The Rise of Nagash

by Mike Lee

  As the infantry were forming up for battle the light horsemen on the right flank began to slowly withdraw over the dunes to the east. Rakh-amn-hotep expected some kind of reaction from the enemy line, but the Usurper’s troops made not a sound.

  Ekhreb folded his muscular arms and surveyed the troops’ movements with a practised eye.

  “Where do you want me?” he asked the king.

  “You?” Rakh-amn-hotep grunted. “I want you right beside me, of course. That way you can’t claim you got lost heading to the battle.” Ekhreb gave the king an arch expression.

  “I live to serve, great one,” he said wryly. “What now?” Rakh-amn-hotep counted off the minutes in his head.

  “Order the centre and the left flank forwards,” he commanded. “The heavy cavalry will charge along with the infantry.”

  The champion nodded and passed the orders at once. Trumpets sounded, and the ragged line of warriors raised their shields and marched towards the foe, followed by the light horsemen a dozen yards behind. Across the broken ground between the two armies, the enemy bowmen waited in two long skirmish lines before the infantry companies. As the king watched the distance between the two forces shrink he found himself wishing for a few Lybaran sky-priests to spoil the enemy’s aim. The thought stirred a faint twinge of suspicion in the king’s mind: where were the enemy sorcerers? He’d heard the stories of what had happened at Zedri, years before. Now that his forces had been committed, he found himself wondering what terrible surprises the Usurper’s army had in store.

  The air darkened above the closing armies as the enemy bowmen loosed their first volley. The Rasetran infantry quickened their pace at once, throwing up their wooden shields against the deadly rain. The shower of arrows struck their targets with a dreadful rattle of bronze against wood. Men screamed, and gaps showed in the advancing companies, but the rest pressed on. More arrows flickered through the air as the light horsemen returned the enemy fire, shooting high over the heads of the advancing infantry. Far to the left, a low rumble began as the heavy cavalry spurred their mounts into a ground-eating canter, and the enemy companies on that flank lowered their glinting spears to receive the inevitable charge.

  The enemy bowmen fired a second volley and then withdrew to safety as the Rasetran warriors bore down upon them. Rakh-amn-hotep nodded thoughtfully.

  “All right,” he said to Ekhreb. “Order the auxiliaries to attack.”

  Ekhreb called out, and a heavy drum answered, beating out a low, dreadful cadence. With a hiss like a desert wind, the company of lizardmen rose from their haunches and loped towards the enemy battleline, covering the ground swiftly with their long strides. The air filled with screeches and dreadful, warbling cries as the jungle warriors advanced, and Rakh-amn-hotep was pleased to see the troops on the left waver at the sound.

  All along the battleline the warriors of the opposing armies crashed together in a resounding clatter of wood and bronze. The screams of the dead and dying carried clearly above the din, and badly wounded men began to break away from the struggling companies and stagger back the way they’d come. On the left, the heavy cavalry thundered home against the enemy shield wall, flinging broken bodies back onto their fellows as they drove a wedge into two of the enemy companies. Swords flashed down in brilliant arcs, splitting skulls and cleaving torsos, and frenzied horses reared and lashed at the screaming throng with their terrible hooves.

  On the right, the lizardmen leapt at their foes with a bloodcurdling chorus of hissing screeches and inhuman wails. Their scaly skin turned aside all but the strongest spear-thrust, and their war clubs smashed wooden shields and bones alike into ragged splinters. The king watched the enemy infantry reel in terror from the onslaught, but the majority of his attention was focused on the light horsemen still further down the right flank. Their horses were rearing and screaming at the scent of the strange lizardmen, but as yet they held their position at the opposite end of the road. A few of the cavalrymen loosed wild shots into the frenzied creatures, to no discernible effect.

  Minutes passed, and the fighting continued. The enemy forces had wavered under the initial ferocity of the allied attack, but they had regained their resolve and their greater numbers were beginning to tell against the Rasetran infantry. The heavy cavalry on the left were being slowly surrounded by a sea of roaring, stabbing warriors and were trying to extricate themselves from the mob. The infantry companies on the left and in the centre were being driven back by the sheer weight of their foes. Only on the right were there still signs of success, as the lizardmen took a terrible toll of the lightly armoured humans. Rakh-amn-hotep, however, knew from experience that the lizardmen could not sustain such efforts for long, especially in this searing heat. Before too much longer they would start to falter, and he would have to pull them back or risk seeing them overwhelmed.

  Then the king caught a glimpse of movement further to the right. A squadron of the enemy cavalry was wheeling away, heading further off to the north. A minute later another squadron followed, and then another. They had spotted the flanking movement by the Lybaran horsemen and were moving to counter the attempt, leaving the battered infantry on the right without any support.

  Rakh-amn-hotep smiled and drew his sword.

  “Time to end this,” he growled. To Ekhreb he said, “The Ushabti will advance upon the right,” pointing his sword at the junction where the enemy right met the centre. “Push through and drive for the springs!”

  As one, the Ushabti shouted the name of Ptra the Glorious and raised their gleaming blades to the sky. With a peal of trumpets the company started forwards, gathering speed as the charioteers lashed the flanks of their horses. As they rumbled forwards the chariots altered their formation, stretching into a wedge aimed like a spear at the vulnerable point of the enemy line.

  The earth shook beneath the thundering wheels of the war machines. Rasetrans in the rear ranks of their struggling companies saw their king approach and raised their voices in a lusty cheer that spurred the efforts of their fellows. For a brief moment the allied line surged forwards a single step, and then the chariots smashed into the battleline. Light infantrymen were smashed aside by teams of charging horses, or trampled beneath hooves and bronze-rimmed wheels. Bowstrings snapped as archers in the chariots fired point-blank into the massed enemy troops, and the armoured figures of the Ushabti reaped a terrible harvest with their huge, sickle-shaped swords. Rakh-amn-hotep chopped down with his sword and smashed a screaming warrior’s skull. Then he swept aside the jabbing point of a spear.

  “Keep going!” he roared to his charioteer, and the man cracked his whip with a will, shouting to Ptra to strengthen his arm.

  The infantrymen reeled from the impact, and the battle-hardened Rasetrans pressed the advantage, driving the wedge still deeper into the line. The enemy troops on the right flank were cut off from their neighbouring companies and left to the mercy of the ravening lizardmen, who tore heads from the dead and dying and crushed them in their terrible jaws. Without the support of the light cavalry, the spearmen began to waver, and a moment later their resolve failed them and they began to run, stumbling and clawing up the slope behind them. The jungle warriors gave chase, hissing and screeching their savage war cries.

  Rakh-amn-hotep roared in triumph.

  “Wheel right!” he ordered, and slowly the chariots began to press upon the unprotected flank of the companies in the enemy centre. Arrows scythed into the sides and rear of the enemy formations, and panic took hold. When the enemy warriors saw that their left flank had crumbled they turned and ran, and within minutes the slopes were swarming with fleeing troops. The Rasetrans snapped at their heels like wolves, slaying every man they could reach. Exhaustion alone held back the struggling allied troops, and was all that kept the retreat from becoming a blood-soaked rout.

  Relief and a sense of triumph flooded the king’s tired body. The battle had lasted less than half an hour, judging by the height of the sun. Ptra’s burning orb had vanished in
to a pool of crimson light along the western horizon. With luck, the king thought, the vanguard would reach the life-giving pools by nightfall.

  The Rasetran infantry clambered up the slope after their foes and disappeared over the summit of the dunes. For the cavalry and the chariots it was harder going, as the sands gave way beneath the plunging hooves of the horses. Rakh-amn-hotep was busy contemplating how he would press the pursuit with fresh elements of the army’s light cavalry when his chariot finally crested the rise, and slid to an awkward halt.

  Rakh-amn-hotep threw out a hand to steady himself at the sudden stop, a curse halfway to his lips, when he realised that the entire allied pursuit had pulled up short. The survivors of the enemy army were running pell-mell across a wide, rocky plain, in the direction of the springs, And, with a cold sense of realisation, the king saw why.

  Across the broad plain, arrayed at the very edge of the mist-wrapped springs, stretched a line of infantry and bowmen that ran from one end of the horizon to the other. The bloody sunlight shone on thickets of spears and round, polished helms, tens of thousands strong. Huge blocks of heavy cavalry waited beyond the line of spears, and smaller squadrons of light horsemen prowled along the front of the battleline like packs of hungry jackals.

  “In the name of all the gods,” Rakh-amn-hotep whispered in awe. Now he understood. The enemy force he’d just defeated was just the vanguard for the Usurper’s main host.

  Ekhreb reined in his chariot alongside the king. “What do we do now?” he called.

  Rakh-amn-hotep shook his head at the legions of silent warriors waiting across the plain.

  “What can we do?” he said bitterly. “We must retreat and carry news back to the rest of the army. Tomorrow we must summon all our strength and fight for our very lives.”

  BOOK TWO

  SEVENTEEN

  Attack and Retreat

  Bel Aliad, the City of Spices, in the 63rd year of Ptra the Glorious

  (-1744 Imperial Reckoning)

  The date wine was thick and cloyingly sweet. Akhmen-hotep grimaced as he raised the cup to his lips and took another draught. Inside the king’s tent, the air was cold and still. No oil lamps had been lit, nor were there any coals banked against the night’s chill. Only a pair of wide-eyed slaves attended upon the king, kneeling fearfully at either side of the tent’s entrance.

  Akhmen-hotep’s tent faced west, letting in long, slanting beams of moonlight as the linen entry flap was pulled aside. Outside, the camp was quiet save for the distant music of Neru’s acolytes as they performed their midnight vigil. The king raised his eyes to the round figure silhouetted in the moon’s cold radiance.

  “What do you want, brother?” he asked, in a voice roughened by many cups of wine.

  Memnet did not reply at first. The Grand Hierophant stood in the entryway for a few moments, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom, and then shuffled wearily inside and settled in a chair close to the king. He gestured, and a slave crawled swiftly across the sandy floor to press a cup into the high priest’s hand.

  “I thought you and I could share a drink,” Memnet said thoughtfully, sniffing at the strong smell of the dates. He made a face. “No water for the wine?” Akhmen-hotep took another sip.

  “I do not drink it for the taste,” he said quietly.

  The Grand Hierophant nodded, but said nothing. He took a tentative sip of the wine, before saying, “You cannot blame yourself for what happened. It’s the nature of war.”

  “War,” Akhmen-hotep growled into his cup. “This is not war as our fathers knew it. This… this is grotesque!” He drained the dregs and glared at one of the slaves, who crawled forwards with a fresh jug of wine. “And the harder we fight, the worse it becomes.” He turned abruptly, causing the slave to slosh the syrupy wine over the king’s hand.

  “What is happening to us, brother?” Akhmen-hotep asked. His handsome features were etched with despair. “Have the gods forsaken us? Everywhere I turn, all I see is death and ruin.” He held the brimming cup before him, his dark eyes bleak. “Sometimes I fear that even if we do defeat the Usurper, we’ll never be free of his taint.” Memnet stared into his cup for some time. He took another sip.

  “Perhaps we are not meant to be,” he said quietly. The king grew very still.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  Memnet did not answer at first. His expression grew haunted, and Akhmen-hotep saw how ravaged his features had become since that fateful day at Zedri. The priest’s face was like an ill-fitting mask, resting uneasily upon his skull. He took a deeper draught of the wine and sighed heavily.

  “Nothing is eternal,” he said at last. “No matter what we believe.” The high priest sat back in his chair, turning the polished cup in his hands. “Who remembers the names of the gods we worshipped in the jungles, before we came to the Blessed Land? No one. Not even the oldest scrolls in Mahrak speak of them.” He glanced up at the king. “Did they abandon us, or did we abandon them?” Akhmen-hotep scowled at his brother.

  “Who knows?” he said. “That was a different age. We are not the people we once were.”

  “That is my point,” the high priest said. “You ask if the gods have forsaken us. Perhaps it would be better to ask if we have grown estranged from them. Nagash may be the herald of a new age for our people.”

  “How can you say that?” Akhmen-hotep snarled. “You, of all people!” Memnet was unfazed by the king’s accusatory tone.

  “The role of a priest is about more than making sacrifices and collecting tithes,” he said. “We are also the bearers of deeper truths. That is the charge that the gods lay upon us.” His gaze fell to the shadows upon the ground. “Those truths are not always pleasant to hear.”

  Akhmen-hotep considered this as he peered into the depths of his cup. Despair ate at him, draining the colour from his face. Then, slowly but surely, his expression hardened. His brows drew together and his lips pressed into a thin, determined line.

  “I will tell you what I think,” he said slowly. “I think that the truth is what we make of it. Else, why would we have need for kings at all?” He raised the cup to his lips and emptied it in one long swallow, and then held the empty vessel up to his eyes. His fist tightened, the tendons on the back of his scarred hand growing as taut as cords as he slowly crushed the metal cup. “Nothing is preordained, so long as we have the courage to fight for what we believe.” He tossed the lump of metal onto the ground. “We will cast down the Usurper and drive his spirit into the wastes where he belongs. We will make this land right again, because I am the king and I command that it be so!”

  Memnet raised his eyes to the king and studied him for a long moment. His eyes were like dark pools, depthless and inscrutable. A ghost of a smile flitted across his face.

  “I expected no less from you, brother,” he said.

  The king made to reply, but faint sounds beyond the confines of the tent made him pause. He scowled, listening intently. Memnet cocked his head to one side and listened as well.

  “Someone is shouting,” he said.

  “Not just one,” the king answered thoughtfully. “Perhaps it is Pakh-amn, leading his soldiers back into camp. They’ve been putting out fires in the city all evening.” The Grand Hierophant stared at the dregs in his cup.

  “Keep a close eye on that one, brother,” he warned. “He grows more dangerous every day.”

  Akhmen-hotep shook his head dismissively, saying, “Pakh-amn is young and proud, to be sure, but dangerous?” Yet even as he said it, he recalled the tense confrontation just before the battle today. Lead on then. For so long as you live.

  “He has regained some of the respect he lost at Zedri,” the high priest said. “His cavalrymen cheered his name when the battle was done.”

  “And what is wrong with that?” the king asked, though he could not help but feel a twinge of apprehension.

  “The Master of Horse has made it plain that he opposes the war against the Usurper,” the Grand Hierophant said. “
Who can say what he might do if he found himself in a position of influence over much of the army?”

  The shouts were still distant, but growing more intense by the moment. Finally the king could stand it no longer.

  “What would you have me do, brother?” he asked, reaching for his sword. “Pakh-amn served me well on the battlefield today. I have no reason to suspect him.”

  “Nor will you, if he is clever,” Memnet pointed out. “Watch him closely. That is all I ask.”

  Akhmen-hotep glowered at the priest. “Bad enough that we must guard against the schemes of the Blasphemer,” he growled. “Now you would have me question the honour of my noblemen.”

  Before Memnet could reply, the king snatched up his sword from a nearby table and strode swiftly out into the cold night air. With an effort of will he tried to banish his brother’s dire observations from his mind as he hurried in the direction of the voices, flanked by four Ushabti who had been standing guard outside the king’s tent.

  The shouts carried easily in the chill air, coming from the western edge of the camp. Akhmen-hotep quickened his pace at the sounds of alarm that were spreading among the tents of the Bronze Host. Men were stumbling out into the darkness, their armour half-on and their weapons in their hands. A flash of movement to the king’s right drew his eye. He saw a pair of Neru’s acolytes stumbling down an adjoining lane, half-carrying a third acolyte between them. Their ceremonial garments were speckled with blood. Muttering a curse, the king broke into a run.