The Rise of Nagash

by Mike Lee

  Nagash arched a narrow eyebrow, and said, “Arkhan the Black?”

  “If we were close enough to see his teeth, you wouldn’t have to ask,” Khefru said, chuckling softly. “He chews jusesh root like a common fisherman, and he’s got a smile like a smashed wine cup. Spends most of his ill-gotten coin on favours at Asaph’s Temple, and word is that he has to pay double before any of the priestesses will go near him.”

  “My brother makes a mockery out of all of us,” Nagash hissed, shaking his head in disgust. His hands clenched angrily at the thought of his father’s blasted corpse and the terrible power that had destroyed him: power that remained stubbornly out of his reach! Bile burned at the back of his throat at the thought of all he could do with but a sliver of that awful strength. He turned to Khefru. “Any one of these will do,” he said with a disdainful sweep of his hand. “Promise whatever you must, but be discreet.”

  “I know just the person, master,” Khefru said, nodding quickly. “You may rely upon me.” The expression on his face told Nagash that the young priest knew very well what would happen in the event that he failed.

  Nagash dismissed Khefru with a curt nod of his head and the two parted ways, the young priest slipping silently into the rear of the crowd while the Grand Hierophant continued his journey through the shadows towards the great dais. The envoy of Quatar had reached the far end of the hall, and his deep, practised voice was echoing from the columns and the high, dark ceiling.

  “Great King of the Living City, on behalf of Quatar I offer up these treasures and a coffle of fine northern slaves to you as a measure of our esteem. It is with great regret that we must take our leave of you, and we hope that these gifts will recommend us fondly to you in our absence.”

  It was nearly mid-afternoon, and once the emissary had been given leave to depart, the grand assembly would conclude. Then, Thutep’s queen would be brought forth to offer blessings upon any children born since the last new moon. Nagash planned to settle in the shadows and watch the Daughter of the Sun for a time. He had not seen her since Khetep’s interment, but he thought of her often. She was exquisite, a perfect blossom tended in the temples of Lahmia since her youth, and unlike any woman he had ever known. The Grand Hierophant wondered what it would be like to possess one such as her.

  Lost in his covetous reverie, Nagash failed to notice the white-robed figure waiting in his path until he was nearly on top of her. She wore the ceremonial vestments of a matron of Ptra, her stout figure entirely concealed except for her strong, wrinkled hands, which were clasped tightly at her waist. Her face was concealed behind a gold mask that glimmered faintly in the reflected light of the court’s oil lamps. The matron bowed deeply at Nagash’s approach.

  “The blessings of the Great Father be upon you, holy one,” she said in a deep voice. The matron spoke with a Lahmian’s singsong accent. Nagash scowled at the woman.

  “I require no blessing from you, matron,” he replied curtly. The answer seemed to amuse the matron.

  “Be that as it may,” she said. “I stand before you on behalf of the queen. Neferem wishes to speak with you.”

  “Indeed?” Nagash murmured, his handsome face betraying a hint of surprise. “This is an unexpected honour. When am I to meet with her?”

  “Now, if it please you,” the matron answered, gesturing into the darkness beyond the dais. “She waits in the antechamber beyond the great hall. Shall I escort you there?” Nagash let out a snort.

  “I was born in these halls, woman. I can find my own way,” he said, and left the matron bowing awkwardly in his wake as he strode swiftly off into the gloom. His dark eyes were pensive as he contemplated the reasons for this surprise summons. The Daughter of the Sun did not, as a rule, hold private audiences with anyone save the king.

  The shadows grew deeper as Nagash passed by the great dais. Thutep was perched at the edge of Settra’s throne, smiling politely at the Quatari emissary as the man continued his lengthy farewell speech. A small crowd of bodyguards and functionaries waited upon the king’s pleasure in the darkness just past the dais. Nagash moved swiftly past them and approached a trio of wide-spaced stone doors set into the chamber’s far wall. Statues of the gods stood watch beside each of the doorways: Neru at the door to the far left, Ptra in the centre, and Geheb to the right. A pair of Ushabti stood guard at the centre door with their huge ritual swords in their hands, their skin glowing softly with the sun god’s blessing. A matron waited with them, poised and patient. She bowed gracefully as Nagash came forwards, and she spoke quietly to the devoted, who nodded solemnly and stepped aside. The Grand Hierophant acknowledged the matron with a passing glance and pushed the stone door open.

  The antechamber was small and brightly lit, with more than a dozen oil lamps guttering in niches from the sandstone walls. Fine Lahmian rugs, imported from the Silk Lands to the east, covered the floor, and the air was thick with a haze of pungent incense. Low divans had been arranged in a loose circle in the centre of the room, all facing towards a cushioned chair ornamented in gold leaf. Neferem, Daughter of the Sun, sat facing the door, her back straight and her arms resting lightly on the arms of her chair. She wore the dazzling golden headdress of Khemri’s queen, and a broad pectoral of gold studded with gemstones and lapis lazuli lay upon her breast. Her eyes were shadowed with dusky kohl, and her skin shone like bronze in the firelight. She smiled slightly as Nagash approached, and the Grand Hierophant was surprised to feel his pulse quicken in response. A fool like Thutep did not deserve such a wife!

  Nagash approached the queen, taking note of the half a dozen matrons resting upon their knees at a discreet distance on the far side of the room. He bowed smoothly before the Daughter of the Sun.

  “You summoned me, holy one?” he said.

  “The blessings of the Great Father be upon you, Grand Hierophant,” Neferem replied, in a voice as dark and rich as honey. She spoke with the musical accent of the Lahmians, and her every movement was graceful and poised. The queen indicated a divan to her right. “Please, sit. Would you care for wine, or perhaps some food?”

  “I do not partake of wine,” Nagash said. “It clouds the senses and corrupts the mind, and I can abide neither.” The Grand Hierophant settled on the edge of the divan. “But I thank you, nonetheless.”

  Across the room, the matrons shifted uncomfortably, but the queen was unruffled.

  “My husband was speaking of you the other day,” she began. “He has seen very little of you since your great father’s death.”

  Nagash shrugged. “My brother and I have never been close,” he said, “and my duties with the cult demand much of my time.” His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. He had been careful to conceal his trips to the Great Pyramid these last couple of years. Was it possible Thutep was spying on him?

  “I certainly understand the demands that gods and men place upon the priesthood,” the queen said with a knowing look, “and as the Grand Hierophant of Khemri’s Mortuary Cult your influence extends beyond the Living City, to liche priests all across Nehekhara. Some might even say your power rivals that of the Hieratic Council in Mahrak.” Nagash smiled faintly.

  “All men die, holy one,” he said. “That alone is the source of our influence.” He waved his hand dismissively. “The great mysteries of life and death occupy my interest. I have no time for the petty politics of the priesthood.”

  Once more a stir went through the silent matrons. Neferem studied the Grand Hierophant for a moment, resting her chin on the tips of her fingers, and said, “But the kings of Nehekhara rely upon priests for their insight and wisdom, do they not?”

  “Some more than others,” Nagash observed. “The Priest Kings of Lahmia are notably indifferent to the demands of their holy men, for example.”

  “That depends upon the advice, I think,” the queen countered, “and its source.” Nagash folded his arms across his chest and regarded Neferem coolly.

  “And what advice would you have me give, holy one?” The Daughter of the Sun
smiled at him.

  “Your brother has a bold vision for the Blessed Land,” she said. “Your father brought an era of peace and prosperity to Nehekhara. Thutep wants to build upon that and unify the land once more.” Nagash arched an eyebrow at the queen.

  “He would restore Settra’s empire?”

  “Not an empire,” Neferem said, “a confederation of equals, bound by ties of trade and mutual self-interest.” Her eyes glittered with passion. “We are all one people, Grand Hierophant, bound to the gods in a covenant of faith. The Blessed Land belongs to all of us. Settra’s empire only hinted at the glories we could achieve once our rivalries were put aside.” The Grand Hierophant let out a derisive snort.

  “You would have the people of Khemri believe that they are the equal of those flea-bitten horse thieves in Bhagar? It’s outrageous!” Neferem straightened in her seat, and her beautiful face took on a haughty cast.

  “They are equal,” she said, “and both cities could profit from such an understanding. What has Nehekhara gained from centuries of warfare except stagnation and death?”

  “Death is the way of the world,” Nagash said. “Why should a man trade for something when he can seize it instead?” The Grand Hierophant rose to his feet. “Khetep understood this. The Priest Kings of Nehekhara yielded to his authority because he was a great general, and they feared the might of his army.”

  “And look at how long his achievements lasted after his death,” Neferem answered. “Khemri’s court is all but emptied. Fear can compel men, but it cannot bind them together for long.”

  “Not without constant reinforcement,” Nagash hissed. “Thutep surrendered what authority Khemri possessed when he chose not to seek revenge against Zandri for the death of our father.” He gestured sharply in the direction of the court. “The great houses disdain him, and he does nothing. At this point, I would not be surprised if more than one of them was plotting against him. How does he expect to forge a grand confederation of kings when he cannot manage his own court?” The queen stiffened.

  “And what would you have him do?”

  “What I wish is not relevant,” Nagash snapped. “If Thutep hopes to rule over Khemri, he must spill his share of blood. Heads must roll, both here and abroad. That is how cities grow wealthy and powerful, not because they went to their neighbours and begged for aid.”

  Neferem’s jaw tightened fractionally at Nagash’s contemptuous tone, but her voice was steady as she spoke. “I can’t deny that my husband’s vision grows harder to achieve with each passing day,” she said. “We are not blind to Zandri’s ambitions, Grand Hierophant. I hoped that you could be persuaded to intervene on your brother’s behalf. If the other cities would agree to help form a united front against Nekumet—”

  “To what end? So they could throw away their swords and become a nation of merchants?” Nagash’s lip curled in distaste. “And you thought I would lend my voice to such foolishness? You insult me, holy one.”

  Neferem’s face grew still.

  “Then I regret having given offence,” she said neutrally. “I shall take up no more of your time, Grand Hierophant. My husband had spoken to me at length of your brilliance, and I know what it is like to put aside ambition and serve the needs of a temple. I had hoped to give you a role in shaping the future of Khemri.” The Grand Hierophant bowed deeply to the queen.

  “For me to shape the future of Khemri I would require a crown,” he said coldly. “For now, that privilege belongs to the Priest King of Zandri.”

  Nagash turned on his heel and took his leave of the queen. The startled whispers of the matrons followed after him as he returned to the shadows of Settra’s Court. While he had been with Neferem the grand assembly had concluded, and the hall buzzed with the murmur of voices as the young nobles of the city hurried out into the sunlit afternoon in search of better entertainment. A handful of nervous young mothers clutched their babes at the foot of the great dais, awaiting the blessing of the Daughter of the Sun. Thutep was already gone, having exited the court through Neru’s door at the rear of the chamber.

  The great dais was deserted. Nagash paused nearby.

  “A crown,” he murmured thoughtfully, looking up at Settra’s throne.

  Unnoticed by the dwindling crowd, Nagash climbed the stone steps and stood beside the ancient chair. He rested his hand on the arm of the throne and contemplated the backs of the milling nobles, his eyes full of dark and terrible thoughts.

  The druchii warlock frowned at the centre of the chamber’s stone.

  “You’re certain this faces directly north?” Malchior said in his sibilant tongue. Nagash glanced up from the pages of the book.

  “Of course,” he said. “The pyramid is precisely aligned with the four corners of the earth. It’s vital to maintaining the aura of preservation within the tomb. Have you no understanding of geomancy in your homeland?”

  “Geomancy,” the warlock sneered, “how quaint.” He stepped forwards and laid a black-gloved fingertip against the sandstone. “Never mind the fact that this material is a poor conductor of magic. Marble works far better.”

  Nagash scowled at the pale-skinned figure. Two years of imprisonment had done little to blunt the arrogance of the three druchii. Once they had accepted the terms of Nagash’s agreement they had quickly demanded everything from fine foods to books and other entertainments, which they seemed to regard as nothing more than their due. The Grand Hierophant had humoured them, within reason. Over time, their prison had expanded to include more than a dozen adjoining chambers, and he had taken pains to furnish them so that they would enjoy some measure of comfort.

  The great chamber where he had first revived the druchii had become their work room, and the margins were crowded with bookshelves, tables and chairs. Nagash crouched in the centre of the space, with a large, leather-bound book open before him. The thick pages were covered in copious notes dictated by the druchii and copied down in Nagash’s hand. Since he had begun his training, Nagash had committed everything he’d been taught to paper, both for his own reference and to ensure that his tutors remained honest. A horsetail brush and a small pot of ink sat on the floor beside his knee.

  “Marble, and gold,” Drutheira hissed. The lithe, white-haired witch was lounging like a sunning cobra on a low divan across the chamber, tracing a set of Nehekharan glyphs with an elegantly pointed fingernail. “This cursed land is too far from the north. I can barely sense a glimmer of power here.”

  “Perhaps it is this pyramid,” Ashniel said, raising her dark eyes from the book she was reading and regarding Nagash hatefully. The druchii straightened, extending her slim white arms over the reading table in a catlike stretch. “We should be teaching you out in the open air, not shut up in this awful barrow.” Nagash grunted in amusement as he reached for the brush and ink.

  “So the lion said from the hunter’s pit,” he replied. “Perhaps the fault lies in your perceptions, druchii; the pyramid is a potent focus for mystical energies. The mortuary cult has interred our kings in such crypts for centuries to maintain the invocations of restoration.”

  Within the first few days of their imprisonment, the barbarians seemed to have appointed roles for themselves. Malchior took on the lion’s share of Nagash’s tutelage, setting a difficult and demanding pace of lectures and exercises. Drutheira assisted Malchior during the more complicated lessons, but preferred to focus her energies on more physical pursuits, and despite repeated failures, her attempts at seduction continued unabated. Meanwhile, Ashniel treated the Grand Hierophant with nothing but contempt, keeping to her books and reading voraciously about Nehekharan culture, religion and, most importantly, the construction of their crypts.

  It was clear to Nagash from the beginning that Malchior and Drutheira were meant to distract him, each in their own ways, while Ashniel kept to herself and looked for a way to free them from Khetep’s tomb. The hateful witch had been careful to cover her tracks, but not quite careful enough, and Nagash and Khefru had found evidence
that Ashniel had managed to breach the first layer of traps surrounding their apartments and was making slow but steady progress exploring the lower level of the crypt. The battle of wits, keeping one step ahead of the witch by changing the location and nature of the traps, had become a diverting pastime for Nagash and his favoured servant.

  The Grand Hierophant dipped the brush in the black ink, consulted the tome open before him, and began to paint the sigil on the floor.

  “You are certain this will work?” he asked, tracing the complicated lines with care.

  “I am certain of nothing in this place,” Malchior growled. The warlock folded his arms and watched the sigil take shape on the stone floor. “Drutheira is right, this land is a desert in more ways than one. The winds of magic are very weak, scarcely stirring the aether, and, as I’ve said often enough, your kind has a feeble grasp of magic at the best of times.”

  The warlock let the implication of his statement hang in the air between them: you may not be capable of this. Nagash clenched the brush tightly in his hand and focused on crafting the sigil.

  “If this does not work, what then?” he asked curtly. Malchior shrugged.

  “There is nothing else,” he said. “This ritual isn’t even an accepted part of our magical lore. It’s the sort of thing practised by shade-casters and gutter witches, who lack the will to harness the winds of magic.” He spread his hands. “If this attempt fails, the fault lies with you, human. I’ve tried everything I can think of.”

  Then, a murmur of voices echoed from the passageway beyond the work room. Nagash glanced up from his work as Khefru entered the room with a hooded figure in tow.

  “Here he is, master,” Khefru said with a bow. “Allow me to present Imhep, of the House of Hapt-amn-kesh. He should serve your purposes in every particular.”

  The hooded figure swayed slightly on his feet. Imhep reached up and bared his head with shaking hands. He was young, only sixty or so, with large, watery eyes and a receding chin. A short, black wig sat askew on his shaven head.