by Mike Lee
Nagash wasn’t finished with Malchior yet. He tasted blood as he spat the Incantation of Reaping and consumed the warlock’s soul. Malchior’s life essence flowed into him like a river of ice, banishing the pain of his wounds and filling his veins with power.
Drutheira lay at the foot of the dais, doubled over in pain. She had landed on her right arm, which was bent at an awkward angle. With a snarl, Nagash jabbed a finger at her and spat a vicious spell. The witch threw up her good arm and screamed a counter-spell, but the force of the necromancer’s attack struck her like a desert storm. Drops of blood appeared on the witch’s pale skin, spreading rapidly as her flesh was stripped away in twisting ribbons by a furious magical wind. In the blink of an eye the witch was shredded, her entrails spread in a gory fan behind her steaming bones. Once again, Nagash chanted the Incantation of Reaping and ate the barbarian’s life essence.
A bolt of searing power smashed into the necromancer, but Nagash scarcely felt it. The energy dissipated like smoke, cancelled by the inrush of power from Drutheira’s soul. He turned to Ashniel, who still stood near the chamber’s southern wall, and unleashed a rippling string of magical bolts. The witch countered his attacks with fearsome speed, deflecting many of the bolts and dissipating the rest. Crackling detonations split the stones and sent puffs of dust into the air around the druchii, but Ashniel was unharmed.
With a screech, the witch struck back. Nagash felt the dais beneath him start to shift and give way. He focused his will on the stones, which were turning black and melding together like the maw of a gaping pit. The necromancer barked a counter-spell and poured his newly gathered energies into the incantation, fixing the stones once more into solidity.
Before Ashniel could launch another attack, Nagash unleashed another torrent of bolts at the witch. Once again, she deflected them with almost casual skill. More concussions reverberated across the chamber, sending razor-sharp flecks of stone whickering through the air.
Ashniel staggered beneath the onslaught, but she gave the necromancer a malicious smile.
“A clever trick, human,” she shouted, “but those two were amateurs compared to me. Your attacks are potent but clumsy, and your energies are finite. I can counter your spells indefinitely, and when you have exhausted yourself, I will make a new pair of gloves from your hide.”
Nagash’s face twisted in rage and he began to chant again. A wild, howling wind rushed from the necromancer, roaring down the dais towards the witch. Ashniel threw up her hands and the wind curled around her. The flagstones beneath her feet erupted in fragments, and the sharp echoes of splintering stone filled the air.
“You see?” she said with a laugh. “Your spells can’t touch me.”
Nagash drew a deep breath. The power of the druchii souls was fading, leaving his throat feeling raw and torn.
“What makes you think that spell was meant for you?” he croaked.
Ashniel’s smile faltered. Her eyes narrowed warily, and with a hiss like an angry cat she whirled to see the cracked and splintered feet of Asaph, goddess of love.
Baffled, she spun back to Nagash, just as the head of the goddess landed on her. The stone head, the size of a chariot, smashed to pieces, crushing the druchii to a pulp.
Nagash uttered the Incantation of Reaping one last time, and drank deep of Ashniel’s life essence. Pain faded, replaced by the cold bliss of triumph.
The necromancer surveyed the scene of carnage. Veils of dust hung in the air, tinged red by the banked light of the braziers.
“My thanks for the lesson,” Nagash said with a smile.
SIXTEEN
The Creeping Darkness
Bel Aliad, the City of Spices, in the 63rd year of Ptra the Glorious
(-1744 Imperial Reckoning)
By the time Akhmen-hotep and his warriors reached Bel Aliad, the Bhagarite horsemen had killed every living thing they could. Bodies lay in heaps along the narrow streets, cut down as they tried to flee the swift-riding desert raiders. When the panicked citizens fled into their homes the merciless Bhagarites flung torches and looted oil lamps through the windows and waited with their bows at the ready. Old men, women and children lay huddled by the doors of their homes, pierced by arrows and spears. The Bhagarites had waded into the slaughter until their white robes and the withers of their horses were drenched in innocent blood.
The stench of spilled blood hung heavy in the air, even in the famous Spice Bazaar. The brightly coloured awnings of the spice market had been slashed apart, and a king’s ransom worth of exotic herbs had spilled from broken urns and been trampled into the dirt. Bel Aliad had been cast to ruin in the space of a single afternoon. The desert raiders had cut out its heart to answer for all that they had lost, and now, the horsemen sat their mounts and stared dumbly at the horror they had wrought, their sword-arms hanging limp and their dark eyes empty of thought or feeling.
Akhmen-hotep strode heavily into the Spice Bazaar, surrounded by his Ushabti and Pakh-amn’s light horsemen. They’d left their chariots at the edge of the town, for there had been no way to guide the heavy war machines down the streets without riding over Bel Aliad’s massacred people.
The king’s bloodstained sword quivered in his hand as he saw the milling figures of the horsemen. Rage and despair flooded through Akhmen-hotep, and when he tried to speak all he could manage was a wordless roar of anguish that echoed in the corpse-strewn square. The desert horses shied at the terrible sound, tossing their heads and backing away from the advancing king, but the Bhagarites stilled the animals with leaden voices and slid from the saddles with funereal grace. They walked a few steps towards the king and carefully laid their swords on the ground beside their feet.
Some of the men reached up and tugged their head-scarves loose, baring their necks, while others pulled open their gore-spattered robes and revealed their heaving chests. They had avenged their murdered kin, and now prepared to join them in the afterlife.
At that moment, Akhmen-hotep would have gladly obliged them. He stared into their dead eyes and felt sick with fury.
“What infamy is this?” he cried. “These people did nothing to you! Do you imagine your loved ones are pleased with what you’ve done? You’ve murdered mothers and their babes! This is not the work of warriors, but of monsters. You’re no better than the Usurper!”
The imprecation struck the Bhagarites like the lash of a whip. One of the horsemen screeched like a desert cat and snatched up his blade, but he took no more than two steps towards the king before one of Akhmen-hotep’s Ushabti stepped forwards and cut him down. The king’s bodyguards swept forwards in a single mass, their ritual swords flickering, but they were halted by a commanding shout, not from Akhmen-hotep, but from Pakh-amn, the Master of Horse.
“Stay your hands!” the young nobleman shouted. “The lives of the horsemen are for the king to take, not your own!”
True to their oaths, the devoted paused, awaiting their master’s order. Akhmen-hotep turned at the sound of Pakh-amn’s approach, glaring up at the nobleman as he reined in his horse beside the king.
“Do you mean to plead for their lives, Pakh-amn?” he snapped. “Their lives are forfeit for what they have done!”
“Do you think me blind, great one?” the nobleman shot back. “I have seen the slaughter just the same as you, but their executions must wait if you and I hope to see Ka-Sabar once more.”
Akhmen-hotep bit back a savage reply. As terrible as it was to hear, Pakh-amn was right. Without the Bhagarites they would never find their way back across the trackless sands of the Great Desert, and the king’s duty to his people came before all other considerations. Justice for the people of Bel Aliad would have to wait.
“Seize them,” he told the Ushabti in a hollow voice. “Take away their horses and their swords, and return them to camp.”
The Ushabti lowered their blades reluctantly, but did as the king commanded. The desert horsemen offered no resistance as their hands were bound behind their backs with rope taken
from their saddles, and strange hands took hold of the bridles of their sacred horses. As far as they were concerned, their lives were at an end.
“We should take them back by a circuitous route,” Pakh-amn suggested. “Lest the city nobles catch sight of them. I’ll round up some troops and see about putting out the fires.” Akhmen-hotep nodded heavily.
“What will I tell Suhedir al-Khazem?” he asked, unable to take his eyes from the torn and twisted bodies filling the square.
The Master of Horse drew a deep breath. “We will say that some of our horsemen got carried away during the battle and that there was some looting. Nothing more. If we tell them the truth there will be a riot.” Even battered and disarmed, the city nobles and the surviving members of the City Companies made for a large body of men, and the terms of ransom that the king offered meant that they would be held in camp under minimal guard. The barbarian mercenaries would be chained into slave coffles and marched back with the army: such were the wages of war in the Blessed Land.
Akhmen-hotep considered this, and nodded. The prince and his men would have to be told the truth eventually, but not today. He did not have the heart for it.
“See to it,” he said wearily, and waved Pakh-amn away.
The king stood alone in the blood-soaked square as the Bhagarite horsemen were led away and Pakh-amn snapped orders to his horsemen. His broad shoulders sagged, and Akhmen-hotep sank to his knees among the bodies of the innocent.
“Forgive me,” he said, bending down to press his forehead to the hot stones. “Forgive me.”
The setting sun was red as fresh blood as it sank behind the mists above the Springs of Eternal Life. The hazy white clouds roiled slowly in the hot air, winding in thick tendrils around the tops of the high dunes just a few miles distant from where Rakh-amn-hotep stood. He was coated in a paste of sweat, dust and grit from the swirling cavalry skirmishes of the late afternoon, and his left shoulder ached from the sting of a horseman’s arrow that had penetrated a few inches past the heavy scales of his armoured vest. His throat and nostrils were caked with mud, and it felt as though his eyes would stick shut if he closed them for more than a few moments. To his tired mind the mists seemed to curl and stretch towards him like the welcoming arms of a lover. He longed to feel that cool, clean touch, but it remained just out of his reach, guarded by a long, thin line of Numasi horsemen and Khemri spears.
The enemy force stretched along the base of a line of low dunes running roughly southwards, with their left flank standing astride the Western Trade Road that led to the Living City. The bulk of the enemy cavalry had withdrawn to the north side of the road, no doubt to discourage flanking efforts in that direction. The Numasi cavalrymen were devils on horseback, almost the equal of the desert princes of Bhagar, and despite being significantly outnumbered they’d got the better of the Lybarans in most of the day’s skirmishes.
Rakh-amn-hotep had pressed them hard, believing at first that the Numasi cavalry was no more than a large scouting party sent to gather intelligence on the situation at Quatar. The enemy had retreated slowly but steadily in the face of his advance, sometimes wheeling and dashing forwards to unleash a volley of arrows or clash swords with a squadron of Lybarans who pressed too close. He had been certain that they would eventually break off and retreat north and west once the day was nearly over, but now he realised bitterly that the horsemen were merely a vanguard like his own, and they’d held him up just long enough for the rest of their force to form up for battle.
The majority of the Lybaran cavalry was arrayed in a broad crescent to either side of the Rasetran king: close to three thousand light cavalry and a striking force of fifteen hundred heavy cavalry. The heavy horse was situated to the king’s left, still relatively fresh at the end of the day.
Rakh-amn-hotep had kept them and his Ushabti in reserve, unwilling to wear them out on constant pursuits when he might have need of them later. To the king’s right, the horses of the light cavalry squadrons waited with their heads drooping and their flanks dappled with foam. Their riders poured precious water from the leather flasks at their hips onto thick cotton rags and held them up for their weary mounts to lick.
Rakh-amn-hotep scowled up at the lowering sun. There were perhaps two hours left before sunset. If they could not find a way to break through the enemy line it would mean another day out in the sands, consuming the last of the army’s water. The Usurper’s troops appeared to number at least fifteen thousand men, including the two thousand Numasi cavalry they’d skirmished with earlier, mostly light infantry and a few companies of archers. The Rasetran king would generally be tempted to put his faith in Ptra and try a massed charge, but the majority of his force was all but exhausted. Did they have enough strength left to break the enemy line?
The king turned and beckoned to the commander of the Lybaran contingent, who stood with his retinue only a few paces away. Shesh-amun was one of Hekhmenukep’s staunchest allies, and despite his advanced years he carried himself with a young man’s strength and vigour. He was lean and rangy like old leather, his skin burned almost black by long decades labouring under the desert sun. The champion was a bluff, forthright man who did not suffer fools gladly, and didn’t think so much of himself that he couldn’t be persuaded to listen to reason. The Rasetran had warmed to him at once. Rakh-amn-hotep leaned over the side of his chariot as Shesh-amun approached.
“We need to get past these jackals,” the king said quietly. “Are your men up to one more fight?”
“Oh, they’d welcome the chance to fight someone that doesn’t wheel away and run at the first sign of trouble,”
Shesh-amun growled. “Those Numasi horse thieves have got their blood up, but I suspect that was the whole point.” The champion turned his head and spat into the dust. “They’re willing, and the horses, too, but don’t be surprised if they start dropping dead if the fight goes on too long.” The Rasetran king nodded grimly.
“Well, promise them all the water they can drink, if only we can break through and reach the springs. Maybe that will keep them alive a few moments more.”
“I’ll pass the word,” Shesh-amun said. Just as he began to turn away, a horn sounded beyond the dunes to the east of the weary horsemen. The champion peered off into the distance. “Are you expecting someone?” he asked. Rakh-amn-hotep straightened and looked eastward. Sure enough, a winding ribbon of dust was rising from the direction of the trade road.
“Indeed I am, but I’d nearly given up on him,” he said. “Reinforcements are coming,” the king told Shesh-amun. “Ready your men for action.”
The champion bowed quickly and hastened off to spread the word. Minutes later Rakh-amn-hotep heard the rumble of hooves, and a squadron of light cavalry raced over the dunes to join the line of weary horsemen. Tired cheers went up from the vanguard as the reinforcements began to arrive, and the king waited for the sight of Ekhreb’s chariot among the column of troops. He saw it at once, bouncing along in the light cavalry’s wake. Rakh-amn-hotep raised his sword in greeting, and the light chariot angled off the line of march and reined in beside the king.
“I left you back at camp three hours ago!” Rakh-amn-hotep shouted to the champion. “Did you get lost? All you had to do was follow the damned road!” Ekhreb leapt from the back of the chariot and reached the king in two quick strides.
“That’s rich,” the champion replied mildly. “You, lecturing me about arriving late. I marshalled six thousand men for you on two hours’ notice. Shall I send them back to camp?”
“Don’t be churlish,” the king replied. “I can have you beheaded for that, you know.”
“So you’ve said,” Ekhreb replied. “Many, many times.” Rakh-amn-hotep caught sight of a company of Rasetran light infantry jogging over the dunes to the east.
“What have you brought me, exactly?” he asked.
“A thousand light horsemen, four thousand light infantry, and a thousand of our jungle auxiliaries,” Ekhreb said. “I thought the scaly-skins might
strike some fear into the enemy’s hearts.”
“No archers?” the king asked sharply. The champion made a visible effort not to roll his eyes.
“You said nothing about bowmen, great one.”
The king bit back a sarcastic reply. Ekhreb was right, after all.
“We’ll have to rely on the bows of the light cavalry then,” he muttered. Ekhreb folded his arms and stared at the distant enemy line.
“Not much of a force,” he said. “It seems that Akhmen-hotep’s diversion was successful.”
“Perhaps,” the king replied, “but it doesn’t need to be very large, so long as they keep us from the springs.” Rakh-amn-hotep studied the enemy dispositions and made his plans. “Form the infantry into line right here,” he told his champion, “and put the auxiliaries on the right.” Then he beckoned to Shesh-amun. When the Lybaran arrived, he told him, “Pull your light horsemen back over the dunes behind us, and start circling around to our right, towards the road.” Shesh-amun frowned.
“But they’ll be expecting that,” he said. The king waved his concerns away.
“Sometimes we must give the enemy what he’s looking for,” he told the champion. “Don’t commit your men to pitched battle unless you must. Just push as far as you can around the edge of their line. I’ll give you ten minutes to get your riders moving before we advance.”
Though clearly still doubtful, Shesh-amun bowed to the king and began shouting orders to his troops. Ekhreb had already passed the king’s commands to the allied reinforcements. The light infantry companies were already forming a rough line before the allied cavalry, and the dark green shapes of the jungle auxiliaries were moving between the king’s chariots and the Lybaran light cavalry. The lizardmen were huge, hulking creatures, their scaly skins tattooed in strange spiral patterns that stretched across their rolling muscles. They carried massive clubs in their taloned hands, made of heavy pieces of wood studded with jagged chips of glossy black stone. Human skulls hung from rawhide cords around their naked waists, and their powerful, wedge-shaped heads bore a fearsome resemblance to the great crocodiles of Nehekharan legend. The trained warhorses rolled their eyes and shifted nervously at the creatures’ acrid stink, but the lizardmen paid them little heed.