The Rise of Nagash

by Mike Lee

  “It is an honour, Grand Hierophant,” he said in a slightly slurred voice. “Your servant said you requested me personally?”

  “Did you drug him?” Nagash asked, frowning at Khefru.

  “Well… yes,” the young priest replied. “I thought it prudent, all things considered.” The Grand Hierophant glanced worriedly at Malchior.

  “Will that cause problems?”

  The notion seemed to amuse the druchii, who said, “That depends on how much effort you intend to put into your lesson.” He pointed to the flowing black lines. “Just be careful that the fool doesn’t scuff your hard work with his plodding feet.” Imhep was glancing around the dimly lit chamber with befuddled interest, taking special note of the two witches.

  “What… That is… How may I be of service to you, holy one?” he asked. “My friend Khefru mentioned a reward of some kind.”

  “He has debts,” Khefru interjected. “Imhep is something of a gambler, you see.”

  Nagash eyed the young noble closely, noting the lack of rings or other jewellery, and the man’s worn kilt and sandals.

  “I take it he’s the sort that loses a great deal. Won’t his debtors inquire after him?” Khefru shrugged.

  “Perhaps, but what will they learn? No one saw me with him, master. I was most careful.”

  “We had some very fine wine,” Imhep said, his slack face quirking into a grin. “Where was that again, friend Khefru?”

  Nagash bent and finished the sigil with a few deft strokes of his brush, and then beckoned impatiently to his servant.

  “Bring him here,” he said, “but be careful of the glyphs.” Khefru took Imhep’s arm and led the drugged man across the room as though he were a child.

  “Mind your step,” he told the noble as they approached the edge of the sigil. “That’s it. Right into the centre.”

  Imhep swayed drunkenly in the middle of the circle, forcing Nagash to grip his arms and hold him steady.

  “Forgive me, holy one,” the young man said with a chuckle. “I’m not certain how much help I am going to be at the moment. As I said, it was very fine wine.”

  “Get that cape off him,” Malchior commanded. At a nod from Nagash, Khefru darted forwards and jerked the cape from Imhep’s shoulders, revealing the noble’s narrow, bony chest.

  “Careful!” Imhep barked. “That’s my good cape! I’ll be needing that back.” The warlock paced slowly around the edge of the sigil.

  “Where are the implements?” he asked. Imhep turned his head at the sound of Malchior’s voice.

  “What’s the barbarian saying?” he asked.

  Khefru reached into his belt and drew out a pair of long bronze needles. The young noble’s eyes widened.

  “Merciful Ptra! What are those for?”

  Malchior glided like a snake towards Khefru, his eyes glinting. He reached out and delicately pulled them from the priest’s grip.

  “Yes,” he murmured. “These will do.” He turned to Nagash. “Hold him.”

  Nagash seized Imhep’s lower jaw and wrenched his head around, until they were looking eye to eye. The noble let out a startled cry, which turned to a scream of agony as the druchii stepped inside the sigil and drove the first needle into Imhep’s lower back.

  The young noble collapsed to his knees, shrieking in agony. Nagash watched as Malchior put his free hand against the side of Imhep’s head and bent it to the side, exposing the tendons of the noble’s thin neck. With a hungry smile, the warlock plunged the second needle into the juncture of shoulder and throat, and Imhep’s entire upper body went rigid. Malchior worked the needle deeper into Imhep’s chest.

  “Remember our discussions on nerve clusters and their uses,” he said dispassionately. “This will keep your subject alert and suffering, but unable to interfere.” Nagash looked into Imhep’s eyes, drawn by the gleam of pain radiating from their depths.

  “And the suffering is important?” he asked.

  Drutheira chuckled.

  “It is not vital,” she admitted, “but it is certainly entertaining.” The warlock frowned at the interruption.

  “We were speaking of sandstone earlier,” he said. “Some physical objects channel and store magic better than others, but none work so well as flesh and bone. Humans, as I said, have a poor grasp of magic, but like all living things, their bodies accumulate power over time.” Malchior traced a fingernail across Imhep’s cheek. “Can you feel it?” he asked.

  Fascinated, Nagash reached out and laid a hand on the noble’s forehead. He cleared his mind and tried to employ the techniques the warlock had taught him. After a moment, he shook his head, and said, “I feel nothing.”

  Malchior smiled.

  “Touch your fingers to the needle, then,” he said.

  The Grand Hierophant’s gaze fell to the needle jutting from Imhep’s torso. Tentatively, he reached out and laid a finger on its round end. The noble stiffened, his eyes widening in pain.

  The metal trembled against Nagash’s fingertip. It was cold to the touch… and then he felt it, like a faint thread of fire pulsing against his skin.

  “Yes,” Nagash whispered. “Yes…” A terrible, hungry light grew in his eyes. “At last.”

  The warlock loomed over Imhep’s shoulder, his face lit with ghastly joy.

  “Give me your knife,” he said.

  Nagash’s hand fumbled at his belt. The pulse of power sent a tremor through his frame, quickening along with Imhep’s pulse. He handed over his curved knife without hesitation, ignoring Khefra’s quiet protest. Malchior pulled away the noble’s wig and cast it aside.

  “Now we shall draw that power to the surface,” he said, laying the point of the knife against Imhep’s scalp. “Hours of agony will shape it, and strengthen it as your victim struggles to survive. When the time is ripe, we will cut his throat and his life force will pour over your hands. Then your education will begin in earnest.”

  Slowly, carefully, the druchii began to cut into Imhep’s skin. Nagash watched the warlock work. After a moment, he turned a page in his book and began to make careful notes.

  TEN

  Tidings of War

  Ka-Sabar, the City of Bronze, in the 63rd year of Ptra the Glorious

  (-1744 Imperial Reckoning)

  The wind from the east in the City of Bronze was called Enmesh-na Geheb, for it was the eastern quarter of the city that contained the majority of Ka-Sabar’s complex of foundries. The Breath of Geheb reeked of cinders and the smell of scorched copper, as ingots of ore carved from the Brittle Peaks were melted in great crucibles and combined with bars of nickel to produce high-quality bronze. For centuries Ka-Sabar had been known as a city of industry, and had made its wealth by trading everything from belt buckles and wheel rims to fine swords and scale armour. In these dark days the demand for her goods was greater than ever. The city’s furnaces lit the eastern skies by night, and her smithies were shrouded in a perpetual mantle of acrid smoke. Heavily armed caravans made their way down the trade road from Quatar bearing chests of gold and silver, and returned laden with swords and axes, scale shirts and shields, bronze-tipped spears and baskets of arrowheads. Rasetra and Lybaras were spending enormous sums, much of it borrowed from the Hieratic Council in Mahrak, to equip their growing armies. Akhmen-hotep’s viziers were stunned at the huge influx of wealth, but the king understood the desperation that drove such furious spending. He, too, had been feverishly rebuilding his shattered forces after the devastating defeat at Zedri, six years earlier. So long as that unholy monster Nagash ruled over the Living City, not a single soul in Nehekhara was safe.

  News of the slaughter at Bhagar had arrived with the first of the desert city’s hollow-eyed refugees, less than three weeks after Akhmen-hotep had returned to Ka-Sabar. For weeks the city was paralysed with terror and grief, and its citizens looked to the north with mounting dread as they awaited the arrival of the Usurper’s nightmarish horde. Then a messenger travelled the trade road bearing letters from the Kings of Rasetra an
d Lybaras. They had risen up against the Usurper and taken Quatar by storm, and were poised to liberate Khemri! Akhmen-hotep swiftly drafted a letter declaring his support for the western kings and then spent the rest of the day in the Temple of Geheb, thanking the gods for his people’s deliverance.

  A month passed with no news as Ka-Sabar mourned its dead sons and contemplated the future. Akhmen-hotep sent one messenger after another to the White Palace, seeking word from his new-found allies. None returned. Finally, after six long months, the king despatched a small force of his Ushabti and a squadron of horsemen to Quatar to learn what they could.

  Two months later, the Ushabti returned, on foot, bearing a tale of horror and despair. On the very night of the slaughter at Bhagar, the skies above Quatar had wept blood, and within days the entire city was consumed by a plague the likes of which the Blessed Land had never known before. The sickness struck man and animal with equal ferocity, maddening them with a violent, savage fever. Within a week the city was consumed in an orgy of murder and destruction. The allied armies were decimated, torn apart from within as entire companies succumbed to the fever and turned upon their fellow warriors. The Kings of Rasetra and Lybaras had been forced to flee the city, abandoning their armies for the safety of Mahrak at the other end of the Valley of Kings. According to rumour, they intended to raise more warriors and return with a contingent of warrior priests from the Hieratic Council to cleanse the city and resume the advance upon Khemri, but as the months turned to years, it became clear that the priests at Mahrak could not find a way to counter the curse that had befallen the city.

  Akhmen-hotep had no doubt that Nagash was the source of the terrible plague. The thought chilled him to the depths of his soul. Grimly, the king began to rebuild his shattered army and prepare for the worst.

  Nagash did not stir from Khemri in the wake of the terrible plague. Although the armies of his enemies had been devastated, it appeared that the Usurper’s army had fared little better. To make matters worse, a season of terrible sandstorms had risen from the Great Desert and swept across central Nehekhara, making travel all but impossible for weeks on end. The result was a stalemate of sorts. A tattered remnant of the western armies still held the White Palace at Quatar, while Nagash was free to work his evils in the Living City. The fate of the Blessed Land hung in the balance as both sides raced to rebuild their devastated forces and start the war anew.

  The vizier rose slowly into view as he ascended the sandstone steps leading to the council hall, his robes fluttering in the hot wind blowing across the city from the east. Slanting beams of sunlight shone on the functionary’s bronze skullcap and glittered from the gold rings adorning the man’s wide, scarred hands. He bowed low to the king and the small group of nobles who sat or paced around the windswept chamber.

  “The emissary from Mahrak has arrived, great one,” he said.

  Akhmen-hotep turned at the sound of the vizier’s rough voice. He was pacing, as was his wont, striding along the wide flagstones beside the short, squat columns that supported the eastern edge of the council hall’s roof. The chamber had no walls, resting as it did atop the royal palace in the centre of the city, which was itself at the summit of one of the Brittle Peaks’ many foothills. The King of Ka-Sabar could look out across the width and breadth of his domain, from the forges spread in a smoking crescent to the east to the brooding stone temples of the gods that filled the Priests’ Quarter to the west. A fine layer of soot coated the round sides of the eastern columns, and swirling drifts of sand and grit blew across the small chamber’s stone floor, reminding the king and his nobles of the earth god whom they worshipped.

  The king’s chair, a massive thing made from pieces of petrified wood and heavy bronze fittings, faced the stair from the far end of the room. A score of smaller chairs were arrayed in a rough circle before it, reserved for the city’s major nobles and the king’s closest allies. Less than half were occupied.

  On the left hand of the king’s chair sat Memnet, the Grand Hierophant of Ptra. On the right slouched Pakh-amn, the king’s Master of Horse, along with half a dozen young sons of the city’s noble families. A great many of Ka-Sabar’s great lords had not returned from the debacle at Zandri, and the mantle of leadership had fallen on largely inexperienced shoulders. Neither Khalifra, the Priestess of Neru, nor Hashepra, the Hierophant of Geheb, were in attendance, and the king felt their absence keenly. The emissary’s sudden arrival had left Akhmen-hotep with little time to gather his advisors, and the religious leaders were rarely seen outside their temples these days. The new Hierophant of Phakth, a priest named Tethuhep, had not been seen in public at all. His spokesman claimed that Tethuhep was occupied with prayers for the defence of the city, but Akhmen-hotep suspected that Sukhet’s successor was not yet ready to assume his official duties.

  Truth be told, Pakh-amn and Memnet were in little better shape. It was plain to Akhmen-hotep that both men had been deeply scarred by the horrors they had witnessed six months before. The Grand Hierophant was a gaunt, hollow-eyed figure, his face aged beyond his years since the fateful battle. Though still a powerful and influential figure in the city, Memnet had grown increasingly distant and withdrawn with each passing year. Pakh-amn had suffered even worse since his return to the city. Akhmen-hotep had made no secret of the young noble’s precipitous withdrawal from the battlefield, and his early return to Ka-Sabar, more than three days ahead of the king, caused many in the city to question Pakh-amn’s courage. For more than a year after the battle he was absent from the king’s court, and rumours circulated that he had turned to the milk of the black lotus to escape the pain of his disgrace. He, too, was sunken-eyed and brooding, his fingers trembling as he held a cup of wine with both hands.

  Akhmen-hotep studied the council for a moment, and then nodded gravely to his vizier.

  “Bring him forth,” the king commanded. The vizier bowed once more and withdrew down the stairs. Less than a minute later they heard the measured tread of the king’s Ushabti, and four of the devoted rose into view, escorting a very old priest, who wore the vibrant yellow robes of a servant of Ptra. Despite his advanced years, the emissary moved with surprising confidence and strength, and his dark eyes were keen and bright. His gaze fell upon Memnet, and the Grand Hierophant leapt from his chair as though stung.

  “Nebunefer! The blessings of Ptra be upon you, holy one,” Memnet stammered. “The Grand Hierophant clutched at his hands and bowed deeply. This is an unexpected honour—”

  Mahrak’s emissary forestalled Memnet with an upraised hand.

  “Be still,” he commanded roughly. “I haven’t come to inspect your coffers, Grand Hierophant. I bring tidings to your brother the king.” Nebunefer inclined his head respectfully to Akhmen-hotep. “Blessings of the Great Father be upon you, King of the Bronze City.”

  “And to you,” Akhmen-hotep replied neutrally. “It has been some time since an emissary arrived from the City of Hope. Do the desert storms scourge Mahrak as well?” Nebunefer arched a thin eyebrow at the king.

  “The storms are our creation, great one. The Hieratic Council has gone to great lengths to keep the blasphemer in Khemri at bay so that you and your allies can recover from your terrible losses.” The king considered Nebunefer for a moment.

  “We thank the council for its aid,” he said carefully. “Does this mean that Mahrak is ready to send its warrior-priests into battle against the Usurper?” Nebunefer gave the king a terse shake of the head.

  “The time is not yet right,” he replied. “The Kings of Rasetra and Lybaras have raised new armies and are ready to resume the crusade against the blasphemer.”

  “Ah. I see,” Akhmen-hotep said. “So the Hieratic Council has at last cleansed Quatar of its terrible curse?” The emissary paused.

  “The plague has been allowed to run its course,” he replied. “Many of the city’s noble families survived, including Nemuhareb and the royal family, as well as a few hundred soldiers that had been quartered inside the White P
alace, but the rest suffered terribly,” Akhmen-hotep nodded gravely.

  “The caravans from the north brought terrible stories: streets covered in ash and human bones, houses barricaded from within and filled with mutilated bodies, and Charnel pits filled with burned skulls. In truth, Quatar is a city of the dead.”

  “And so the monster’s army grows,” Pakh-amn said, raising his red-rimmed eyes to stare at the emissary. His voice was little more than a croak, and his teeth were stained a dark blue from years of drinking the milk of the lotus. “The dead in their tens of thousands are his to command, priest. Quatar is under siege even as we speak!” For a brief moment Nebunefer was taken aback by the vehemence in Pakh-amn’s voice.

  “The Hieratic Council has heard the stories of the battle at Zandri,” he said, “and steps have been taken to put the citizens of Quatar beyond Nagash’s reach. The surviving members of the city’s mortuary cult worked day and night to seal the dead into carefully warded tombs in the city necropolis.” The emissary turned his attention back to the king. “What is more, the accounts of fighting at Zandri and Bhagar tell us that either Nagash or one of his so-called immortals must be present to raise the bodies of the dead, and he will not have that opportunity at Quatar.” The king clasped his broad hands behind his back and looked out across the eastern quarter of the city, feeling the breath of Geheb against his skin.

  “You said that Rasetra and Lybaras have raised new armies.”

  “Rasetra marches for the Valley of Kings even as we speak. Rakh-amn-hotep has mustered every warrior his city possesses, and even includes companies of savage jungle beasts in his army. Hekhmenukep and the warrior-engineers of Lybaras have emptied their fabled arsenals and are hastening to Quatar with a legion of dreadful war machines to counter the blasphemer’s undead horde. Within the month they will be encamped outside Quatar, and will march upon the Living City as soon as the signs are propitious.”