Ophiria was silent for a moment, her expression thoughtful, as though uncertain how much she ought to say.
“The Usurper is coming,” she said at last. “Even now, he prepares his armies for war.”
The king’s heart sank. “How soon?”
“Years; possibly even decades,” Ophiria said. “Nagash does not measure time as we mortals do. He has not forgotten his defeat in the last war and will not act this time until he is certain of victory.”
“Then he cannot be defeated?”
Another faint smile crossed the seer’s face. “That depends on what you do with the time you’re given. From this moment forwards, every day is a gift. Use them wisely.”
Alcadizzar sighed wearily. “All right. What am I supposed to do?”
Ophiria shrugged. “I’m no strategist,” she said. “How was he beaten the last time?”
“The other priest-kings combined their forces against him.”
“Well, then, perhaps you should start there.”
The king scowled. “You’re a seer. Is that the best you can do?”
“Don’t be impertinent. It doesn’t work that way,” Ophiria snapped. She rose to her feet. “I’ve told you all I can, Alcadizzar. Rule well with the time you are given. Prepare Nehekhara for Nagash’s coming. All the world depends on it.”
As she turned to leave, the king called out to her. “Wait!”
The seer stopped at the tent flap and scowled at him.
“There is no more to tell, Alcadizzar. I can’t share what I haven’t seen.”
The king shook his head. “Never mind that. What about Khalida?”
“What about her?”
Alcadizzar frowned. “Now who is being impertinent?”
Ophiria grinned. “She resides in the tent of her father, Tariq al-Nasrim. Call upon her if you like. She loves to read. Promise her all the books her heart desires and you should do well.”
By night he crept across the wasteland like a spider, clutching his precious cargo to his chest and stealing the life of any living thing that came too near. North and west he went; at the end of each night, just before the paling of dawn, he would scuttle into a shallow cave or a hillside crevice and open his senses to the aether, like a ship’s captain taking a bearing from the stars overhead. The crackle of necromantic energies pulsed invisibly in the distance, always seemingly just beyond the next set of hills.
Three weeks after his narrow escape from the city’s gatehouse, W’soran crested a splintered ridgeline and caught his first glimpse of the great fortress. The ancient mountain was as large as Lahmia itself, ringed about with seven high walls of black basalt and hundreds of slender, blade-like towers. It dominated the horizon to the east, crouching like a dragon beneath a vast pall of ashen cloud, along the edge of a dark, fog-shrouded sea. Though he was still a great many leagues away, the sight of his destination filled the necromancer with a terrible, hateful joy.
The path around the shores of the great sea was a long one, fraught with dangers. Twisted, scaly creatures lurked in the marshes that bordered the sea’s western shore, but worse were the packs of howling, pale-skinned monsters that infested the hills to the north. Once they’d caught his scent they hounded him without pause, tracking him through the hillside thickets like hungry jackals, until finally he was forced to turn and fight. He slew scores of them with blasts of necromantic energy and still dozens more with his claws and needle-like fangs, until finally the survivors fled in terror. After that, the creatures continued to test him, pacing at his heels and trying to herd him into places of ambush, but they never risked an open battle with him again.
Finally, after many weeks, W’soran crossed through the territory of the flesh-eaters and reached the far shores of the wide sea. He came upon the ancient ruins of a large temple that had once barred the path along the sea’s eastern shore. Beyond the ruins, the shoreline along the base of the mountain was covered in treacherous mounds of crushed stone and wreathed in tendrils of poisonous yellow vapours; a lifeless waste made by human hands, living or dead.
A wide road of black stone carved through the wasteland like the path of a knife, leading to the first of the mountain’s forbidding walls. This close to the mountain, there was no day or night; just an endless, iron-grey gloom that neither sun nor moon could shine through, allowing the necromancer to travel on without pause. The air throbbed with the sounds of industry: hammers and bellows, the groan of wheels and the rumble of spilled rock. Beyond that, however, there were no shouted commands, no weary curses or barked laughter, as working men might make in the lands to the south. The fortress hissed and rumbled and banged, but for all that, there were no sounds of life within.
As he approached the gate, a horn wailed from a nearby tower and the great black portal grated open. In the darkness beneath the gate’s arch waited a dozen skeletal figures, wreathed in icy mist and flickering green grave-light. The wights leered at him balefully, gripping blades marked with runes of death and damnation. Leading them was a rotting skeleton in ragged robes; the liche’s eyes flared hatefully at the sight of W’soran, as though it somehow knew him. A malevolent hiss slipped past its splintered teeth.
Undaunted, the necromancer smiled coldly. “I am W’soran, from the city of Lahmia to the south, and I am known to your master.” He lifted the heavy leather bag clutched to his bony chest. “I bear him gifts and news that will be of great interest to him.”
The wights said nothing. After a moment, they withdrew. The liche reluctantly lifted a bony hand and beckoned for W’soran to follow.
Traversing the vast fortress took hours, first across narrow lanes under the ashen sky, then down dank, twisting corridors carved into the mountain’s flanks. Higher and higher they climbed, and the closer W’soran came to the object of his quest, the more he felt the weight of the Undying King’s power pressing against his skin. It permeated the rock and hissed invisibly through the air, filling up his skull until it was almost impossible to think. It gripped him and pulled him onwards, like an irresistible tide.
At last, W’soran found himself in a vaulted antechamber, high upon the slopes of the great mountain. Before him, towering doors of unfinished bronze groaned on their hinges, opening just wide enough to admit him. Green light flickered hungrily within. The wights flanked him to either side, heads bowed towards the open doors. They offered no instruction, for none was required.
Gripping the leather bag tightly, W’soran strode into the presence of the Undying King, followed closely by the silent, black-toothed liche.
The great, columned hall beyond was vast, larger by far than the pitiful chambers of Nehekharan kings. Shadows writhed along the walls, stirred by pulsing veins of glowing green stone that wound across the surface of the rock. More green light pulsed from a sphere of the same glowing rock, resting atop a corroded bronze tripod at the foot of a stone dais. Sorcerous power radiated from the rock like heat from a furnace, but its intensity paled before the conflagration of power that was Nagash himself.
The Undying King sat upon a great throne of carved wood, cased in the intricate black armour that W’soran had glimpsed on Sakhmet’s night, so many years ago. Pale green flames wreathed the king’s leering skull and arced along the rough surface of his crown.
W’soran made his way towards the king’s dais. Hunched, growling figures paced him from the shadows along either side of the hall—flesh-tearing beasts, like the ones who had hounded him along the hills north of the great sea. Of course they served the Undying King, the necromancer reckoned. Every creature within sight of the great mountain, living or dead, likely bent its knee before Nagash’s might.
W’soran did so as well, falling onto his knees before the dais. The burning skull did not move an inch in response to the immortal’s presence. There was no need; Nagash’s awareness filled the echoing space, invisible and all-consuming. A portion of it fell upon him, much as a man might note the passage of an ant beneath his feet.
The immortal raised
his hands to the figure upon the throne. “Great Nagash,” he cried. “Undying King! I am W’soran, who witnessed your triumph on Sakhmet’s night, twenty-two years ago.” W’soran fumbled open the leather bag before him. Reaching in, he drew out the first of the leather-bound volumes inside. “I have come bearing tokens of my devotion—your own necromantic tomes, looted from the Black Pyramid centuries ago and held by lesser hands in Lahmia ever since.”
This time, the burning skull did move fractionally, glancing downwards at the offered tome. The Undying King’s awareness focussed upon W’soran, scorching his mind like a heated iron.
“I bring news also,” W’soran croaked. “The City of the Dawn has fallen; the bloodline of the treacherous Lamashizzar is no more.”
The skull inclined further, until W’soran found himself staring up at the orbs of fire that seethed from its eye sockets. Nagash’s awareness burned like acid along the immortal’s bones, threatening to consume them.
“There is more!” W’soran exclaimed. “A… a usurper has claimed your throne, great one! A man of Rasetran blood sits upon the throne of Khemri! Alcadizzar is his name and he claims descent from Settra himself!”
There was a creaking of metal. Nagash leaned forwards upon the throne, looming over W’soran. The ancient tome flew out of the immortal’s hand as an invisible fist gripped him, smashing him back onto the stone floor. The necromancer’s veins burned and claws of fire sank into his brain. A voice, cold and soulless as stone, reverberated through the hall. W’soran screamed in ecstasy and terror.
“Tell me of this usurper,” the Undying King said.
—
The Last Light of Day
Khemri, the Living City, in the 110th year of Djaf the Terrible
(-1163 Imperial Reckoning)
Heads turned as Inofre, King Alcadizzar’s Grand Vizier, led the small procession of nobles down the length of Settra’s Court. Though it was late afternoon, the resplendent throne room was still crowded with petitioners and embassies from the far corners of Alcadizzar’s empire, from the horse lords of Numas to the merchant princes of distant Bel Aliad. They had been waiting for hours to speak with the great king; with the evening drawing on, most would be turned away until the morrow. For the moment, however, all eyes were upon the tall, handsome lord who followed after Inofre and the three strange, iron-bound chests carried by the noblemen who trailed in the lord’s wake.
Alcadizzar straightened slightly on Settra’s ancient throne as the procession approached the dais, dragging his mind away from worries about the trade negotiations that were planned for later that night. He’d only returned from Numas that morning, reviewing the new irrigation plan that they hoped would restore the city’s parched grain fields. He was tired beyond words and his body was a mass of aches—particularly the ribs that Neferata had broken, some thirty-seven years ago. They never had healed quite right, despite the best efforts of the chirurgeons.
Thirty-seven years, he thought, suppressing a grimace. Where had the time gone?
The king stole a guilty glance to his right. Khalida sat upon her throne, serene as always, her left hand resting upon Alcadizzar’s right. They had instituted the tradition upon their marriage, moving her throne from its customary place—set further to the right and two steps lower than the king’s—and placed them side by side. Her hand upon his was meant to signify that they ruled Khemri jointly, that her opinion counted for as much as his.
The touch of her fingers was light and cool, as though Khalida was loath to rest the full weight of her hand upon his. Things had been strained between them for a long time now, ever since the last war with Zandri, some five years ago. The expansion northwards into the barbarian lands over the past two decades had provided more lucrative routes for the slave trade that had once made the coastal city so wealthy. When Alcadizzar had finally conquered the bellicose city after a lengthy and difficult campaign, he discovered that their coffers were completely empty and the citizens on the verge of starvation. King Rakh-an-atum had taken ship with many of Zandri’s nobles and fled to parts unknown, leaving Alcadizzar in possession of a city on the verge of anarchy. Since then, he had spent much of his time there, helping to restore order and improve the lives of its citizens, leaving Khalida to return to Khemri and manage the city’s affairs alone.
Holding the empire together demanded more from him with every passing year. In the beginning, the horrors of what his fellow rulers had seen at Lahmia and the threat posed by Nagash had been a potent force for unity, allowing him to forge powerful alliances based on mutual defence and free trade. Free at last from Lahmia’s crippling economic policies, the great cities flourished. Alcadizzar invested his city’s wealth as wisely as he could, returning Khemri to its former glory. Vast amounts of coin were spent on improving roads across the entire country, and connecting east and west via trade along the River Vitae. The great collegia at Lybaras were restored and then similar centres of learning were founded in Khemri as well. Scholar-engineers were put to work creating methods of irrigation that drew water from the Vitae and restored arable land that had been reclaimed by the desert centuries earlier.
As Khemri’s fortunes rose, Alcadizzar made certain that the rest of Nehekhara’s fortunes rose as well. Peace and prosperity brought stability, and increased his influence over the entire land. What started as an alliance grew into a confederation of cities, then a short-lived commonwealth, and then, after a combination of statecraft and military manoeuvring, into an empire. Through it all, though, Ophiria’s warning remained uppermost in his mind. Everything he did, ultimately, was geared towards preparing the land for Nagash’s eventual return.
Those preparations grew a little more difficult with every passing year. The memories of Lahmia had faded with time. Now there were powerful men around the empire who had begun to chafe under the elaborate—and expensive—military obligations they were compelled to maintain. There were even whispers that perhaps Nagash’s interests had turned elsewhere and no longer posed a threat to Nehekhara. Some even went so far as to allude that Nagash had never been a threat at all, but merely a potent fiction that Alcadizzar had used to gain control of the great cities. He found himself travelling more, visiting cities and speaking directly to the nobles who lived there, reminding them of their shared duty to defend the land. So far, the tactic was working, but at what cost?
Alcadizzar reached over and touched Khalida’s hand, brushing the smooth skin with his fingertips. He smiled. His wife glanced over, stirred from some reverie of her own and managed a strained smile before looking away again.
The king frowned, trying to think of something to say, but was interrupted by Inofre’s voice.
“Great one,” the Grand Vizier intoned, “your loyal subject Rahotep, Lord of the Delta and Seeker of Mysteries, has returned in accordance with your commands and wishes to give an account of his efforts in the lands of the barbarians.”
Alcadizzar pushed his fears aside and summoned up a warm smile for the nobleman standing at the foot of the dais. “Of course,” he said. “Welcome home, Lord Rahotep. This is a pleasant surprise; unless I am mistaken, your expedition was not expected back for another two weeks.”
Rahotep bowed to the king and smiled in return. The two men shared the same interests in learning and exploration, and had been friends for many years. The young lord was a famous adventurer, renowned throughout Nehekhara for his travels to the far corners of the world. Thanks to his efforts, Nehekhara’s northern border now extended for hundreds of leagues past Numas and had opened valuable trade routes with the barbarian tribes beyond the World’s Edge Mountains.
“The past winter was a mild one,” Rahotep answered, “and the mountain passes opened sooner than expected.”
He turned and beckoned his retainers forwards. “It also helped that I was halfway through the mountains when the snows began to thaw.”
Alcadizzar leaned forwards, his eyes widening. Rahotep had his undivided interest now. “You met
with the annu-horesh?”
The fabled explorer swept out his hands and made a dramatic bow. “I enjoyed their hospitality for the entire winter,” he said proudly. “They have showed me wonders beyond compare, and offered us assurances of friendship and trade.”
Excited murmurs swept through the court. The annu-horesh—literally, the mountain-lords—had been discovered by Rahotep more than a decade ago, but the stout, bearded folk had been slow to warm to the Nehekharans. The barbarians who lived at the foot of the mountains regarded them with awe and spoke of their surpassing skill as warriors and craftsmen.
“Their king, Morgrim Blackbeard, sent you these gifts, as a gesture of his respect,” Rahotep said. With a flourish, he opened the first chest and drew out the most magnificent sword that Alcadizzar had ever seen. It was a huge, two-handed khopesh, but Rahotep held the blade as though it weighed no more than a river-reed. Its edge looked keen enough to cut stone; the metal had a sheen to it like molten gold. The weapon caught the light of the braziers and shone like the morning sun. Gasps of wonder echoed throughout the hall.
Alcadizzar stared at the sword in wonder. “What is it made of?”
“Iron,” Rahotep said, “but made into something far lighter and stronger than anything our smiths can forge.” He laid a hand gently against the flat of the blade. “The true magic lies in the way the blade was washed in gold. The bond radiates heat and light, and is anathema to the evils that dwell in the darkness.”
The explorer indicated the remaining chests. “There is armour as well, shaped by the same processes. Truly a gift for the greatest of Nehekharan kings.”
“Beautiful,” the king agreed. “It’s a great shame that my sons could not be here to see it. Prince Asar is hunting with his uncle in the desert and Prince Ubaid—”
“Asar and my father are in Ka-Sabar now, as guests of King Aten-sefu,” Khalida interjected coolly. “And Ubaid’s interests run to horses and hawks these days.”
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