The wizard scowled at him for a moment, trying to understand the king over the din of battle. Suddenly, his face brightened, and he closed his eyes for a moment in concentration. “There!” he cried, pointing off to the north-west.
A thrown spear clattered loudly off the side of the chariot. Khalida yelled out a curse at someone or something, but Alcadizzar couldn’t see what. He searched the battlefield to the north-west—and then he saw it. A strange palanquin made of bone, with legs like a spider, crouching behind a pair of spear companies just thirty yards away. There was a throne atop the palanquin and the king caught sight of a skeletal figure lurking behind it.
Alcadizzar slapped Khalida’s shoulder. “That way!” he yelled, pointing with his sword. “That way!”
The chariot lurched to the right, its axle-blades scything through the legs of several slow-moving skeletons. The rest of the king’s royal guard responded at once, changing course to follow him. Up ahead, the two spear companies saw what was happening and formed into line, linking their shields together and levelling their spears.
Immediately, they became a target for the archers on the wall. Arrows hissed over the chariots and struck the formation; where the enchanted bronze struck bone, a skeleton collapsed in a flash of white. Then Suleiman raised his staff and bellowed in a furious voice. The end of his staff flared like a torch, and a volley of tiny, glowing darts tore into the undead. Dozens fell, their bones incinerated by blasts of intense heat.
Then the chariots crashed into the battered line, smashing skeletons from their feet or grinding them beneath metal-shod wheels. Alcadizzar chopped at skulls and smashed collarbones; every bite of his enchanted blade toppled another skeleton to the ground. The royal guard added their weight to the charge as well, striking at the enemy with bow and blade. In less than a minute, one of the two spear companies was all but destroyed.
Alcadizzar smashed another skeleton to the ground and saw there was nothing standing between them and the palanquin of bone. “Forwards!” he shouted in Khalida’s ear. “Forwards!”
The queen shouted something in reply and lashed at the reins—and then the world dissolved in a blast of heat and greenish light.
Arkhan saw the explosion and let out a sulphurous curse. If W’soran was using sorcery like that, then it meant he was under attack.
The liche led his troops through the second gate and emerged into a scene of pandemonium. Enemy cavalry and chariots had struck his companies from the rear and were being caught by arrow fire from along the first wall as well. The spear companies had no archers to support them, as they were all still on the wrong side of the second wall, and so they were suffering heavily. To make matters worse, large companies of enemy infantry were pouring through the first gate and trying to form a battle-line on the other side.
He caught sight of the pennons flapping above the chariots. Khemri? Here? But how? The realisation filled him with a momentary surge of panic. Alcadizzar had turned the entire valley into a trap and he’d walked right into it. Now he was caught between two powerful forces, with few options left.
Cheers rose from the third wall behind Alcadizzar, followed by the first volleys of arrow and catapult fire as the defenders sprang into action. The attack on the Gates of the Dawn had failed, and possibly the entire invasion along with it. Unless he counter-attacked at once, it was likely that he would never break out of the noose that was tightening around his neck.
Arkhan tried to catch sight of W’soran among the chaos. He caught a glimpse of two of the necromancer’s immortals, charging at the wreckage of a destroyed enemy chariot. His first instinct was to try and reach them. If they were lost, then most of the army went with them. But on the other hand, this could be the opportunity he was looking for to be rid of that idiot W’soran and his pets once and for all.
The battle was already lost. The question was whether he would try to save W’soran, or let the bastard hang. When put that way, the answer was an easy one.
With a shout, Arkhan urged his mount forwards. He would lead his troops as far north along the wall as he could, then swing around and try to force his way around the edge of the enemy flank. If he was lucky, he could drive through the gap in the first wall and make good his escape.
Someone was dragging him backward. A voice shouted wildly in his ear. Alcadizzar shook his head and tried to open his eyes.
The chariot lay on its side amid a tangle of dead horses, just a few feet away. Blood was everywhere, but the king couldn’t tell whose it was. His sword lay on the ground beside the overturned vehicle, gleaming in the darkness.
And then he saw the slender, bloodied arm poking out from beneath the chariot’s battered hull.
“Khalida!” the king screamed. He twisted in the grip of whoever held him, pulling himself away. A boy cried out—one of his archers?—and someone grabbed for him again. He tore himself away and scrambled forwards on all fours, trying to reach his wife’s hand.
He had almost reached her when he heard a hiss above him. Behind him, the boy screamed. Battlefield instinct caused him to roll to the side, out of the path of the axe that buried itself in the ground beside his head.
Alcadizzar rolled onto his back. A shrivelled, almost skeletal man stood above him, clad in rough, barbaric robes and bits of bronze armour. Swift as a viper, the creature ripped the axe from the ground and rounded on him. That was when he saw the creature’s fangs, and understood what he was facing.
There was a shout and a flare of white light and the creature screamed, clutching at the side of its face. Alcadizzar saw his chance and lunged for his sword. The monster caught the movement and snarled, chasing after him. An arrow punched into its back, the enchanted metal hissing in the dead flesh, but the creature barely broke its stride.
Alcadizzar’s hand closed on the hilt of the sword and he continued to roll as the monster charged at him. The king rose in a kneeling position and swung the enchanted sword at the creature’s midsection. It ran right into the blow and the magical blade parted armour and cloth as though it were paper. The blade sheared the thing in two; the power of its magic shrivelled the creature in an instant, like a leaf caught in a flame.
A dark shape leapt like a cat onto the upturned side of the chariot. It was another of the creatures; its attention was directed upon the wizard, Suleiman, and one of the king’s two young archers. It spat a string of arcane syllables and flung out its hand, and a bolt of greenish lightning leapt for the wizard. But Suleiman was prepared, and raised his staff, blocking the energy with a counter-spell. The bolt detonated with a thunderclap, leaving Alcadizzar’s ears ringing.
Alcadizzar’s second archer—the same boy who’d tried to drag him to safety—saw the monster and drew the short sword at his hip. With a cry he charged at the thing, swinging wildly. The creature snarled at the boy and pointed a clawed finger; there was another flash of light and the archer’s body burst into flames. As the boy collapsed, thrashing and screaming, Suleiman unleashed a sorcerous bolt of his own. The monster deflected the blast with his own counter-spell, hissing in disdain—then his body went rigid as an arrow from the first archer thudded into his forehead. White steam erupted from the creature’s gaping mouth and it fell over onto the ground. Alcadizzar lurched forwards and finished it off with a blow to its neck.
Around them, the tempo of the battle was changing. Cheers were rising from the Nehekharan warriors as the skeletons seemed to be withdrawing—no, not withdrawing, but collapsing where they stood. As the blood-drinkers died, Nagash’s army died with them.
And then an invisible fist seized the overturned chariot and flung it into the air as though it were a child’s toy. It struck Alcadizzar a glancing blow and sent him sprawling.
The king rolled quickly onto his back, and saw two more of the emaciated blood drinkers. They stood at the far end of a magical circle, beside a trio of small, sealed earthenware jars. One of the creatures was clearly a barbarian, but the other wore remnants of Nehekharan robes and clutched a
battered leather tome to his chest. The creature seemed to smile at Alcadizzar and lifted his bony hand.
“Beware, great one!” Suleiman cried, rushing forwards to stand between the monster and his king. “See to Khalida! I’ll protect you!”
The Nehekharan laughed, and a bolt of energy leapt from his hand. Suleiman brandished his staff—but the fire ate through it like dry wood and clawed deep into the wizard’s chest. Suleiman let out an agonised groan and fell to the ground.
“Pathetic,” the Nehekharan blood-drinker hissed. He turned to Alcadizzar, and managed a predatory smile. “I have been looking for you, boy,” he snarled. “I just might be able to salvage this disaster if I drag you back to Nagashizzar.” He gestured to the other blood-drinker and spoke in a strange, guttural tongue.
The monster was on Alcadizzar in an instant, seizing his wrists with uncanny strength. Hissing, the creature clenched his hands, until the king felt the bones in his wrists grate together. He groaned in pain but refused to let go his sword.
There was a loud cry, and the surviving archer came to the king’s rescue. He appeared at the monster’s side, chopping his short sword into the blood-drinker’s left wrist. Bones snapped; the creature snarled in irritation and struck the boy a backhanded blow, crushing his skull. But Alcadizzar was able to free his sword-hand and bury the burning blade in the monster’s face.
The next thing he knew, he was lying on his back, with smoke curling from his breastplate. His ears were ringing and every nerve in his body hummed with pain. The Nehekharan blood-drinker lowered its hand, a look of mild surprise on his face. Evidently the magic forged into his armour by the mountain-lords had saved him from the necromancer’s blast.
Alcadizzar tried to rise, but his legs refused to work. The blood-drinker smiled and said something, but the king couldn’t make out the words. Then, languid as a snake, the monster started to walk towards him. Desperate, Alcadizzar raised his sword and hurled it at the monster with all his strength, but the blood drinker dodged it with contemptuous ease.
The creature took another step—and then, as clear as day, the king heard the twang of a bowstring. Then came a choked scream as the blood-drinker reeled backwards with one of Khalida’s arrows in his eye.
The monster screamed in agony. White steam curled from the ruined eye socket. He fell backwards, fetching up against the clay jars as he fumbled for the arrow shaft. He seized it in his right hand and with a shriek of pain he wrenched the arrow free. Thick ichor bubbled down the side of his face.
Shadows danced at the corners of Alcadizzar’s vision, Dimly, he sensed men crowding around him and the queen. His gaze was fixed on the monster, who shouted and cursed at him from just a dozen yards away. With a final, angry howl, the creature turned his back on the king and smashed one of the jars at his back. To Alcadizzar’s horror, a tide of glossy black beetles poured from the vessel and engulfed the necromancer’s body. Moments later, the insects burst into the air in a buzzing cloud and flew off to the north. Of the necromancer, there was no sign.
Alcadizzar fell back onto the ground. Someone was shouting his name. He turned and saw a pair of royal guardsmen helping Khalida to her feet. She was reaching for him, her eyes wide with fear.
The king’s gaze drifted past her, to the clouds roiling in the sky. As he watched, they began to fade, dispersing like smoke on the wind.
His vision faded. The last thing Alcadizzar felt was the warm touch of sunlight on his cheek.
—
The Edge of Victory
Lahmia, the Cursed City, in the 110th year of Phatkh the Just
(-1161 Imperial Reckoning)
Though Nagash’s army had been defeated at the Gates of the Dawn, Alcadizzar’s injuries threw the western army into disarray. The king’s chirurgeons debated whether to try to treat his injuries on the battlefield, or send him to Quatar, many miles away. The rulers of Numas and Zandri both attempted to take charge of the army in the king’s absence, issuing conflicting orders from different parts of the battlefield that took hours for the paralysed forces to sort out. By the time Queen Khalida had recovered enough from her own injuries to take charge, the last remnant of Nagash’s army had broken out of the trap and fled eastwards down the Valley of Kings.
By dawn of the next day, it appeared that the king would survive his injuries. Alcadizzar awoke with his wife beside him and dispelled any notion that he would be sent off to the gloomy city of Quatar for his recovery. Instead, he ordered the army to strike camp and pursue their retreating foes.
Nagash’s army withdrew from the Valley of Kings and continued eastwards, where two weeks later it was joined by the remnants of the undead forces that had laid siege to Lybaras. Though the undead had succeeded in breaching the city’s walls, the timely arrival of reinforcements from Rasetra had broken the siege and slain two of W’soran’s four surviving progeny.
Pursued now by the combined armies of east and west, Nagash’s warriors fought a bitter, running battle all the way back to the ruined city of Lahmia. Companies of spearmen and cavalry were sacrificed to stage vicious ambushes and night attacks on the Nehekharans, while the rest marched tirelessly onwards towards their goal. Again and again, Alcadizzar tried to pin down the enemy with attacks from his cavalry, but the undead army simply shed another sacrificial rearguard, like a lizard giving up its own tail, while the rest escaped. Fields of shattered bone stretched along the great trade road for miles.
The last battle was fought at the edge of the Golden Plain, just miles from the Cursed City. W’soran’s surviving immortals and their skeletal warriors had occupied the decrepit forts guarding the narrow pass that led to the city, and held off the Nehekharan armies for weeks before they were overcome. By the time Alcadizzar reached Lahmia, the city was deserted. Arkhan and the last remnants of Nagash’s vast host had boarded their ships and escaped.
Lahmia’s docks had not been so alive in decades. Men from Zandri and Khemri—seamen and rivermen, who knew the ways of boats and the sea—were walking the city’s old quays and inspecting the scores of silent, fat-bellied troop ships that the enemy had left behind. As Alcadizzar watched, a number of intrepid souls had found a pair of large skiffs that were still mostly seaworthy and were in the process of towing one of the huge troop ships up to the docks.
It was a sunny day in early spring, warm and damp with the promise of rain. The city still smelled of cinders, almost forty years after its fall. The king sat astride a lean desert horse and watched the activity on the docks from an empty square a short way uphill. A small group of royal guardsmen sat their horses a discreet distance away, allowing him to be alone with his thoughts. The chirurgeons encouraged him to ride when he could, saying that exercise would help speed his recovery.
Alcadizzar had his doubts. He leaned back in the saddle, wincing at the pains in his knees, hips and back. The chirurgeons had all done their best, he knew. He suspected that the aches he felt had less to do with the blood-drinker’s magic and more to do with the fact that he was a hundred and eighty-nine years old. The power of Neferata’s elixir was just a memory now, but he still seemed to age far slower than his peers. He looked like a man no more than a hundred—past the prime of his life, but with a good many years left in him, if he was careful. A time when most men put aside their work and tried to enjoy all the good things they’d earned.
Hoofbeats drummed along the cracked cobblestones across the square, shaking the king from his reverie. He glanced over to see Ophiria walking her horse towards him. Her hooded servant, the chosen of Khsar, reined in at the edge of the square, a discreet distance from both the Daughter of the Sands and the royal guardsmen.
The king managed a tired smile as the seer came up alongside him. “This is a surprise,” he said. “I hadn’t expected to see you inside the city.”
Ophiria scowled suspiciously at the empty buildings along the square. Rather than find lodgings inside Lahmia, like the rest of the army, the tribesmen had pitched their tents
up on the Golden Plain, near the ruins of the border forts. They shunned the city, convinced it was truly cursed ground.
“You didn’t look as though you were coming out any time soon, so I decided to come in after you,” she replied.
Alcadizzar chuckled and spread his hands. “If you’re expecting tea, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.”
The Daughter of the Sands smiled sadly. “No,” she said. “No time for that now, I’m afraid. I’ve come to say goodbye.”
The king sighed. “I’d hoped that Muktadir and his riders would stay with us a while longer.”
Ophiria shook her head. “Muktadir is a good son. He promised his father on his deathbed that when Nagash returned, the tribes would help drive the Usurper from the land. That promise has been kept and now he longs to return home, where his new wife waits for him.”
Alcadizzar nodded. “I understand,” he said, a little wistfully. “Truly, I do.” He glanced over at the seer and gave her a mischievous grin. “The barges are waiting to carry you back to Khemri.”
Ophiria grimaced. “Never again, by the gods!” She put her hand to her belly. “I’d rather be dragged to Bhagar from the back of a horse.” The seer shook her head. “The next time I want to see a man tortured I’ll have him carried to the river and tied to a barge for a week.”
The two shared a rueful laugh. Alcadizzar reached over and took her hand. “Safe journeys, Ophiria. You will always be welcome at the court in Khemri.”
Ophiria studied the king for a long moment. “You are a good man, Alcadizzar, and my people owe you a great deal. For that you have my thanks.” She glanced away from him then, looking down the hill at the docks. “You are contemplating another voyage,” she observed.
The smile faded from Alcadizzar’s face. “The war’s not over yet,” he said gravely. “As soon as we can put together a fleet, we’re going after Nagash.” He pointed down at the abandoned ships. “My men are examining those bone ships to see if we can rig them with oars or sails. We’ll head up the strait, find the Usurper’s lair, and deal with him once and for all.” He sighed again. “Then, perhaps, I can finally rest.”
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