost too faint to hear.
“No,” she said.
“Please,” Neferata said. She pressed closer, and felt Khalida push back with the last of her strength. “I never wanted this. I never wanted any of it, but Lahmia needs me. Please, let’s kiss and be friends again, like before.”
Khalida resisted a moment more, and then Neferata felt her body relax. With a gasp of relief, the queen pressed her bloody lips to Khalida’s.
Her cousin did not return the kiss. Khalida’s body was utterly still.
After a long, painful moment, Neferata raised her head again and stared into Khalida’s vacant eyes. Slowly, she became aware of people shouting, and a man’s voice wailing in misery. Hands grasped Neferata’s shoulders and pulled her away from Khalida’s body. Her robe was heavy with blood.
Ankhat stepped close, whispering in her ear. “Say something,” he urged. “Everyone is waiting to hear the goddess’ verdict.”
Neferata’s gaze fell to her cousin’s body, and felt her heart break.
“Justice is served,” she said in a hollow voice.
SIXTEEN
The Glory of Nagash
North of the Plain of Bones, in the 96th year of Ptra the Glorious
(-1350 Imperial Reckoning)
Cold, dead hands seized the priests and dragged them towards the towering wooden statue of Malakh that stood in the hill fort’s ceremonial square. Pieces of splintered wood, scavenged from the fort’s shattered gates, had already been piled around the statue’s base and soaked with pitch from the temple’s own storehouses.
The Forsaken priests screamed and kicked, crying out to their god to bring down bloody vengeance on the invaders, but the skeletal executioners paid them no heed. The four old men were all that remained of the god’s temple at Maghur’kan, the chief hill fort of the northmen’s petty empire. Those members of the cult that hadn’t died in the bitter defence of the main gate were dragged from the temple cellars and their bodies left to bleed out in the muddy street.
Every man, woman and child still living after the month-long siege of Maghur’kan had been herded to the edges of the square to bear witness to the death of their god. The night air trembled with their muffled wails. Most were so weak from hunger that they could manage little else.
Nagash sat upon a palanquin of polished oak at the southern end of the square, surrounded by the skeletal warriors of his bodyguard and a score of northmen vassals drawn from hill
forts conquered during the long war. The struggle against the Forsaken hadn’t lasted years, or decades, but centuries—nearly two hundred and fifty years since that first, confused night battle upon the Plain of Bones.
The northmen had proven to be mighty warriors, and their witches possessed of great skill and cunning. Nagash had lost count of the number of battles that had been fought down the years, but in most cases the Forsaken had given as good as they’d got. Ultimately, the path to victory had rested on the simple fact that the Forsaken had to eat, and his army did not. By keeping up constant pressure on one hill fort at a time, he prevented the northmen from adequately tending their fields and setting back enough food for the winters to come, until finally they had been so weakened by hunger and sickness that they couldn’t resist Nagash’s constant attacks. And so the northmen had been enslaved, one hill fort at a time, until only Maghur’kan remained.
The necromancer watched as the priests were lashed to the great totem of their god. Off to the east, near the circular wall of the hill fort, one of the Yaghur let out a bone-chilling howl. Children squealed in terror, burying themselves in their mothers’ skirts. No doubt the barbarians were feasting well tonight.
When the ropes had been drawn tight, Nagash rose from his seat and stepped onto the stinking mud of the square. Heavy, leather robes, faced with polished bronze medallions inscribed with runes of protection, flapped about his lean limbs. A deep hood, its hem ornamented with tiny disks of gold, concealed all but the flickering flames of his eyes. There was a dry clatter of bone as his bodyguard made to follow him, but he held them back with a wave of his hand and a curt mental command.
His legion of undead servants had grown so vast that he could no longer keep them all under control at the same time. Most functioned more or less autonomously, operating on a strict set of commands according to their function. It was an arrangement he’d perfected out of necessity during the long campaigns in the northland. Unfortunately he’d yet to find a way to impose the same degree of control on his human minions without ultimately killing them. He was instead forced to rely upon intangibles such as loyalty and devotion, which, as far as he was concerned, was a kind of sorcery all its own.
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