02 - Nagash the Unbroken

by Mike Lee - (ebook by Undead)

  When he was finally recalled by his august father, the prince left for the Silk Lands with two more vials of the queen’s blood, and promises of much more in the future. But shortly after Xian’s return, all contact with the Empire abruptly ceased, and all foreigners were barred from its trade cities on pain of death. It would be more than a century before contact was restored, whereupon it was learned that the old emperor had met with sudden misfortune, and issues of succession had turned violent. Prince Xian disappeared into the chaos of the civil wars that followed, and none knew his fate. The current emperor’s view on Nehekhara was one of benign disinterest.

  “What have we been doing with all the money that was supposed to be going to the army?” she inquired.

  “Some of it went to the navy,” Ankhat said. “Most of it went to expanding the City Guard and adding patrols to the trade routes across the Golden Plain.”

  “And much good that did us,” Neferata replied sourly. “No wonder Zandri feels free to withhold tribute.” She pointed at Ankhat. “That policy changes now. How long will it take to raise a new army and train it?”

  Ankhat blinked. “I don’t know for certain,” he replied. “I seem to recall that it took your father decades—”

  “That was because he was negotiating with the damned Easterners,” Neferata said, and then cast a guilty look at Naaima.

  “Abhorash could tell us,” Ankhat replied. “If he was here, of course.”

  Neferata glanced at Ushoran. “What of Abhorash?” she asked. “Any word?”

  The Lord of Masks shrugged once again. “There are rumours he was sighted in Rasetra last year,” he said, “The last I knew for certain, he was heading into the jungles, but it’s been twenty years now. He could very well be dead.”

  Abhorash had been the last member of the cabal to accept the poisoned cup; later even than Naaima by more than a decade. Having witnessed the voluntary transformation of the rest of Neferata’s cabal, he wanted no part of an existence that would prevent him from fighting on the battlefield. He believed that more than a hundred and fifty years of loyal service to the throne was enough to ensure that he would never betray the cabal, but Neferata was not convinced. Finally, she lost patience. When he came to the palace to receive his elixir from the queen, she gave him the poisoned cup instead.

  He had been furious upon awakening as an immortal, and refused to accept what he had become. Incredibly, he’d denied his thirst for many nights, as though it were a sickness that could be overcome, until Neferata had begun to think the mighty warrior might actually waste away. But then, one moonless night, Abhorash succumbed. By the time the sun had risen once more, twelve people—men, women, even a small child—had been slain across the length of the city. Ankhat and Ushoran had scoured the city in search of Abhorash on the following night, but the champion was nowhere to be found. He’d fled the city, and no one in Lahmia had seen him since.

  “Abhorash isn’t dead,” Neferata declared. “There’s nothing in the southern jungles—or anywhere else—capable of killing him. When he discovers that for himself, I expect we will see him again.” She glanced at Ankhat. “In the meantime, my lord, we need an army.”

  Ankhat bowed. “I will inform the queen of the new policy at once.”

  A group of priestesses slipped into the chamber, bearing goblets to quench the court’s thirst. Midnight already. They’d been discussing matters of state for six hours. The notion surprised and dismayed her.

  Neferata accepted the first goblet and drank it down, then watched the others drink. The transformation affected each of them differently, she knew. They all dealt with the thirst in their own ways, and it was reflected in the way that they fed. Ankhat took the proffered cup, studied its depths, and then drank it slowly, like wine. Lord Ushoran took his cup in an almost absent fashion, his brooding mind distracted by one intrigue or another. He drank the blood in swift gulps; for him it was fuel, and nothing more. Zurhas eyed his goblet with dread, yet he accepted the cup with a grimace and drank it down in a single swallow. Naaima accepted hers with studied calm, as with everything else she did, and drank it without evident interest or emotion.

  W’soran shook his head curtly, refusing the cup as he always did. Neferata wondered at his appetites, and how he managed to indulge them.

  Once the priestesses had withdrawn, Neferata sighed. “Is there anything else to discuss?”

  Ankhat and Ushoran consulted their notes. “More reports in Numas of strange clouds seen over the mountains to the east,” Ushoran said. “King Ahmose is thinking about sending an expedition to find its source.”

  “Much good may it do him,” Neferata said. “Anything else?”

  To her surprise, W’soran spoke up. “I have a request,” he said.

  “Go on.”

  The old scholar raised his chin, almost in challenge. “I would like access to Nagash’s books for a time,” he said. “I want to begin a new field of research.”

  “And what would that be?” Neferata asked, though she had suspicions of what it might be.

  “An aspect of necromancy,” W’soran began.

  “We’ve discussed this before,” Neferata growled. “Many, many times—”

  “Not raising the dead,” W’soran interjected. “Not that. My interest lies in raising spirits and communicating with them. If I recall, Nagash made some notes regarding summoning circles in one of his books.”

  Neferata thought it over. “And what do you hope to gain from this?” she asked.

  W’soran shrugged. “Knowledge, of course. What else?”

  Her first instinct was to refuse, but she knew that W’soran would ask for her reasons, and she had none. “Very well,” she said. “But I expect to be kept apprised of your efforts.”

  “Of course,” W’soran said, and gave a small bow of gratitude.

  “There is also the matter of Khemri,” added Lord Ankhat. “The rebuilding of the city is nearly complete, and the inhabitants are clamouring for a king. Will you approve of such a thing?”

  The news surprised Neferata, though she chided herself that it had been centuries since she’d made her pledge to help the late King Shepret restore the ruined city.

  “I see no reason why not,” she said at length. “It’s been almost four hundred years. Nagash is nothing more than an evil memory now. And the sooner that Khemri has a king, the sooner we can stop subsidising the city’s construction.”

  “Perhaps it’s best to wait and see if the would-be king lives to claim the throne,” Ushoran said wryly.

  Neferata turned to the spymaster. “What does that mean?” she asked.

  “The Queen of Rasetra is with child, but she has never been a woman of robust health,” Ushoran said. “The pregnancy has been very difficult. From what I gather, there is little chance that the baby will survive.”

  Ankhat nodded. “She is here right now, in fact, praying at the temple.”

  “What?” Neferata said, sitting straight upon the throne.

  “She’s holding vigil in the presence of the goddess, praying for her child’s life,” Ushoran explained. “A pity it will do her little good.”

  Neferata did not reply at first. The silence stretched, until Ushoran began to look uncomfortable.

  “Is there something wrong, great one?” he asked.

  Again, Neferata did not immediately reply. When she did finally speak, it caught them all by surprise.

  “Nagash is just an evil memory now,” she repeated. “A legend. One that grows more nebulous each year.”

  Ankhat frowned. “So we hope,” he said warily.

  Neferata nodded—thoughtfully at first, then more decisively. “The baby will live,” she declared.

  Ushoran gave her a bemused look. “How can you be so certain?”

  “Because I am going to save him,” Neferata replied. As she spoke, the idea took shape in her mind. “The queen will remain here in Lahmia as our guest, for the duration of the pregnancy, and I will give her an elixir mixed w
ith my blood.”

  The news stunned the cabal. Ankhat and W’soran looked visibly shaken. “What makes you think she would agree to such a thing?” Ankhat said.

  “She travelled, heavily pregnant, for weeks, just for the chance to pray for her son’s life,” Neferata snapped. “That woman is prepared to do anything to save her child.”

  Ushoran frowned. “But to what end?”

  “When the child is born, he will remain here until his majority,” Neferata declared. “It’s past time that the heirs apparent to the great cities came to Lahmia for their education.”

  The spymaster gaped at her. “Hostages. You’re talking about hostages.”

  “Not at all,” Neferata replied. “I am talking about shaping the future of all Nehekhara. Think of it: what if, in a hundred years, we ruled an empire from here to Zandri, and we did so openly?”

  “The other cities would never stand for it!” Ankhat exclaimed.

  “They would if the kings supported us, and soon they will,” she countered. “We’ve existed under the shadow of Nagash for too long. I’m tired of hiding. After everything I’ve done, everything I’ve sacrificed, all I’ve done is trade one prison for another.” Her fists clenched. “No more. Do you hear? No more.”

  She rose from the throne. “Instruct the queen to draft the summons to the other cities,” she said. “I will speak to the Queen of Rasetra personally. I want the first children here within the next year. Offer to lower their yearly tribute if you must.”

  “And if they refuse?” Ushoran countered.

  “They won’t, once we hear how the temple saved the future King of Khemri,” Neferata said. “We will show them that we are not the children of Nagash. We are something altogether different. In time, they may even worship us as gods.”

  She left them in shocked silence, her mind whirling with possibilities. Naaima followed behind her, for once surrendering her composure and dashing after her mistress.

  “You’ve frightened them,” she whispered in Neferata’s ear as they rushed through the dark halls of the inner sanctum.

  “We’ve all been afraid for too long,” Neferata replied. “I meant what I said. I’m tired of skulking here, while the world turns without me. Perhaps Abhorash had the right of it all along, fleeing Lahmia and seeking his destiny elsewhere.”

  “This has nothing to do with destiny, or with compassion,” Naaima replied, her voice taut. “This is about Khalida—”

  Neferata’s hand blurred through the air, seizing Naaima by the throat. One moment they were racing through the inner sanctum, then the next Naaima was dangling from Neferata’s iron grip in the middle of the passageway.

  “Never speak that name again,” Neferata hissed. Her fangs glinted in the faint light. “Never. Do you understand me?”

  It took all her strength to gasp out her reply. “I… I understand,” Naaima said.

  Neferata held her there for several agonising seconds, her face a mask of madness and rage. Slowly, one heartbeat at a time, the anger ebbed from her face, until she realised what she was doing. With a start, she released the former concubine. Naaima hit the floor hard and collapsed, clutching her throat.

  “Forgive me,” Neferata said softly. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  Naaima shook her head. The pain she felt in her heart left her breathless.

  “You can’t bring her back,” Naaima gasped. “Nothing you do will bring Khalida back. Why can’t you see that?”

  But there was no answer. Neferata was gone.

  EPILOGUE

  Portents of Destruction

  Lahmia, The City of the Dawn, in the 98th year of Asaph the Beautiful

  (-1325 Imperial Reckoning)

  “Here they come!” the tutor roared in his leathery, field-of-battle voice. “Get on your feet, boy! Get up!”

  Four men in bronze scale armour hefted their weapons and charged across the training ground, their sandaled feet kicking up plumes of sand as they converged on their prey. The early morning sun slanted across the square, leaving much of the ground still in deep shadow except for where young Alcadizzar lay. Haptshur’s pupil lay in his back in the rocky sand, half-covered by an overturned chariot. His bare legs were wrapped in the chariot’s traces, and a heavy sack of grain—representing the body of his dead driver—lay across his chest. The young man’s shield was strapped to his left arm, but his sword was ten paces away, back along the chariot’s imagined trail. As a final touch. Haptshur had smeared pig’s blood over his pupil’s face, taking care to dab it liberally in the young man’s eyes. The older warrior believed in making his lessons as realistic and messy as he possibly could—much like the brutal reality of the battlefield.

  Haptshur’s assistants likewise dispensed with any fanciful notions of honour or fair play—they had no intention of giving Alcadizzar the slightest chance of extricating himself and getting to his sword. They came at him all in a rush, intent on chopping him to pieces as quickly and savagely as they could.

  Swathed in deep shadow behind a lacquered wooden screen, Neferata watched the oncoming collision with mounting concern. Accidents happened in training. Even wooden weapons were more than capable of breaking bones or fracturing skulls, and if an infection set it, the results were often fatal. It had never happened to any of Haptshur’s royal pupils, but… She pressed the fingertips of her right hand against the screen’s fragile wooden vine work, as though willing speed and strength into the young man’s body.

  Not that Alcadizzar needed it; despite his age, the Rasetran prince was already more than six feet tall, and more powerfully built than the burly Haptshur and his men. His mother had done everything Neferata had asked of her, remaining at the temple and drinking a vial of elixir each and every week until the baby was born, and its effects on the unborn child had been profound.

  The young man’s attackers covered the sandy ground in seconds, but Alcadizzar was already on the move. Cool and calm despite the angry shouts and the blood stinging his eyes, the young man paused for scarcely a moment to formulate his plan, and then sprang swiftly into action. Neferata watched as he got his hands underneath the heavy bag laid across his chest, then with a heave of his shoulders and arms he flung it backwards, over his head and into the path of the oncoming men. The projectile caught the attackers momentarily by surprise, but they recovered almost at once, dodging left and right out of its path, but the diversion bought Alcadizzar a few more precious seconds.

  To Neferata’s surprise, the prince didn’t bother untangling his legs from the leather traces; instead, he drew back his muscular legs, propped his feet against the chariot’s wicker rim, and heaved with all his strength. With a creak of wood and leather, the chariot rolled over onto its side, and Alcadizzar scrambled after it, disappearing into the open bed.

  Now the prince’s attackers pulled up short, suddenly without an easy target to reach. Alcadizzar had backed into the chariot like a cornered viper, and his foes could only come at him from one direction. Furthermore, the upper side of the chariot provided a roof of sorts over Alcadizzar’s head, preventing the men from raining blows down on him from overhead. They would have to come right at him, thrusting with their curved khopeshes, which made their task that much more difficult.

  The three men spread out, communicating with one another using glances and hand gestures. One of the attackers nodded, rushing towards the prince, while the other two circled around the opposite side of the chariot. Neferata frowned. What were they up to? Then she understood. While one man kept Alcadizzar occupied, the others were going to grab the chariot and pull it back upright, disorientating the prince and leaving him open for a blow from his attacker.

  But Alcadizzar had plans of his own. As the first man rushed in, stabbing awkwardly with his curved blade, his feet came down amid tangled loops of leather traces that the prince had trailed behind him. At once, Alcadizzar jerked back on the traces, and the man flew backwards with a yell. The prince leapt onto him like a desert lion, landing on his
chest and pummelling him with one powerful blow after another. Snarling, the swordsman tried to counterattack, but Alcadizzar caught his sword-hand by the wrist and cracked his fist across the other man’s chin, knocking him senseless.

  Just then, the chariot lurched, rolling back onto its wheels with a loud crash. The traces jerked tight, yanking Alcadizzar away from his foe, but not before he plucked the khopesh from the unconscious man’s hand. He twisted onto his back as the traces dragged him across the sand, and began trying to kick his way free of the tangled leather straps.

  It took the remaining attackers scarcely a moment to realise what had happened. They came racing around the back of the chariot, eager to avenge their fallen friend. Alcadizzar, his legs still trapped, did the only thing he could: he rolled across the sand towards the charging men, closing the distance more quickly than they’d expected. The men recovered swiftly, trying to circle around the oncoming prince, but the young man moved with preternatural speed. His wooden khopesh slashed through the air, feinting low at one man’s calf, then cutting suddenly upwards and striking the man in the groin. The attacker fell to the sand with a muffled groan.

  There was a whack of wood on flesh. Neferata missed the blow, but saw the angry red weal rising on Alcadizzar’s right thigh. The prince didn’t utter a sound at the painful hit; his sword blurred, reaching for the last attacker’s left arm. The man pulled his arm out of the way just in time—and was caught by surprise when the prince’s left leg swept into his right foot and knocked him from his feet. The man hit the sand with a whoosh of tortured breath as the wind was knocked from his lungs, and before he could recover, Alcadizzar had scrambled atop him and laid the khopesh’s blade against his throat.

  “Enough!” Haptshur cried. At once, Alcadizzar sat back with a grin and tossed the practice weapon aside. Within moments, the three men who’d been so intent on giving the prince a thrashing were slapping him on the back and laughing ruefully as they helped to unwind him from the dust-stained traces.