Eekrit’s eyes narrowed. He assumed that abn-i-khat was what these monsters called the god-stone. “Tribute?” he snarled. “You insult us, corpse-man! The Under-Empire pays tribute to no one—”
The Grey Lord cut off Eekrit’s protest with an upraised paw. “You are saying that your master is willing to trade with us. Is that it?” Velsquee asked.
The emissary turned his head fractionally to regard the Grey Lord. If the corpse-man recognised the sudden tension between the two skaven on the dais, he gave no sign. “He will trade with you, yes. But your warriors must leave here, and you must abandon your mine. Those are his terms.”
“This is a joke!” Eekrit spat. “Surely you don’t—”
Once again, Velsquee interrupted. This time his voice was hard as stone. “What Lord Eekrit wishes to say is that the Under-Empire will accept your master’s terms. We will remove our warriors immediately, and cease work on our mine. When will you provide the first shipment of god-stone?”
“You will receive one half-pound of abn-i-khat for every hundred pounds of metal or slaves that you provide. The sooner you deliver them, the sooner you will receive your stone.”
Velsquee did not hesitate. “Done. When will we meet your master to seal the bargain?”
“There is no need,” the corpse-man hissed. “Remove your warriors and empty the mine before dawn tomorrow; that will be enough.”
“And if we don’t?” Eekrit snarled.
“Then by sundown your corpses will be mining stone for my master.”
Eekrit started to rise from the throne, his paw reaching for his sword, but the Grey Lord forestalled him. “Take the emissary back to the barricades!” he commanded, and his storm-walkers quickly obeyed. They closed ranks around the corpse-man, effectively isolating him from Eekrit or anyone else, and marched him out of the room.
Eekrit rounded on the Grey Lord the instant the double doors closed. “Have you lost-lost your mind?” he shouted. “After all-all we’ve done here, you’re just going to-to surrender?”
Velsquee’s cane crashed to the floor of the dais as the Grey Lord shot to his feet. Crippled or not, his paw closed around the hilt of his sword. “Mind your tongue, ratling!” he snarled back. “I’ve given them nothing that they didn’t already possess! This is a victory for us, not a defeat.”
“But the kreekar-gan is bluffing!” Eekrit shot back. “Can’t you see that? Do you imagine he sent that mouldering corpse to talk to us because he’s suddenly grown tired of fighting? If he could have driven us out as easily as he claims he can, we’d be fighting for our lives right now. The only reason he’s negotiating is because he’s weak.”
“Then answer this, can you beat the burning man with the warriors you have on hand?”
Eekrit paused. “I… don’t know.”
“Then it doesn’t matter how damned weak he is,” Velsquee said. “Because there’ll be no more help coming from the Great City. I can guarantee you that.”
The two lords stared at one another for a moment. Finally, Eekrit relented and sat heavily back down upon his throne. “I need a drink,” he growled.
“That’s the first intelligent thing you’ve said in the last ten minutes,” the Grey Lord replied. He bent painfully to retrieve his cane, then settled heavily back into his own seat with a sigh. “Think, ratling. Before that corpse-man turned up, we were getting ready to abandon the mountain altogether. This way, we still get access to the god-stone, and at a cost that no one on the Council can object to. And since the expeditionary force has been officially disbanded, who does that place in charge of all output coming from the mountain?”
Eekrit eyed the Grey Lord. “You and I.”
Velsquee smiled. “That’s right. We’re both about to become obscenely rich.”
The warlord thought things over while a slave poured him some wine. “That’s all well and good,” he said at last, “but it still leaves us with a problem.”
“Which is?”
“The fact that the burning man is going to end life as we know it.”
“Yes. Well. Assuming Qweeqwol was right, of course.”
“Did you ever know him to be wrong about such things?”
“Honestly? No.”
“Then what do you propose we do?”
“At the moment, there’s not much we can do,” Velsquee replied. “But we can turn this situation to our advantage. Someone will have to stay here at the under-fortress to supervise the exchange of goods between us and the kreekar-gan.”
“By which you mean me,” Eekrit said.
“You may as well,” Velsquee replied. “You’re not rich enough yet to buy your way back into the Council’s good graces. In the meantime, you and your black-cloaked friends can see what you can learn about the kreekar-gan and his plans. Find out his weaknesses, then, when the time is right—”
“We stick a dagger between his ribs,” Eekrit said.
Velsquee smiled mirthlessly. “Just so, ratling, just so.”
—
Blood and Sand
The Golden Plain, in the 103rd year of Basth the Graceful
(-1240 Imperial Reckoning)
The Lahmian watch-forts along the eastern edge of the Golden Plain were stout, sturdy affairs, having changed little since their creation almost a hundred years before. The first two had been built athwart the trade road, where it descended from the plain and wound through the wooded hills on the way down to the city. Four more had been built in quick succession, two to the north and two to the south, stretching in an arc that would allow Lahmian cavalry patrols to venture deep into the wilderness to either side of the road and interdict the bandit gangs that preyed on the western caravans.
Each stronghold was built according to the same specifications: a high, outer wall made of stone, wide enough at the top for four men to walk abreast, with a massive wooden gate made from cedar logs and secured with iron pins as long as a man’s forearm. Within the compound were stables, barracks, a forge and storehouses piled with enough stores to sustain a garrison of a thousand men for at least a month. In the centre of the compound sat a squat, thick-walled citadel, containing the fort’s armoury, its apothecary, quarters for its officers, a small cistern and a small shrine to the Temple of Blood. In the event the walls were taken, the entire garrison could retreat into the citadel and hold out for weeks, if need be; more than enough time for a rescue force to arrive from the fort’s neighbours and drive the attackers away.
It was a sound design—and a formidable stronghold for an attacking force to overcome—but much depended on the discipline and determination of the men tasked with the fort’s defence.
For the first few decades, the forts were a great success. Captains were paid lavish rewards for bandit heads, so they were aggressive and cunning in their patrols. Hundreds of outlaws were slain and hundreds more fled the plain for easier pickings elsewhere, until only the swiftest and cleverest of the caravan raiders remained. The desert tribes never came within a day’s ride of the forts and were far too wily and swift to be caught out by a patrol of city-bred horsemen. As the pickings grew slim, the rewards dwindled as well and the patrols rode out less and less. And since no outlaw band had ever been so foolish as to mount a direct attack on the strongholds, a sense of complacency became inevitable. Late-night sentries found better ways to pass their time than walking the ramparts, like playing dice in the marshalling ground, or sneaking a cup or two of beer from the fort’s ample stores.
Once upon a time, it had been a scourging offence to allow the ground to become overgrown within a thousand paces of the forts. At the northernmost of the strongholds, dense underbrush and young trees had been allowed to creep to less than a dozen yards from the outer walls. With so much cover, the warriors of the bani-al-Hashim could have approached the fort on a full moon night and none would have been the wiser.
As it was, Alcadizzar waited for a cold, moonless winter night before attempting the raid. First, a pair of archers was sent f
orwards to watch the ramparts and ensure that there were no sentries about. They watched for nearly an hour; when no guards were spotted, one of them let out the low cry of a hunting owl. Immediately, a quartet of tribesmen was sent forwards, carrying a light, slender ladder between them. Within minutes, the ladder was resting against the outer wall and Alcadizzar had waved the assault party forwards.
A dozen of the tribe’s quietest, most efficient killers crept up the ladder and over the wall. Armed with powerful, compact horse-bows and long knives, they hunted down the sentries one by one, then went to open the outer gate. It was foul luck alone that they were discovered moments later, when a soldier came stumbling sleepily from the barracks to empty his bladder and caught sight of them. The Lahmian let out a yell a half-second before an arrow found his throat; instead of taking the entire fort by storm the desert raiders found themselves with a pitched battle on their hands.
“They fought well,” Sayyid al-Hashim said, and then shrugged. “For the first few minutes, at least.” The stocky desert warrior paused to wipe blood from his eyes with the back of his hand. A deep cut across one temple had soaked his headscarf and turned his shoulder crimson.
Bodies littered the open ground between the barracks and the outer gate, feathered by thick, red-fletched arrows. Most were clad only in their linen under-tunics; others had died in little more than their britches. They’d grabbed whatever weapon was close to hand and rushed out to fight the dozen men of the assault party. Still more bodies were heaped around the open gate, where the tribesmen had held the Lahmians at bay long enough for the rest of the raiding party to arrive. Six of the assault party had been slain, and a seventh writhed on the ground with the broken haft of a spear buried in his guts. Alcadizzar knew each and every one by name and made a silent promise to the gods that their widows would be well taken care of.
He and Faisr stood beneath the archway of the outer gate, surveying the bloody scene. They were both clad in breastplates of thick leather armour and skirts of flexible bronze mail, and wore round bronze skullcaps beneath their silk headscarves. Faisr glowered at the bodies of the dead soldiers, his hand clenched about the hilt of his sheathed sword. It had gone against his impetuous nature to hang back with Alcadizzar and let his tribesmen do all the fighting. By the time they had rushed into the fort with the raiding party’s small group of reserves, there was no one left to fight.
“What happened then?” Alcadizzar asked.
Sayyid nodded in the direction of the citadel. “As soon as the first of our brothers came running through the gate, the city dwellers turned tail and shut themselves up inside there.”
The raiders had pulled a pair of wagons into the marshalling field and turned them onto their sides, providing them with some cover from the desultory arrow fire coming from the citadel. The rest were hard at work looting the fort’s outbuildings. Tribesmen were shouldering past Alcadizzar with bundles of armour, stacks of swords and shields, jars of beer, and pretty well anything else that wasn’t nailed down. Nervous whinnies from the fort’s stable told the prince that several of the tribesmen were relieving the cavalry squadron of their mounts as well.
Alcadizzar rubbed his chin. By any reasonable measure, the raid could already be counted as a huge success and a humiliating blow for the Lahmians. He’d wanted to test the defences of the watch-forts and see how the desert raiders took to proper military tactics; he’d been satisfied on both counts. But the idea of leaving the fort intact stuck in his craw; he’d hoped to disarm the defenders and turn them out into the countryside, then put the stronghold to the torch.
“Have they sent any signals?” the prince asked.
Sayyid shook his head, scattering ruby droplets around his feet. “None.”
Faisr sighed. “It will be dawn in just a few hours,” he said. “Signal or no, we have to be miles from here by first light.”
Alcadizzar nodded at the chieftain. When he’d first met Faisr, the young bandit would have probably opted to remain, more than willing to gamble his life and the lives of his men in an all-or-nothing assault on the citadel. But now, at seventy, the chieftain was wealthy and powerful and the bani-al-Hashim was considered the greatest of the tribes. Though his courage and his ambition remained undimmed, he also now had far more to lose.
Faisr al-Hashim had aged well, despite the hard life of a nomadic raider. The desert tribes still largely enjoyed the longevity of years that the ancient Nehekharans once had. Now comfortably middle-aged, the handsome chieftain had a touch of grey in his beard and streaks in his raven-black hair; years of squinting against the sun and wind had etched deep wrinkles around his eyes, but his body was still strong and his steps swift and light.
By contrast, Alcadizzar seemed to have aged hardly at all. By his reckoning, he was a hundred and ten years old, but he possessed the physical qualities of a man still in his prime. Though Neferata’s elixir had long since faded in strength, it had not disappeared entirely. He was still stronger and swifter than any normal man and his wounds healed with extraordinary speed. Perhaps it was because he’d been fed the blasphemous liquid while still forming in the womb—Alcadizzar had numerous theories, but no real answers. Though Faisr and his fellow tribesmen could not have failed to notice, they never questioned it, either. Such was the loyalty—and the secretive nature—of the tribes.
Certainly, he and Faisr had become a fearsomely effective pair since Alcadizzar’s adoption into the tribe. As the chieftain’s prominence had grown in the wake of Bashir al-Rukhba’s decline, he had entrusted much of the tribe’s raiding strategies to the prince, which allowed Alcadizzar to refine his tactical skills and test the capabilities of the desert raiders to their fullest. The bani-al-Hashim had quickly become the scourge of the Golden Plain and, more importantly, had earned the respect and support of many of the other tribes.
All of which made the problem before Alcadizzar that much more irksome. Their choices for dealing with the stronghold were limited. They couldn’t very well starve the garrison out and the only way inside was through the single reinforced gate. No doubt there was timber in the fort that could be put to use as a battering ram, but breaking through the gate would be costly and then the soldiers inside would fight like trapped rats. The prince shook his head, thinking of great commanders like Rakh-amn-hotep, who sent thousands of men to their deaths during the war against the Usurper. He’d lost six brothers tonight and had no interest in losing any more just to make a point.
He was just about to tell Sayyid to complete the plunder of the fort and then instruct the raiders to withdraw, when the stocky warrior straightened and pointed a finger at the citadel. “What’s that?”
The prince glanced past the upturned wagons, and saw that the citadel’s heavy gate had been partially raised. A hand was extended from beneath the gate, holding out an empty sword scabbard for all to see. Alcadizzar blinked in surprise.
“They want to parley,” he told Faisr.
The chieftain was just as surprised as he. “Why?”
Alcadizzar shrugged. “We’d have to ask them.”
“It’s got to be a trick,” Sayyid growled. It was well known among the tribes that the city folk had no conception of honour.
Alcadizzar could hardly argue with the veteran warrior, but his curiosity was nevertheless piqued. On impulse, he said, “Let me talk to them.”
“Are you mad?” Sayyid exclaimed. “They’ll shoot you full of arrows!”
The prince managed a grin. “I’m not worried. The Lahmians are terrible shots. Faisr remembers. Don’t you, chief?”
Faisr grunted, and then slowly, his face split in one of his dazzling smiles. “I remember,” he said. “All right, Ubaid. See what they have to say. We can’t leave until we empty the stables, anyway.”
Alcadizzar nodded in gratitude to the chieftain, then strode towards the overturned wagons. “Parley!” he cried to the tribesmen, pulling his headscarf away from his face. “Let the city dwellers send out their emissary.”
No one stirred within the stronghold until Alcadizzar had emerged into view from around the wagons. He crossed the open ground between the barricade and the stronghold and stopped at the halfway point, arms folded. A moment later, a stunned-looking Lahmian in a lieutenant’s iron scale armour ducked underneath the gate and stepped warily into the marshalling ground. From the look on his face, the soldier expected to be filled full of arrows at any moment.
“What do you want, city dweller?” Alcadizzar shouted.
The Lahmian officer drew a long breath. “My captain, the honourable Neresh Anku-aten, wishes to discuss terms.”
Alcadizzar fought to keep his expression neutral. Who did this aristocrat think he was? “Tell your captain that he is not in a position to dictate terms. He has nowhere to go.”
The lieutenant paled. With an effort, he managed a nod. “Captain Neresh is well aware of this,” the Lahmian replied. “But he wishes to avoid further bloodshed.”
“Then tell the honourable captain to surrender!” Alcadizzar shot back.
“He will, so long as you guarantee safe passage for his men,” the lieutenant replied.
For a moment, Alcadizzar wasn’t certain he’d heard the man correctly. “Your captain wishes to surrender?”
“Only if his terms are met. He is adamant on that.”
Alcadizzar didn’t reply at first. It didn’t make any sense. His mind raced, trying to divine what the captain was thinking. Why abandon a perfectly secure stronghold when all he had to do was wait for a few more hours? If it was a trick, he was hard-pressed to discern it. Finally, the prince spread his hands.
“Very well,” Alcadizzar told the man. “Tell your captain that he and the garrison are free to go. If they leave their weapons and armour inside the stronghold, they may leave freely. Upon my honour, no harm will come to them.”
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