03 - Nagash Immortal

by Mike Lee - (ebook by Undead)

  And so the prince waited, watching Neru chart her course across the sky as the hours passed. His neighbours mostly kept to themselves, their minds intent on whatever grievance or request they intended to present to the gathered chiefs. Within the tent came a steady drone of muted conversation, punctuated by the occasional shout or peal of laughter. Once, Alcadizzar heard angry shouts break out and for a moment he thought a riot had erupted amid the gathering, but the other tribesmen paid the noise little mind, and within a few minutes the disturbance had subsided as quickly as it had begun.

  One by one, the men seated around him were summoned into the presence of the chiefs. Some audiences lasted longer than others and nearly always the men emerged with stoic faces, giving no sign as to whether their wishes had been honoured or not. Once, a pair of black-robed men emerged from the tent, half-carrying one of the petitioners. The tribesman was doubled over in pain, one hand pressed against his belly. Blood ran freely between his clenched fingers. Alcadizzar listened to the man’s muffled curses as he disappeared into the night.

  By midnight, he was alone in the tent. The maidens had withdrawn and the coals in the braziers were nearly spent. The sounds of conversation within the tent showed no signs of abating. The prince sighed and sipped at his wine, wondering if Faisr had gotten so deep into his cups that he’d forgotten Alcadizzar was waiting outside.

  Beyond the gathering tent, the rest of the camp had fallen silent. The night air was still and cold, luminous with the light of the full moon. Alcadizzar breathed in the chill air, grateful for the way it cleared his head and focussed his senses.

  Little by little, a sense of unease crept up the back of the prince’s neck. He was being watched.

  Alcadizzar continued to breathe deeply, careful to show no outwards sense of alarm. As his eyes searched the deep shadows beyond the empty caravan tent opposite his, he drained his watered wine and set the cup aside. He casually rested his empty hand on top of his thigh, just inches from the hilt of his dagger, and waited for his unseen observer to reveal himself.

  Minutes passed, and the sensation did not abate. If anything, it seemed more focused, more intent. Alcadizzar thought he saw a flicker of movement in the shadows near the wall of the gathering tent. He shifted slightly, presenting his right shoulder to the oncoming figure. His fingertips slid to the jewelled pommel of his dagger.

  There! He could see a slender figure outlined against the flank of the great tent, creeping slowly and somewhat tentatively his way. Alcadizzar could see no weapons in the figure’s hands, but the sheer weight of his stare was astonishing. Was this a sorcerer, or some restless spirit that haunted the dark hills north of the great plain?

  After a moment, the figure paused, still well hidden in the shadow cast by the tent. Alcadizzar felt goose-flesh race along his forearms. Finally, he could stand no more.

  “I see you there,” he said, rising slowly to his feet. “What sort of man are you, to skulk in the shadows like a jackal? Are you thief, or assassin? Show yourself!”

  The figure recoiled at the sound of his voice. Alcadizzar thought he might turn and flee into the darkness—but then, the person straightened his shoulders and took a bold step forwards, into the moonlight.

  Alcadizzar’s eyes widened. The figure before him was short and lithe, clad in fine, black robes shot through with silver thread that shimmered faintly in the light. This was no assassin, nor a restless, hungry spirit, but a young girl of about fourteen years, her face wreathed by the folds of a silken headscarf. She had a long coltish face and a sharp nose, and large, leonine yellow eyes. A sinuous line of henna tattoos climbed up the right side of her slender neck, and traced its way along her jawline.

  The prince stared at the girl in surprise. She studied him as a scholar would an ancient scroll, as though he wore his deepest secrets upon his sleeve. Not even Neferata had reached so deeply into his soul. He tried to speak, to ask who this girl was and what she wanted with him—but just then the entry flap of the gathering tent was drawn aside, and a black-robed servant stepped out into the night. The spell broken, the girl retreated at once, slipping back silently into the shadows.

  The servant, unaware of the girl’s presence, beckoned to Alcadizzar. “Faisr al-Hashim bids you to join him,” he said.

  Alcadizzar searched the darkness beyond the tent, but the girl had vanished. The servant paused, his brows knitting in a frown. He started to beckon again, but Alcadizzar shook his head, as though to clear it. “Lead on,” he replied.

  The prince followed the servant into the hot, noisy gloom of the great tent. He had expected it to be subdivided by cloth partitions into discrete chambers, as he’d seen Faisr do with his own tent; beyond the entrance was a small antechamber, where a pair of maids came forwards with golden bowls and cloths to ritually wash his feet and hands. When the ritual was done, the servant led him onwards, past another tent flap and into the presence of the chiefs.

  Alcadizzar had expected a large, open space, layered in fine rugs and thick with a haze of incense, where the chiefs lounged in small cliques as they’d done earlier in the afternoon. To his surprise, he found himself standing at the edge of a circular space containing an immense wooden table, large enough to accommodate almost two-score chiefs with room to spare. The surface of the table was covered in a thin sheet of gold, hammered by the hands of an artist into curious, uneven contours. The prince stared at its surface for several moments before he realised that the play of shadow and light created by the contours suggested the rolling dunes of a desert. Long, curving lines had been etched into the gold; he knew from his studies that some of them matched the ancient caravan routes that had crossed the Great Desert in ancient times. Other lines were less obvious in their meaning. Perhaps they represented the nomadic paths of the desert tribes themselves.

  The perimeter of the chamber was crowded with high-ranking tribesmen from each of the clans, who sat upon rugs and observed the proceedings with interest. The air was hot and thick, almost stifling, and spiced with the aromas of food and chanouri. Alcadizzar felt the eyes of the entire assembly fix on him as he followed the servant to the great table.

  Faisr rose from an ornately carved chair as Alcadizzar approached and went to stand beside him. The servant indicated for the prince to stand a few feet from the edge of the table, where the gathered chiefs could take their measure of him. Alcadizzar met the gaze of each and every man seated at the table, and found not a single mote of warmth or welcome in their eyes. A few, like Bashir al-Rukhba, glared at him with obvious contempt.

  Then the prince felt a familiar prickling along the back of his neck. He stiffened, his eyes drawn to the shadows on the opposite side of the great table. There, he saw the silhouette of a robed woman seated upon a wooden chair similar to those used by the chieftains. Her face was hidden in the gloom, but Alcadizzar knew she was staring at him with the same intensity as that of the girl he’d seen only minutes before. At her side stood Khsar’s chosen one, the hooded man that he had seen out on the hillside that afternoon. Instead of a golden goblet, the chosen one now held a tall, black staff in his right hand. Though apart from the rest, Alcadizzar noted that there was an empty space at the table so that the woman had a clear view of the proceedings.

  Faisr laid a hand on Alcadizzar’s shoulder. “Here is the man I spoke of,” he said to the assembled chiefs. “Ubaid has ridden as a friend to the bani-al-Hashim for twenty years, as our customs require, and in that time he has acquitted himself as a warrior and a cunning raider. Look you the marks upon his belt,” Faisr said, pointing to the dense rows of kill-marks inscribed in the leather. “Fifty men, dead by his hand! He has earned the esteem of my people and has shed his own blood on our behalf many times. Indeed, he has saved my life not once, but three times.” The young chieftain spread his hands and winked at the other chiefs. “Of course, he still rides like a soft-arsed city dweller, but no man is perfect, eh?”

  Many of the chieftains laughed and Alcadizzar accepted the jibe with
a self-deprecating grin. Bashir and a handful of other chiefs just stared at Faisr, their faces set in stony masks.

  “Ubaid’s loyalty and honour are beyond question,” Faisr said. “He has put aside his past and has embraced the ways of the desert. I tell you, he is like a brother to me and deserves to be a part of my tribe.”

  “He is an outsider!” Bashir cried. The chieftain leaned forwards and pounded on the golden table for emphasis. “A city dweller! For all we know, he could be a spy for the Lahmians!”

  At once, Faisr’s chosen men were on their feet, shaking their fists and shouting angrily at Bashir. Bashir’s men quickly followed suit, yelling at Faisr’s men. Daggers were drawn, their blades glinting in the lamplight. The chiefs caught in between took turns yelling at Bashir, at Faisr, and at one another.

  Faisr let out a lusty shout and leapt upon the golden table. With a flourish, he drew his dagger and levelled it at Bashir. “If any man doubts Ubaid’s worth, then put him to the test! Challenge him, by wit, by blade or by horse!”

  Alcadizzar saw Bashir smile hungrily at Faisr’s outburst and understood that this was the opening the older chief had been waiting for. He rose from his chair, his hand reaching for his own knife—when suddenly, Khsar’s chosen man stepped from the shadows and brought his staff down upon the table with a thunderous blow.

  The entire crowd was struck silent in an instant. The chiefs all but leapt from their seats, their eyes wide with shock. Even Bashir looked stunned.

  When the hooded man was certain that he had everyone’s undivided attention, he straightened slowly and drew back his staff. Alcadizzar saw that it was thick and obviously heavy, shaped from a kind of black wood unlike anything he had seen before. The faces of monstrous spirits had been carved into the wood, their fierce, inhuman expressions contorted into masks of rage and mindless hunger.

  “Hearken unto the Daughter of the Sands,” the chosen one intoned. His voice was rough and deep, rumbling like the warning growl of a lion. At once, the spectators all sank to their knees. Bashir’s face paled with rage, but even he sank back into his chair. Alcadizzar hesitated, unsure how to proceed. Faisr quickly sheathed his dagger and the prince followed suit.

  Slowly and painfully, the robed woman climbed from her chair. She was very old, Alcadizzar saw at once, her leathery face creased in a complex tapestry of wrinkles. As she stepped into the lamplight, the prince was startled to see that her eyes were a leonine yellow, just like those of the girl he’d seen outside.

  The old woman approached the chiefs, and her eyes rose slowly to Faisr’s. “Were you raised in a wine shop, Faisr al-Hashim?” she growled. “Get off my table, boy.”

  To Alcadizzar’s surprise, Faisr hung his head like a child. “My apologies,” he said, and hopped back down onto the rugs next to Alcadizzar.

  The woman’s gaze turned to Alcadizzar; once again, he felt his skin prickle with the intensity of her stare. “You say that this one has observed all the customs of adoption?”

  “He has,” Faisr replied.

  “He has lived among your tribe for a span of twenty years?” she asked.

  “As I said before, yes,” the chieftain replied.

  “He has fought at your side and shed blood for the sake of the tribe?”

  “Many times.”

  The old woman’s eyes narrowed on the prince. “And in all that time, he has never given you cause to doubt his loyalty, or his devotion?”

  “Never once,” Faisr answered proudly.

  Alcadizzar found himself struggling to meet the woman’s stare. There was much that Faisr did not know about him. The chieftain was unknowingly risking his own honour on his friend’s behalf.

  “Has he put aside his past life,” the woman asked, in a voice as pitiless as the desert sands, “and devoted himself entirely to the ways of our people?”

  Before Faisr could answer, Alcadizzar cut in. “As much as any man can forget his people and the place of his birth,” he said. Faisr shot him a sidelong look, but the prince ignored him.

  The Daughter of the Sands stared at Alcadizzar for a long moment. “Then let it be so,” she declared. “From this day forwards, you are one of the bani-al-Hashim.”

  The assembled chiefs glanced at one another in amazement. Only Bashir al-Rukhba felt bold enough—or angry enough—to speak. “But the customs of adoption are meant only for desert dwellers!” he protested. “They are for adopting a man of one tribe into another, not… not this!”

  The old woman turned and glared at Bashir. “An exception was made once before, Bashir al-Rukhba,” she said coldly. “Or have you forgotten?”

  Bashir stiffened. “I have not,” he replied.

  “Then you must presume to know the will of Khsar better than I,” the old woman snapped. “Is that so? Do you mean to gainsay me?”

  All at once, the air in the tent was fraught with tension. Alcadizzar saw Bashir’s warriors shrink back from their chief, their expressions stiff with fright.

  Bashir’s gaze fell to the tabletop. “No,” he answered in a subdued voice. “I would never do such a thing, holy one.”

  “Then our business here is concluded,” said the Daughter of the Sands. “The hour is late and my bones ache. Let an old woman have her rest.”

  As one, the chieftains rose from the table. Nervous murmurs rose from their warriors. The atmosphere was still tense and unsettled. Something momentous had happened, Alcadizzar knew, but he had no idea what. His thoughts were interrupted by a tug on his sleeve.

  “It’s done,” Faisr said. For the first time since Alcadizzar had met him, the chieftain sounded shaken. “Let’s go.”

  Alcadizzar turned to follow Faisr from the tent. As he went, he once again felt the stares of the entire assembly upon him, but they were as light as a feather compared to the weight of the old woman’s gaze upon his back. It took an effort of will not to hasten his steps and run headlong into the night.

  * * *

  Faisr and Alcadizzar were quickly surrounded by members of the tribe as they departed the great tent. A few offered quiet congratulations, but most were silent as Faisr led them all back to the tribe’s tents. Once there, some of the older tribesmen began stoking a fire and rousing their youngest sons to fetch wine and chanouri. Across the camp, the rest of the tribes seemed to be following suit, hewing to tradition and indulging in one last celebration before they scattered to the winds on the morrow.

  But Faisr was in no mood to celebrate. The chieftain stood for a moment, staring into the depths of the fire his warriors were coaxing to life, then plucked a wineskin from a passing boy and stalked off into the darkness. Without thinking, Alcadizzar followed.

  Faisr said nothing as he made his way through the camp. He avoided the tents of the great clans and their fire-lit gatherings, and before long he emerged from the camp onto the hillside’s lower slopes. He led Alcadizzar down the hill towards the silent horse herds, finally settling down on the cold, damp ground not far from where they had lounged just twelve hours before.

  The chieftain acknowledged the herd’s sentry riders with a wave of his hand, then pulled the stopper from the wineskin and passed it to Alcadizzar. The prince took it and squirted a swallow’s worth into his mouth, then handed it back.

  “I take it that didn’t go as planned,” he said.

  Faisr chuckled ruefully. “Observant as ever,” the chieftain replied, and filled his mouth with wine. He gulped it down and drank again.

  “Who was that woman?” Alcadizzar asked. “A priestess of some kind?”

  The chieftain let out a snort. “The tribes have never had much use for priests,” he said. “Instead, we have the Daughter of the Sands. She is given to Khsar, the god of the wastelands, as his bride. She is the arbiter of his laws, and when she speaks, it is with his voice. Do you understand?”

  Alcadizzar frowned. “Yes, but…” He chose his words with care, uncertain how devout Faisr was, not wishing to cause offence. “The covenant with the gods was broken centur
ies ago.”

  Faisr shook his head. “Forget about the covenant. That was made between the gods and your people, the Nehekharans.”

  The prince nodded thoughtfully. Many Nehekharans thought of the desert folk as barbaric cousins, but the truth was that they were an entirely different race of men, whose history and culture stretched back thousands of years before the birth of the great cities.

  “So… the tribes still enjoy the blessings of Khsar?”

  Faisr threw back his head and laughed. “Blessings? If Khsar doesn’t burn your eyes from your head or suck the marrow from your bones, that’s a blessing,” he said. “He is the god of the desert. His breath gives life to sandstorms. The Hungry God gives no blessings, Ubaid. Only tests. By those tests we are made strong, or else we perish. There is nothing else.”

  Alcadizzar spread his hands. “Then… what? Am I being tested?”

  Faisr didn’t reply at first. He frowned up at the sky and then took another drink. “It’s possible,” he said. “Or perhaps there is a test yet to come.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  The chieftain sighed. “Once in every generation, a daughter is born to the tribes with the eyes of a desert lion. It has always been thus. Such women have the ability to look into a man’s soul and see what the fates have written there. For that reason alone, they have great influence among our people.”

  The thought sent a chill down Alcadizzar’s spine.

  “When I was waiting in the caravan tent outside, I saw a girl with those same eyes,” he said softly.

  Faisr gave him a startled look. “You didn’t touch her, did you?”

  “What kind of question is that?”

  The chieftain relaxed slightly. “Forgive me. It’s just that it’s considered terrible luck to lay hands on one of Khsar’s chosen.” He sighed. “That would have been Ophiria. She will become the Daughter of the Sands when Suleima dies. Did she say anything to you?”